The only thing I want to remember about my adolescence,
is how good it felt when it had finally ended.

Love is the greatest myth we tell each other
So that we don't worry about being miserable
Alone.

**** the past, the present, and the future
If we even have one.
I want to be strung up and tangled in your mighty grasp,
Gasping for air between wet mouth kisses and clasping your clammy skin.
I want to forget about the ****** up idea of the world and the form it's taken in society,
And instead take in you, between cigarette drags and Southern Comfort swigs.
I want to feel the pulse of your heart as you ignite with excitement underneath me as our hot skin touches and you yearn for me.
Remember my presence, because passion does not come calling when sought,
It finds its way to you.
And if this ****** up world has brought me to you,
Then here it is-
This is the passion stupid girls like me write ****** poetry about.

Time travel with me, across time and space
Let's find the meaning between you and I-
Nestled in the eternal continuum between here and now,
There is no future, there is no past
We are the children of the present
Crowned royalty in the never ending day.
You and I-
Time traveling, through our minds.

I want to be like Mount Saint Helens,
Strong and firm, quaking every couple years in the faces of the helpless.
I want to make newspaper headlines and magazine articles for being fearless and tall,
Sputtering and spewing at those who've wronged me.
I want to be the conquest men dare try,
Out of fear of being swallowed whole.
The deadly concoction of pure beauty and viciousness,
Threatening those who taunt from below.
Unpredictable and dangerously violent,
They still will want my picture and tell their children of me,
Mount Saint Helens glory will never fade,
For her might is much to strong for the common man.
But I,
I will keep on,
I will conquer and cast my plight willingly
And when they see me, they will tremble because they will know of my unpredictability and daunting grace.
A deadly concoction,
That Mount Saint Helens might find idyllic.

I learned how to write when I could no longer speak,
Time traveled through literature and escaped into a realm of tattered pages and tear soaked ink.
I found my voice inside of forgotten words and unending rhyme schemes.
When I could no longer speak, the ink flowed easily
And the thought flowed even easier.
Releasing my inhibition on to blank pages accompanied by cold coffee and early morning sunshines,
I learned yet again that heroes I regarded sat on top a bookshelf rather than on a screen or in an album.
They gave me voice, comfort, and solace inside of my own head.
The voice I lacked for so many years, came naturally when typing away,
It was then that I finally felt free.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.