do you know what hurts?
do you know what eats away at you
until you've been completely consumed?
leaving someone.
leaving someone you love.
leaving someone you care for so deeply
that the simple act of walking away seems to rip your heart in two.
leaving someone whose entire existence shaped your life
for one year,
two years,
ten years.
maybe you know that the life attached to him
wasn't the life that was best for you.
maybe that's why you're ending things.
maybe it's not.
it hurts and it tears and it burns,
but the one glimmer of hope to hold onto in the midst of all this pain
is found within a quick smattering of words.
they slip out before he's thought about them.
the saltwater they're mixed with only makes them stronger
and the gasping breaths they float away on only send them quicker to your ears.

                                               'i still want you in my life. i have to have you in my life.
                                                 even it it's just as a friend. you're the only one i've got.'

do you know what hurts?
do you know what re-ignites the pain
that sunk its teeth into you the day you had to say goodbye?
it's the moment he realized you weren't coming back.
the moment he realized you weren't wrong.
the moment he realized that the golden days of
******* you
were really and truly over.
after that enlightenment, friendship didn't matter,
history didn't matter,
you didn't matter.
suddenly, he didn't see any reason for you to be in his life at all.
you were far from best friends.
you cried and you bled and you mustered the courage
to be selfish for once in your life,
to let go for once in your life,
only to realize that you were nothing but a placeholder.
nothing but a body.

that's what hurts the most
and what will never stop hurting.

at the break of a red dawn,
my ship was blown off its course
by faint steel strummings
and honey soaked whispers
sailing away from the shore
with the west wind.

my rigging's tied in knots
and my maps are torn to pieces.

push me from the gangplank;
send me to the locker -
every compass tells me i'm lost again.

'what a bright boy', they said. 'what a talented boy', they said.
'what a kind, friendly and thoughtful boy', they said.
the praise flowed smoothly from their lips - effortless;
the flash of a heartwarming smile the only coaxing necessary.

'what a sweet boy', she said. 'what a compassionate boy', she said.
'what an understanding, sensitive and protective boy', she said.
her footsteps fell in rhythmic time with his - effortless;
the warm pressure of his hand in hers the only coaxing necessary.

but the boy found that he was not content with all these things.
they were not masks that he wore, these shimmering attributes.
no lies, no trickery, no illusions cast in a web around the unsuspecting;
they were the unyielding, steadfast, undeniable truth.

.. and that is what troubled the beautiful, charming boy.
that is what furrowed his brow and kept him awake at night,
peering into the shadows deep in thought
while the believers and the bright eyed girl lie fast asleep in their beds.

the wheels in his head turned at a frantic pace, racing endlessly -
thoughts flying in a colored blur faster than his mind could chase them.
love only leads to pain. adoration, to rejection.
passion, to an unrelenting sense of worthlessness.

was it worth the fight? worth the praise? worth the risk?
or was being a shell enough to get by -
a heart still beating,
lungs still churning,
but a heart
safely
hollow?

how could you extinguish my light
when i was made to shine for you?

to a traveler, it comes as no surprise that life is nothing
but a beautiful, intricate web of choices.
black or white, up or down, yes or no.
season after season, day after day - a million decisions.

but in the icy stillness of a snowy midwinter,
one lone traveler came upon a fork in the road -
a path leading to the left and a path leading to the right.

voices sweeping through the air whispered of the possibilities -
right or left, left or right, one or the other, again and again;
the traveler's fate faintly whispered within the melody of the breeze.

when she could no longer bear the urging of the frigid rain
or the heckling of the grey wolf's howl,
she faced ahead, chin up
and pushed her own path
right between the two.

when i take a fleeting second to think on the rarity that is us,
there is no reason for me to be thinking about you
every second of every day.

they tell us from the moment we are born
until the moment we die that it is devastatingly useless
to want something that you should not have.

this is something that would be destructive to me.
this is something that would be even more destructive to you.

against the will of my judicious brain,
i spend half of my time daydreaming -
tracing the curves of your face in my mind.

against the will of my burdened heart,
i spend half of my time in torture -
convincing myself that i don't feel this way.

when i step back, though, the reality hits me.
the answers i have sought become as clear as untroubled waters.

it is the brilliant gold specks in your emerald and turquoise eyes,
it is the rush of warmth when your fingertips brush my skin,
it is the fact that your smile is brighter than any sunshine i have ever seen,
it is the cool, sweet whisper of your breath against my neck,
it is the feel of your arms wrapped protectively around me,
it is the rare occassions where i get a glimpse of the boy behind all those walls,

that keep me captivated.

i cannot say that this is love.
i cannot say that I know what love is.
i can say that this is a strange kind of happiness -
a common understanding between two dreamers -
two hearts beating in the same ¾ time.

this is the desire to jump - eyes closed -
into something i am unsure of.
this is the will to pick myself up off of the floor
and try to be whole again just one more time.

i want to tell you how i feel. i have to tell you how i feel.

even in my youth, i did not dream of evil.

i could not fathom devils or demons
endlessly circling around a fiery pit -
painting their whispery words onto the pages
of other children's fairytales.

before i shut my weary eyes and closed the pages
of yet another gold gilted storybook, i thought to myself,

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one dragon's white hot flames;
scorching the stone foundation of a dark tower
where a porcelain princess patiently awaits the end of a solitary life -
braiding and unbraiding golden hair until her fingers bleed.

