I want to use somebody
Like an object.
Their lips
At my disposal.
Their words
At my command.
Their heart
As I so desire.
I want to use up their love
So I can replenish mine.

He knew she wasn't a ****
she just needed to make up for the attention she never got from daddy.
He loved her because she needed him to
because she couldn't make up for a lack of daddy's love all on her own.
He'd endured the self loathing she felt now like a paper cut dipped in alcohol.
He'd endured it and it went away.
It went away because of a girl.
A girl that loathed him more than he loathed himself.
She loathed him because he needed her to.

she dances at parties because the people that dance at parties
look like they're having fun.
she never learned that fun isn't a synonym for happiness.

maybe daddy hates her because she reminds him of mommy.
*mommy danced at parties too.

Glances from across the room louder than the music
louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop.
Musical notes clamouring against the floor,
don't pick them up.
leave them there,
walk around them
on tip toe
in ballet slippered feet.

feather light or lead heavy.
veins of lightning.

forming vowel sounds with my mouth.
ooooooOooOOO
EEeeeee
i. i. i.
AHhhhhh

Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops,
coming up the stairwell
the warmth of wanting
the bite of yearning.

Flushed pink.
Pinched red.
Pricked purple.

Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts
turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips.

Naked and waiting.
Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red.
OOoooowww.

Gimme a sec.
3-5 business days until rejection.
I'll keep you posted.
48 hours of maybe.
Lemme get back to you.

No RSVP
establishing a lack of certainty.
but but but
Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP

*But when?

I'm painfully aware of your eye contact.

Let's use the rain as an excuse
to stay indoors.

Give me the right words
so I don't say the wrong ones.

I haven't always been this shy.

Sometimes you get me stuck.
And the words we add to the equation
Only serve to dig me deeper in the dangerous swell of my unabridged mind.

Sometimes I need you to be selfless
And let me sleep instead
of playing the victim of our relationship before bed.

The voices in my head
Silence the words
That come from my mouth.
I want to be heard
But my volume
Is mute.

I want so many things.
But mostly I want to be wanted.

Ephemeral. I finally found it. The word to describe the frequency level of your DNA. But I'd rather you didn't disappear.

I think I like writing because it’s another distraction from those feelings I try so hard to outrun. For a short while I have a purpose and I can feel as though someone is listening to me. Someone can hear me. But of course I’m just talking to myself really. That’s all this is. Me trying to comfort myself. And the thought of that saddens me more than I could have anticipated.
My life is an indie drama that no one’s ever watched. It collects dust on the bottom of the shelf along with the other VHS tapes that are no longer of use to the video store… by this point I’m sure you’re beginning to grasp what kind of mood I’m in. Introspective. Deeper in thought than I’d care to be.
As I now will myself not to cry I have the urge to walk down the hall, through the kitchen to my dad’s room and wake him up just so I can have him hold me for a few moments. So I can remember what it’s like to be comforted by someone other than myself. Someone that hardly has the choice to love me. Would he hold me? Let me cry briefly perhaps? Or would he turn me away before I plead my case? This could seem like a cruel response, but I too have been cruel so maybe it would be my karma.
I know it’s hard for him to see me in a fritz. It makes him feel uncomfortable. Something he can’t fix. I just want him to be my dad for two minutes. Then I could shuffle back to my bedroom, slip into bed and drift in and out of sleep. I don’t know when my dad and I became so afraid of each other. Our relationship is now that of two roommates that don’t really care for the others company. It’s as if I woke up one day and realized I was homeless, yet ironically living in the home of my father. The separation we’ve built up between each other serves as an emotional wall so we can’t hurt each other. Those are two things we’ve both become experts on – hurting each other and building walls.
It’s strange the way all these feelings well up inside me all of the sudden. I was able to keep them at bay all day, keeping busy at work. In fact I had a great day – even making a decent amount in tips. I keep torturing myself. This self-mutilation only seems to worsen.

this is hurting,
but I'm deserving after the way I hurt you.

I don't know how to begin to ask for forgiveness
for my sickness.

I wish it was the flu.

treading lightly
so you don't see how tightly I've bound myself
to keep from coming undone.

upset tummy after a night of liquor
while I stayed in, unable to eat, getting sicker -
I can't hold down a bite,
my stomach won't have mercy on me.
Dry heaves,
wet tears
and a bed I wish wasn't empty.
it's night like these
I wish for my mother's womb -
a warm, dark place fit for the likes of me.

I don't know what I'm doing,
but it feels a lot like drowning.
being with someone
can feel scarily like -
you're holding your own hand.


