It’ll be one of those lonely nights
where I’m sipping flat soda and watching That 70’s Show, one of those episodes where Foreman almost loses Donna
and suddenly you will come to mind and I will punch in
the numbers I know by heart.
It will only just register in my head that you
might actually pick up and as soon as I decide
to hang up, the tranquil voice I have yearned to hear will come on the line.
Hello? Hello?
I remember your caller I.D. is busted
and thank the Lord.
Hello? HELLO?
I can almost see your cheeks coloring in frustration
but every insecurity I had when we were together
seizes my throat with a cold, relentless grip
and all I can muster is a weak choking sound.
You try one last desperate greeting before clicking the phone shut,
and the hand loosens its grip to let me breathe,
but only for a moment.
Our relationship was eerily similar to that phone call.
I was the one drowning in sorrow, begging for you to rescue me
but I refused to learn how to swim, so you gave up and I never blamed you.
I still don’t.
With newfound determination I will quickly call back,
but when a high pitched voice filled with
nauseating optimism answers on the second ring,
I’ll remember that I was always the turbulent sea rocking our boat off course,
but I’ll be glad you found a shining lighthouse to lead you safely home.
I will hang up without a word.

I love nothing more than being afraid,
because when you showed up on my doorstep
after countless sunrises and sunsets,
fear of losing you again caused me to utter the truth:

“You are mine, and I am yours.”

You wore a suit covered in stamps from
all the places you’d been in search of finding
someone who was everything and nothing like me.

You’d been passed around from place to place,
person to person, like a gold coin that began to lack its luster, as too many rough fingers and not enough soft hands handled its delicate texture.

But you are still priceless to me.

I invited you in and unwrapped your layers
of packaging, all your burdens and fears
until I saw you, vulnerable, beautiful you.

I love nothing more than being afraid
because fear of falling in love
drove you away from me,
but also drove you right back
in to my open arms.

with him the world
doesn’t spin so fast,
though he still manages
to make my head dizzy.
I’m constantly at war
with myself but he
brings so much peace
into the troubled waters
in my heart.
I would kiss the dimples
off his cheeks,
and let him take the light
from my eyes if it only
meant one more day
of happiness for him.
his words tickle beneath
my skin making me grin
for no reason at all.
his laughter is the breath
in my lungs.
he’s a mistake I hope to make,
a lesson learned in time.
just so I can have a moment or two
where his heart beats with mine.

What scared you the most,
was it the shadows or the ghost?
The voices invited you in,
and that’s when it all began.
The flashing lights in my eyes
distracted you from the truth:
I am nothing like you.
I know what brought you here,
and I know what made you leave,
But tell me darling,
what made you stay so long?
You stayed when I showed you
the darkest places of my mind,
and played the voices in my head for you
like some sick, thrilling symphony.
You stayed after running your fingers
across my deepest scars
and reading my black ink secrets.
You even stayed after my sharp tongue
left you wounded, and my acid words
left you trembling.
We knew that it was finally time
for you to leave when you had
to battle the worst ghosts for me.
Even though you’re gone now,
I’m glad that you ever came.
Because now the bitterest of voices
and the most vicious of demons
just seem so mildly tame.

I want to curl up in warm laundry or in someone’s arms,
I want to travel to far off places with out of date maps
so I can see how much the world has changed.

I want to make up lyrics to classical music,
write letters to dear old friends and
dream up the perfect goodbyes to them.

I never ever want to send those letters.

I want to cry at concerts and not care who sees,
I want to stay up late to watch British period dramas.
I want to fix up old cars and build houses,
I want to fix broken hearts and build bridges.

I want to learn to hope again.

I want to make art; I want to make people uncomfortable.
I want to shatter my soul and give the pieces to each of you to protect.

I want to jump on the couch and blast pop punk until my neighbors hate me.
I want to pig out on all the food they said would prevent me from being “beautiful.”
I want to fall in love with someone who as cynical as me so we can change each other for the better.

I want to be Tom Riddle or Anakin Skywalker who still had a chance to change their fate.
I don’t want to be destined to become Lord Voldemort or Darth Vader.

I want to walk the bottom of the ocean and skim the top of your desires.
I want to live in a house of cards that never falls, a castle of chocolate that never melts.
I want to eat spider webs so even my insides will be a wondrous work of art,
and I want to set fire to the past and blaze a path for the future.

I want to hear you say my name just one last time.
Où es-tu mon amour? Je te veux dans mon cœur.

This is my home.

You enter through the front door and
immediately take off your shoes,
although the carpet is permanently
stained from muddy sneakers
and Coke Zero spills,
and the one time she brought out
a knife screaming at him to get out
and all he left were three blood stains.

But welcome to my home.

Here you have the living room
with the sunken in couches
and the television that only plays
five good channels on a good day.

We go into the kitchen and find
every electronic cooking instrument
known to man.
Blender, microwave, coffee maker,
toaster, George Forman grill, waffle maker
and not to mention my Easy Bake Oven.

I lead you up fourteen stairs
to my sanctuary.
My childhood bedroom that I
used to share with my sister now
belongs to me and every wretched demon
my mind has created.

My bed is soft and warm,
and I invite you to lay down with me
to count how many glow in the dark
stars I pasted on my ceiling at age seven,
but you refuse.  

The last place I show you is the bathroom,
where I ripped the medicine cabinet off the wall
trying to find Wonderland but God knows I was
no Alice.
I collapse on the cool tiles like I have so many
times before, and you finally kneel down with me.

My home is two thousand-two hundred and fifty square feet,
and there’s still no room to breathe.