"i cannot imagine evil" -

not one prince's frustration as
soft lips and slender hands are torn from him
and all that is left of his newfound beloved
is a sparkling slipper carressing the castle stairs
while the twelfth boom of a clock still lingers in the evening air.

no, i did not dream of evil in the twilight before sleep.

i dreamt of a delicately aging queen,
sick with worry when her dear stepdaughter did not return
from the twisted woods before the rising of a silvery moon.

i dreamt of her graceful arms outstretched for a gentle embrace
as the huntsman and the raven haired girl enter the glass hall,
hand-in-hand,

a basket of innocent ruby apples
swinging in time between them.

you are not as unbreakable as you think you are.
you are not invincible, unfeeling or untouchable.
you may proclaim that you are these things and more;
you may shout it from a rooftop for the world to hear;
but there is a certain wavering in your crystalline voice -
tiny and inaudible to most, but booming loud in my ears.

i am not nearly as gentle and meek as you think i am.
i will not be forgiving, compassionate or merciful.
i will not fear you anymore - not now, never again.
i may have been tricked into believing you before;
i may have been blinded by dazzling, empty promises -
but, rest assured, you will never make a fool of me again.

with a smile, one word will escape in a sigh from my lips;
as golden and sweet as the soft whisper of angels' wings.
and you will shatter into a thousand pieces at my feet,
wishing you had never stolen a heart that was not yours to take.

"monster."

i can fight fire with fire, but can you?

the tears began to flow when you least expected them, making an unwanted, unwarranted appearance. they caught in your eyelashes faster than you could blink them away, glistening silently like dew drops on daisies or rain on the roses your grandfather planted in his garden when you were just a little girl. they flowed in steady, shimmering lines down your face; tiny hands seeking to wash away the makeup left on your cheeks after a long day of battling the world. they connected each freckle and finally settled into a crystalline pool on your knees. weak. vulnerable. nothing.

accept those tears with grace. smile, though you can taste the salt on your lips. you are worthy of more and worthy of much. you are a daisy, nodding its head to the sky, fed from the dew drops that laid so heavily on your petals. you are a rose, reverently tended to by a worn set of kind hands. you are a flower, created to bloom for no one less than the sun. wipe your tears and begin your journey.

you feel unworthy/but i assure you/that i have loved you enough/for the both of us.

there is nothing i hate more
than the words you speak to me
when your blueprint plans
to erase my face are foiled by reality.

cordial hellos, mumbled goodbyes -
empty,
petty
and worthless.

you stand there with eyes
trained carefully on the floor,
making sure that your tense body
stays a lifetime away from mine -
acting as if fingertips brushing
or breath mingling is a holocaust;
struggling for something to say
when your whispered words
used to flow like liquid gold into my ear.

your voice comes back to me
like the second frost of winter coming again
to claim the last flower left standing.

let me become a stranger to you -
you are a stranger to me.

the notes that trickle sweetly
from the strings of his guitar speak
softly of a forever that never had its start.

his lips fail to hold back a trembling voice
that sings unabashedly of the spell she once cast.

images appear of dark hair spread in a mess against his pillow,
of smiling brown eyes looking up into his - faces inches apart,
a million things being whispered without the use of words.

images appear of dark hair silhouetted against falling white snow,
of smiling brown eyes saying 'catch me if you can' - a childlike
wonder enveloping her every move as she dances her way to his side.

images of dark hair being lazily brushed through by his fingertips,
of smiling brown eyes gazing at the world with enchanted curiosity -
never knowing whether to look at him or to look somewhere else.

