When I'm high I want to eat with my hands.

The texture is part of the experience.

I thought I was being philosophical
But I know I was being annoying.

And I reread your poem,
The one about me.
And Emma blew my mind
(Figuratively)
She said:
"It's the same emotion
Whether you're a teenager or an adult.
It just intensifies
But it's still love."

So I wrote it down
So I wouldn't forget.

And I was high
And feeling low.
And I thought I was making sense.
She didnt have a journal
So I settled for a mini yellow legal pad.
And my thoughts were coming faster than I could write.
So I forgot.

I don't know which couch to make a bed.
I'm very prone to feeling sorry for myself.
Why is this happening to me!?
I think I'm just mad
My dad never taught me how to be brave.

I'm in my underwear.
I'm wearing your shirt
And my favorite sweater.
I'm comfy
Cozy
Cool.
I'm not used to the chill here.
Maybe I could bare the backwoods.
I thought I was over my fear of isolation
But I'm not.

I deem no one worthy
To behold the brilliance of your eyes
Or intertwine their fingers with yours
Or hear a word uttered by your mouth.

Not even me.

I imagine it like a scene from a movie.
Where the girl throws herself against a wall of the shower
Tilting her face beneath the stream of water.
You can't tell if she's crying.
She scrubs her skin too hard
Turning herself an unpleasant shade of red.
She's trying to get clean.

Silly girl.

Your innards could use a good scrubbing.

Actions speak louder than words.
Actions hurt more too.
They leave bruises
And scabs.

My scabs don't heal
Because I never stop picking them.
Maybe that's why I stopped going to church.

I want forgiveness
But I don't deserve it.
So would I believe it was real
If I were to received it?

Or would I unintentionally sabotage
Your mercy,
Just to punish myself?

Would I spend the rest of my life
Trying to make up for my mistakes
In vain?

But I'm not Jesus.
So what do I expect my punishment to fix?
I don't save people.
I don't have a plan.
I don't provide a peace that surpasses understanding.

If I were Jesus, I'd give you your own constellation.
I'd give you the comfort you need.
I'd save you from me.

Words can't fix my misdeeds.
So I'll stop talking
And show you what I mean.
I'll be a better me.
I'd like if you stick around and see.

I did it.
Guilty.
Shame has a way of hollowing me out.
I showed you my scars and you said they were nothing,
but now they're consuming my heart.

There's lots I could say,
want to.
But my credibility is only as good as the rest of me,
which is not.

I said: "not all things that have been broken are bad"
but now I'm distraught.

I could play therapist and analyze myself:
daddy issues - check
trust issues - check
abandonment issues - check check
check.

I ****** up.
I don't want to find an excuse
that'll make you stay.
Maybe that's why I pushed you away.

I don't want you to leave,
but I care too much not to let you.
I wish I would have realized sooner
and gotten my priorities straight.
We could lie together
never touching
and that would be okay.

And you could **** all the girls
and go into gruesome detail.
As long as you still had your finger on my heart.

But you wouldn't do that.
Because you're not **** like the others
and that's why I picked you.
You're perfect.

I'm afraid I'm not anymore.

I never want to be you.
You're so miserable.
And I promised myself I wouldn't vent here
But then you said those things.

You push everyone away.
That's why you're alone.
You want everyone to be as miserable
as you are.

I still resent the fact
you never taught me how to ride a bike
or swim.

Maybe if you avoid things long enough
they'll disappear.
Like me.

I'm mad at you for being so far away.
Because I need you.

It's like you don't care.
If you did you'd kidnap me
And write a ransom note out of letters
cut from magazines.

If you cared you'd take the ransom money
and buy us a house by the sea.
One with big bay windows
And a purple door.

But you don't.
Care, I mean.
So you won't.

I'm mad at you for not being here
To fall in love with my mannerisms.
And make fun of the way I touch my face too much
When I get nervous.

It's like you don't even care.
If you did then you'd be here
And we'd be arguing over what to have for dinner.
We'd settle on purogies.

But you're not.
Here, I mean.
So we don't.

I'm mad at you for being so far away
because I want you to hold me
so I can feel small in your arms.

But you can't.
Hold me, I mean.

I don't want to be this way.
This needy leech that clings onto warm things
and turns them cold.

Too eager
too wishful
too expectant.

Burn my skin with a match
and I'll let go of you.

I'll leave you alone.

It's okay.
One day I'll leave this town.
This rundown city
of mundane madness.
This place where they know my face
and forget my name.

I'm endlessly restless.
Every Wednesday is an existential crisis.
I clock my time card
to earn the currency that promises escape
but I can't seem to leave.

Dreams won't come as easily these days.
And soon I fear I will have missed my opportunity
to put them into practice.

I don't want to be alone
but I always find a reason to be.
I've given socializing some thought
and I've decided that I'd rather be a no one
than a "plus one".
It's just not for me.

I'll keep chipping away
my broken bits
until I'm a pile of shards.

Even when you think you've cleaned them all up
there's one lingering.
People don't piece shards back together;
they throw them away
and buy something better.

