maybe if i wrote with all lowercase letters
my poetry would seem more appealing.
shorter descriptions
and longer titles.
more relatable with a deeper meaning
because there isn't proper grammar involved.
just proper spelling.
no commas
just
period
.
.
.
after
period
.
.
.

I know.
I look like some sleezy, 17 year old in a pencil skirt. Located behind a movie theatre concessions stand.
I know I look like a girl, who's only here to 'dress to impress'.

I understand you know what I mean when I say that.
I can see that hateful gleam in your eye when you look at any 17 year old female employee at a movie theatre.

But I know that every hateful gleam is different and the one you give me is beyond hatred.
You must think that I'm dressing out of my way, to snag a guy or two and you're afraid that your boyfriend is one of my targets.

He knows how to cover up his hatred.
But because of my short, shaggy, haircut, he must think that I'm dressing out of my way to snag a girl or two. And he's afraid that his girlfriend is one of my targets.

The thing is, I wasn't 'dressing to impress'.
I wasn't 'dressing out of my way' to snag you and your boyfriend into a little **** trap of mine.

If I was dressing to impress anybody, it would be the person standing behind me.
Wondering what's up my skirt and between my thighs and if they could just have one little taste.
And I wouldn't even complain because I've been wondering what they've got. So I have just as much of a guilty pleasure for them, as they do for me.

But because I wear a tight skirt that defines my hips, doesn't mean I want your boyfriend to unzip it, open it up to take me from behind.
And because I wear button up blouses, doesn't mean that I want your husband to eagerly watch me unbutton it to reveal black lace that can be torn off my body and have him violate me in ways I've never felt before.

Just because I dress accordingly and test out whether or not my clothing choices are appropriate for the dress attire for my job, doesn't mean I am some sleezy, 17 year old, theatre employee, *****.

"You dissect the sound of a symphony,
Like how you dissect the smoked ham sitting on your plate.

You know each instrument by name,
By key,
By sound.
Like how you know each voice,
By smile,
By laughter.

You know each instrument by its player,
How they play the notes,
Softly,
Loudly.
Like how you know each person who took your heart
And crushed it between their fingers of vines and thorns,
Sound,
Silence.

The way she says, “Hello” to you is so sweet but you know all too well
she doesn’t mean to put that sugar in the bowl of ingredients
Of how much she’s hurt you.
You know all too well about the candied scent that lingers
Around your nostrils like that one childhood smell you’ve long forgotten
Until you’ve gotten its smell then it’s gone.

Or about the way her shirt lies on your dark, bedroom floor,
Waiting to be worn and wrinkling with age,
Because it was never moved from the moment you peeled it from her body
Eager to kiss her soft, sunburnt, skin with your chapped, covered lips.

Or about the way she’d get so angry her face lit up
Like the street light on 7th and Elm
Where you and her shared the taste of originality of each other’s lips.
Oh how it hurts to remember the day,
You shared information about each other
On the edge of the sidewalk that lead it’s way to the front door of her house.
Information no one but she can know,
Like how you eat spaghetti,
Your darkest secret or fear,
The way you can’t sleep unless you have someone or something
In between your arms
And interlaced with your legs because you hate sleeping alone.
Maybe even the way you cry.

Time is a thief and a giver at the same time.
So make your time with her a long story short
Because time with her isn’t limitless,
It’s limited.
So you never know what happens in the time being
When you’ll lose her.

Make your long story short,
So you aren’t sold short."

It's just...hard. You know?
It's kind of hard, I guess.

I don't know if 'hard' is the correct adjective to explain the situation, though.

Maybe... Difficult.
Resistant?... Rigid?

Are there too many spaces between my words?
Are there too many words?

Is it too long? Yeah, maybe it's too long.
But I like the words I used.
Everything was explained perfectly.
So what's wrong?

Is    there    not    enough    spacing    between    my ­   words?
Are there not enough words?

Did I not say enough?
Did I say too much?
What got us here....

Maybe I'm just scared so I close up.
Maybe I'm too much of a mess, that me being busy is an only escape so I don't hear myself think.

I hate hearing myself think.
I hate the quite outside, but the white nose inside.
You know?

That there's so much noise going on, you start to tremble
because the anxiety just stomps on your chest.
It's just hoping that you somehow die from the pressure.
It's just somehow hoping that your heart races so fast that it just...
Stops.
Or explodes.
Either one works for anxiety.

If I told you everything that went on in my head, would you even consider staying anymore?
If I opened up more than what I already have, would you even consider wanting me?
Not wanting..
If I opened up more than what I already have, would you even consider needing me?

I just don't know what to say.
You know?
There's so much going on, I'm speechless.

My mind is racing but it's blank.

That makes sense, right?
That there's just so much going on in your head that it...Crashes.
That it just stops functioning for awhile.

I was going to ask how you were today...
But I felt that if I did, you'd get an anxiety attack. So I kept to myself..
I mean, I opened up to my best friend,
but he isn't you.

Nothing seems to blossom as quickly anymore.
Or at all.
Kind of as if my writing has this long, long, pause for awhile.
No matter how passionate my fingers want to get,
I sit here.
Fingertips shaking slightly over the keys on the keyboard.
My mind just sprinting with things to say but nothing ever goes to the screen.
It's like theres an indestructible barricade that stops just at the very first knuckle before it gets to my fingertips.

Then the passion leaves.