'for eternity', the refrain reads.
he rips the pen stained, blue lined paper into pieces.

i may not always be in tune or time,
but i sure as hell
don't need two lines of coke
or one too
three too
five too many shots
to make me
feel the music coming from my lungs.

s** o broken. so desperate.
h oping for nothing but perfect numbness -
e scape from the pain, the guilt, the constant haunting of 'what if?'.

s o torn. so lost.
t he ache inside appeared when the door shut behind her everything.
i should have, would have, could not have stopped him'.
l ost in a swirl of colored memories that render her breathless;
l eaving her scrambling to pick up the shattered pieces.

l et this be the bitter end of trust, the bitter end of love.
o ver and over, the dusty record repeats itself;
v erse after verse and chorus after chorus.
e ven after the ones before, his promises convinced her to try again.
s hould have, would have, could not have stopped that record from starting over.

y et, through the numbness, the pain, the hurt, the betrayal,
o ne thing echoes in her ears, within her heart - it is better to have loved
u nconditionally and lost than to never have loved at all.

i wish i could rip/it out when you speak and my/heart still skips a beat.

please believe me when i say
that you are not unwanted.
please believe me when i say
that you are not unloved.

you are an incredible creation,
spun delicately by the deft fingers of fate;
made with the sole purpose of setting
every corner of the world
on fire.

please believe me when i say
that you are not unwanted.
please believe me when i say
that you are not unloved.

you are as crucial to the earth as
even the slightest streams are to oceans;
as breezes are to the early springtime air -
sending dandelion puffs whirling hand-in-hand
with wishes sent into being from beneath
tightly shut eyes.

one more day under the rays
of a strange and merciless sun.
one more day to pour out your blood,
your sweat, your tears.
one more day to fight the inborn urge you have
to tune out the drone of a leader
and, instead, march to the perfectly imperfect beat
of your own drum.

one more day stuck in the grasp
of the same small town.
one more day to write, to paint, to sing,
to keep my mind as busy as possible.
one more day to fight the inborn urge i have
to get in my car
and drive down
one hundred highways
just to tell you
that
i
love
you.

i do not find god hovering above cold stone altars.
i do not find the almighty trapped inside a loaf of bread.
i do not find salvation in marble statues of virgins and carpenters
or fervent and pious prayers written years ago by people i've never met.

i do not feel redeemed as i'm told to sink to my knees in a chapel.
i do not feel saved when i'm asked to weep in repentence at confession.
i do not feel filled or satisfied as i watch dozens of haggard mothers
struggle in vain to herd their children through winding communion lines.

my eternity is in the gentle swell of waves at high tide.
my forever is in the wisps of the clouds; white as cotton in the sky.
my purpose is in the touch of a hand, the warmth of a smile -
in the ringing sound of laughter carried away on autumn breezes.

yours are the only eyes
i want to see
- half open and misty with sleep -
when the sun peeks through the curtains
to remind us
that the window is still open
and our clothes are still on the floor.

i was relieved when i found that the pillows on your bed
could soak up the heat that stained my cheeks
when i woke up and realized that there was nothing my fingertips
would rather do than map out freckle constellations
and count the wrinkles around your eyes.

i'm one quiver away from an opening act -
one clutch of the sheets from a bottle of red wine.
i'm three scratches away from new york city,
and a whisper or two from the top of the world.

i can't feel your hands moving rough against my skin,
but i can feel the chords snaking their way through my veins.
i can't see your ceiling fan working its lazy way in circles
or the crack in your wall from too many nights of rain,
but i can see the silhouettes of a full house through a film of smoke
settled just below the track lights.
i can't hear your breath catch or my name fall from your lips,
but i can hear whistles and catcalls and the ring of a telephone.

tell them i'm on my way. tell them i'll catch a plane.
tell them they made the right choice this time.

choke me, fill me, scar me, **** me.
i'll bleed, but the headlines will  be worth it.

there were hearts torn apart between grey cement walls
long before our ****** eyes had ever skimmed the top stair
and realized that there was more to what we knew than four floors.

there were kisses shared atop cold concrete landings
long before our ****** lips had ever grazed one another
and realized that there was more to what we were than 'just friends'.

i used to get lost near hand rails scarred in blues and blacks,
pencils and pens, leftover acrylics and newly purchased sharpie ink;
searching endlessly for your next message,
cleverly hidden among senseless graffiti and professions of love.

every day, a new confession. every day, a new truth. every day, a new letter -
hoping desperately that one day, you would spell out 'love'.

and there you were - as still and as perfect as a statue against the wall;
your arms outstretched to pull me close and your body soaking up the sound
so that echoes in the stairwell were less like gunshots and more like whispers.

velvet melodies float lazily
from wood floors to vaulted ceilings
as you tell stories not just with your voice,
but with the tendons in your hands,
the curve of your lips,
and the wolf grey rounds of your eyes.

every word sends me spinning
into a place i've never been.
every letter, carefully dipped in honey,
sticks to my senses.

i am caught up in your goodness
like butterflies catch themselves on flower petals.
i am awestruck as baritone laughter rises into the air,
mingling with the scent of dust and dogwood trees.

and as the sun begins to lower itself into the river,
i realize that time means nothing
when the hands of the clock are entangled
in the dizzying twirl that is your presence.

we touch for a moment
and fate reminds me that sometimes
bodies collide and spark
the same way that stars do.