I missed you.

I'm thinking it,
but withhold from saying the words out loud
to try to seem a little less pathetic than I am.

We lie on our sides,
facing each other
an arm length's apart.

We do not move.
We do not touch.

Your hands are folded  beneath your head.
My hands hold my legs against my chest.

We do not move.
We do not speak.
But I want to touch you.

My thoughts become loud
in the vortex of silence and tension we've created.

No touching.
But I want to.

I'm too aware of your mouth
and how red your lips are,
but not yet aware of how they feel
or taste.

No.*
But I want to.

I want

I want to hug you for three hours.

                 Make that three hours
                 and four minutes.

I want to feel the weight of your head against my stomach.
              
                Listen to the rumbles.
                My belly button is not an "on" switch.

I want to touch your lips
                
                  With my fingertips.
                  Imagining how they'd feel elsewhere.

I want to  moan for mercy.
                
               Watching you
               *Watching me.

He's so. *******. Perfect.
Like,
****.

He likes all the bits of me that I hate
and finds beauty in the things I can't.

I want to eat sprees with him in the bathtub
and dedicate every Magnetic Fields love song to him
and cover him in an endless stream of kisses.

He's the saving grace
that gives me a reason to pray.
And he gives me tinglies in my heart and in my underwear.

I'd gladly endure nine months of nausea
in order to have a miniature human with his eyes.

He makes me forget that I'm average
and encourages me to infect his dreams

I want you endlessly.
I want to be with you,
but for now a pillow will do -
**ish.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about lying beside you.
I'm thinking about the way you feel.
I'm thinking about the scratch of your stubble
against my palms.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about touching your mouth
with my mouth
and stealing your breath away.
I'm thinking about the way your voice sounds
in the morning
when it's clouded with sleep.

I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about the way we could play make believe beneath the covers.

I'm always thinking.

it's that sinking feeling,
you know the one-
like getting water in your ears
or wearing wet socks in dry shoes.
Like when a person takes too long to reply to your
"I love you"
or simply never replies at all.
I'm sure you've felt it,
the feeling you get
as you wait for the police officer to return
with your license and registration.
Five minutes seems like five days.

I don't know how to deal with things.
When I don't know how to deal with things, I write.
I write about the way I wish things could be,
the way I wish things were.

It's like I'm on auto-pilot,
watching as a series of events unfolds
with no real control over how they happen.
Or when.

And why?
Maybe Karma.
Maybe bad luck.
Maybe no real reason at all.

Maybe I don't matter so someone else can.

I used to be a daddy's girl.
And maybe I still am.

Maybe that's why I work so hard to earn his approval.

Maybe if I were a boy.
Maybe if I were more submissive.
Maybe if I didn't exist.

Maybe then he'd love me.

Scratch my back and I'll scratch yours.
Bite my lip and I'll kiss yours.
Say my name and I'll say
"More."

I like him for his smile
and the way it has a way of traveling throughout his whole body.
And his eyes
like two hypnotic mood rings
that glisten with unspoken promises.

Maybe it's the way
he laughs
and I feel as though my heart is pinched
between his thumb and forefinger.

Maybe I love all the bits of you.
*Even the ones you didn't think I knew.

I don't want to cry.
But sometimes I do.

I'm not a prayerful person.
But sometimes I pray.
Not that any of my prayers deserves to be answered.

I've been driven to beg.
Bartering.
Ultimatums.

I want
I need
Give me

Do you ever feel so hopeless
that it paralyzes you?
All you can do is watch
as fate demolishes your plans for the future.
******* all over your dreams.
Tearing up your innocence,
not even bothering to recycle the debris.

Put childish things aside.
Grow up and get a real job.
Get married and start a family.
You owe it to yourself.
To everyone.

Another birthday passes.
Another debt to pay.
Another year spent.

Let's get married in Vegas.
Cheap rings.
Cheap wine.

Let's have a ramen noodle dinner party.
A quaint occasion.
In our quaint cottage.

Let's dive into the ocean
Floating among the plankton.
Glowing like stars in the sea.

you dream of us.

long boarding to the beach.
having dinner with your dad.
discussing cheese preferences.
"Shredded."
"Sliced."

I dream of us.

making french toast.
syrupy kisses in the kitchen.
powdered cinnamon on your nose.
eggshells in the sink.

Not the kind that requires
Repentance.
Or 20 hail Mary's.

I feel like Oliver Tate
From Submarine.
You're Jordanna,
Reading through
The pages of my diary.

I want you to know
My innermost workings.

Would it hurt you somehow
If I were to say it?
Is it selfish of me to want to?

Tell me it's unconventional.

I know.

But so is breathing fire
And having a three legged dog.
And both make for a great story.

Our story would make for a great
Indie romance.
The kind where you don't cry
Until the very end.

Is the distance enough to soften the blow?

riffling through my old journals
I stumbled across some unsent letters I'd written.
You may not have read what I wrote
but I feel I still owe you an apology
for the nasty, hurtful things I said.