I fear the morning,
because I'm afraid you'll leave in the night.
(That's how they all go.)

Offensive.
Something that one of us said.
Taking turns playing the victim.
Apologies laced with guilt.
The horrifying rush of almost losing you.
Shove the doubt down deep.
Keep quiet until morning.
Don't make a mess of this.
Part of it is ***.
Part of it is just me.
I'm wavering.
Shoveling hurts into a fire.
To make them disappear.
Never sitting still
Too afraid of thinking.

I don't like when you ignore me
like the rain that ignores my exceptional hair day.
Or the chill that ignores my goosebumps.

I don't like that you laugh at my jokes
for just a little bit longer than you should.
Like the one about the priest.
It wasn't that funny.

I don't like that  you didn't cry while watching the notebook.
Like the part at the end.
That was sad.

I don't like you.

sometimes you ruin me.
you make me feel second rate, but you say i'm priority.
I want to nurture you back to health. I want to make a difference in the way you feel.
maybe that's selfish,
...yeah probably.
but sometimes sadness is selfish too.
We're victims to ourselves.
sometimes I don't want to feel better,
sometimes I need to feel blue -
and maybe so do you.
I will try to understand
even though there are things I never will.
like why it takes me feeling worse for you to feel better.
or why spicy pastrami can cheer you up more than I can.
or how oblivious we can be to the pain we subject each other to.
any effort I make is futile.
you undermind my attempts.
shame on me,
I don't learn
not to fix
broken things.

I remember the exact moment it happened.
The moment when I realized
This thing we had
Was SOMETHING.
I remember the way
You glanced down at your shoes
And professes your love
With a glance.
And then I was yours.
Now here we are.

Ache
Ache
Aches.
Then come the shakes.

Struck in the side
Pelvis
And the face.

Loose fist,
Tight grip,
Eyes closed,
Teeth stripped.

Comatose come down.
Good intentions preceded
Translucent affections.

Ache
Ache
Achey.

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.

I love words and
I love metaphors.
I love the muse that inspires the words
and how flawlessly these words form metaphors.

I love deciding how people perceive me.
Even I am beautiful when painted metaphorically.

Big metal boxes
Silly people drive around in.
They make your body stutter
With acidic anxiety.

I want to fix you
Not cause you're broken.
I'm scared I can't save you
From the things your mind does.

but I'd lick the inside of you as readily as I lick the outside skin
If only to demonstrate my adoration
For the broken soul just within.

the thing about writing is
what you write can be true
but that doesn't mean it's right.

Writers are schizophrenic
Because in every character we create
there lingers a bit of ourselves
or who we wish we were.

the internet was invented as a means for people who get lonely late at night to cope.
can a website cure your loneliness?
can a URL fix the virus in your heart?

Casually,
Eventually
Carelessly.
Especially
Subconsciously.
I
Don't
Want
To
Be.
Words spoken to me
That bare no weight
Are harmfully
Empty.

Tell me all your fantasies
And I'll make them come true.
Tell me what you want
And I'll do it for you.

I'm not as fragile as I look.

Love is not loving the perfect person.
(Anyone can do that.)
Love is loving an imperfect person, perfectly.

My life is boring. There is nothing particularly interesting about me. I have no special talents or abilities. Exciting things don’t happen to me. I live in Florida in a city you’ve probably never heard of.
And this is my story.
Let’s fast forward for the time being to my junior year of high school. Heck, let’s skip right to my first kiss. Underwhelming romantic, it took place in a soundproof piano room in the school’s independent music study area.  I ditched some school ceremony to rendezvous with him. We both sat on the wooden bench in silence. I was aching for him to kiss me, but he was playing hard to get.
“I’m not going to kiss you unless you tell me you want me to.”
“Why are you doing this? You know I want you to.”
“But I want you to say it.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
And he did. It was awkward, but I didn’t realize at the time. I was too busy reveling in the moment. I’d made a bet with myself at the beginning of the year – that this year – my sixteenth pathetic year here on planet earth would be the one that I got my first kiss. I had succeeded. I was elated.

I don't want your body,
too many people have had you.
You've got the scratches and bruises to prove it.

I don't want your mind
you always say what you're thinking.
Your pictures never look right unless your smiles are sincere.

I wanted your soul
and you didn't resist when I took it.
*"I have no use for it anyway."

It's not the way I wanted this to happen.
It's colder beneath the covers.

It's no one's fault.
That I need
The things I can't give myself.

*Hugs are a good place to start.

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 need to create
to keep from decomposing.

to keep from
r
o
t
t
i
n
g

but my flesh falls off anyway.