we sat in silence here.
i always knew where to find you.
purging yourself of pain or drinking in happiness,
you were here.
but if you walked through those doors now,
would you remember it at all?
would you remember us?
there were birds here.
birds whose songs echoed off the wood floors.
birds whose feathers whispered along with us.
we sat in silence before their cage.
contemplating their wings.
mapping their flight.
plotting their rescue.
what if we ripped through the bars?
what if we toppled the towers?
would our souls finally swoop and reel?
would we feel as free as they would?

there is nothing in the world that is quite as painful
as watching someone stare down the barrel of a loaded gun
when you're the only one praying for a jam.

there is nothing in the world that is quite as painful
as watching someone pitch and stumble to the ground
when you're the only one hoping for a blackout
before he gets the chance to empty the bottle.

there is nothing in the world that is quite as painful
as watching someone shake and teeter,
sweat and scream, knock and pound on his dealer's door
when you're the only person wishing that needles had never
pierced his skin and pills had never fallen past his lips.

your voice.
the blessed, cursed melody that plays over and over in my head.

your voice.
the golden siren song that tears me to a million glorious pieces.

your voice.
the first thing i listen for but the last thing i want to hear.

your voice.
always beckoning me toward you; always pushing me away.

your voice.
it kills me, swallows me whole, echoes around me until i cannot breathe.

your voice.
as rough as the concrete i feel beneath my body as i sink to the ground.

your voice.
too real, too soon, too late, too loud, too much, too much, too much.

as i lay there, ears filled with an empty dial tone,
eyes set unblinking upon silver pearls embedded in the midnight sky,
i realize that there is no other weapon quite as deadly as your voice.

i was a fighter.
walls erected and locks secure;
waiting with bated breath for the attack.

i was a fighter.
every day, trying to erase your smile with a glare
that bore a striking resemblance to a dagger.

i was a fighter.
every day, trying  to annihilate your compassion
with a tongue as razor sharp as a sword.

i was a fighter.
every day, trying to drown out your sweet whispers
with a silence as deafening as the roar of battle.

i was a fighter.
but little did i know that breaking down my
defenses to break my heart was not your intention.

i was a fighter.
until i realized i wanted you to win.

what does a poet write about when the skies are blue?
when the war is over, the storm has passed,
the water sits as still as a painting on a gallery wall?

what does a poet write about when sticky summers
turn into crisp, cool autumns?
when garish winters make way for the flowers of spring?

what does a poet write about when the holes in her soul
have been delicately stitched by a steady hand?
when a gentle heartbeat beneath her ear
closes her eyes at night and opens them in the morning?

of course the poet writes on.
day after day the words still find their way onto blank pages,
the urge still fills her chest to bursting,
desire still guides her pen across the lined paper.

only when the poem comes to its close does she notice that
'love' changed from past tense into present
somewhere in the cursive loops and dotted i's.

i am a tiger disguised as a house cat -
stretching my lithe body against the rays of the sun,
beckoning the naive to stroke my snow white coat.

i am a hornet with the visage of a butterfly -
spreading my wings in a flurry of scarlet,
blinding the pure in my dazzling flight.

i am a wolf wrapped tightly in sheep's clothing -
silently and peacefully at rest,
inviting the blessed to gather me in their arms.

i am a siren of old -
calling the innocent to me with a whispered song,
waiting for the **** with a shining smile.

i harbor no regrets.
i am fiery hell with an angel's face.

the hands that held mine ripped my throat out.
layers of muscle, thick strands of tendons,
snapped in two by an iron grasp.

the mouth that once kissed mine ripped my heart out.
delicate veins, pumping arteries,
severed and snapped by razorblade teeth.

love left me
bruised and beaten
on the bedroom floor.

i hope you find one of your own.
i hope she is everything i am, everything i'm not.
i hope ivory skin lures you in
and the scent of lavender is enough to choke you.
i hope mahogany curls tangle around your neck
and midnight eyes burn to your core.

i hope her lips, red as blood, are pressed against yours
when she slides the knife straight through your heart.

we were an impractical nothing.
a shot in the dark that missed its target.
we were clouded whispers and secret kisses.
and then we were nothing.
nothing when all i wanted was something.

how can i let go when what could have been is
still
so
tempting?

and so we write.

we write words filled with sadness;
words that flow from our pens like trails of salty tears
from beneath closed eyelids.
we write words bursting with joy;
words that appear on the page
in brilliant cascades of blue ink.

words that speak of love.
words that speak of loneliness.
words that speak of unfathomable bliss
and unimaginable pain.
words that no one wants to hear.
words that we wish would be heard.

onto clean sheets of paper,
we release the words that have scarred us -
words that have cut their way
through layers of skin and muscle and bone
and burrowed deep into our being.

we transcribe our innermost thoughts.
we describe our innermost desires.
we inscribe our stories onto countless pages
declaring,
'i may not be much,
but, i am here.'