I was such a ****.
I can hardly believe I wrote them.
I don't want to believe it.

But maybe it's good that I don't recognize the girl I used to be.
Maybe it means I'm changing...

for the better hopefully.

I suppose I've forgotten my past
intentionally.

Ignorance is bliss?
in this case it is.

your* poem.
And how it inspired me to write that one poem.
and now this one.

I don't think you believed me when I said it was good.
But it was.
Usually I hate reading other people's work.
I guess that makes me a bit egotistic.
But every once in a while
I stumble upon something wonderful.

I reread it several times.
And probably will again after I finish writing this poem.
It was honest.
Most people are too afraid of what others will think to be honest
and therefore I find most of what I read to be lacking.
I used to be afraid too.

I've always stayed true to the first basic rule of writing,
Write what you know.
So this poem is about you.

he is Peter Pan
never aging.
the boyish upwards curvature of his mouth
is electric
and causes my skin cells to prickle.
he thinks my underwear is fun.
funderwear.
he's perfected the art of making insults seem charming.
and when we lie on the floor in the hallway,
our hair sprawled out on the carpet
his strands getting all tangled up in mine
I feel perfectly beautiful.
our hearts sync
as our noses touch.
Eskimo kisses.
He's a bottomless bag of peanut m&ms;
all green.
Wine stained lips
and a bitter tasting tongue.

He lived 150 miles away.
but there was something far greater
than a two and a half hour drive separating us.
You're 4,432 miles away
(I know. I googled it.)
yet you seem closer.
Though not close enough.

He made my bones feel dry.
brittle.
I was afraid I'd break from the slightest movement.
but then you.
with your bedhead
and smiles
and love of the sea.

He wants to be a doctor.
Admirable I suppose.
Excuse me if I don't wait in line to kiss his ***.
He did more hurting
than he did healing.
bitter.

You'll be a marine biologist
and we'll live by the sea
and have a beautiful multiracial family.
*Bliss.

It’s a common saying that time heals all wounds;
but some scabs we can’t help but to pick at.
I didn’t want this wound to heal.
At least not fully.

If it healed then the scab would thin and the scar would fade
and then I’d forget.
As painful as it was to remember at times,
I didn’t want to forget.

I wanted to remember every moment in vivid detail.
I didn’t want to forget or be forgotten.
Even if we never saw each other again,
I convinced myself that I could manage living the rest of my life
in restless contentment if I knew
he’d remember.

She has sharp hipbones
that jut out in a way that seems painful.

And I think her lips are too thin
but all the boys think she's beautiful.

I could be like her.
The Malibu Barbie type.

I could wear more makeup
and style my hair like the celebrities featured in Cosmo;
but would my prince charming be able to recognize me
through all that eyeliner and the smog of hairspray?

When I speak
I lacerate my mouth
and it fills up with blood.
Staining my lips
the same shade of red
as my chipped fingernail polish.

I find refuge in words.
They can hide or reveal.
Encourage or suppress.
Begin or end.
But when spoken out loud
words change from butter knives
to daggers.

Ouch.


Ouch.


*O u c h.

The words echo in my mind.
disgusting
I feel like I'm dying
or dead.
ashamed
I take my punishment.
I don't make a sound.
Not a peep.
you will be forgotten
Sometimes I miss the old me
because no one could love the new me.

I hate and love my bellybutton at the same time.
It's half inny, half outy -
as if playiNg coy.

I'm down to my socks and knickers.
I'd describe them, bUt you don't care.

I choose a flattering filter on my webcam
and strike a pose
as the countDown begins:
Three - two -
on**E.

I say it in a poem
because I can't say it out loud.
Because                                             I won't.
                                                            Risk
the embarrassment of your
                                                         laughter
                                                      disapproval
                                                         rejection.
I like to be the one
doing the
                                                       Alienating.
I imagine the way
your eyebrows would
furrow together.

The way
you'd find an                                   excuse
                                                        to leave.

The way
                                                        Regret
would feel.
Filling my mouth
with the coppery
taste of blood.

I don't like people that use the word "epic".
I don't like people that are overly optimistic.
I don't like people that "read twilight before it got popular".
I don't like the cold.
I don't like insults disguised as compliments.
I don't like tardiness.
I don't like
I don't
I do
I do like
I do like people that wear ironic t-shirts.
I do like people with green eyes.
I do like people that are awkward.
I do like raw cookie dough.
I do like writing ****** stories.
I do like you.

I cried and cried
and all I wanted was you.

I said your name out loud.
Once.
Twice.

I wanted your voice
your words.
Needed them even.

I promise not to cry
if you promise not to leave.

Remember when you traced over my photograph
in green paint
and it made me look like Shrek?
I hated you for that.
You're a talented tracer though;
I'll give you that.

Remember that one time you made a list of things I like
in your notebook?
I found it romantic in a tastefully subtle way.
I like that you noted my affinity for knee socks.
The song and the item of clothing.

Remember when I wrote you that poem
on Hello Poetry?
It was kind of cliche
in a charming sort of way
You never admitted to reading it,
but I know you did.