I'm too available.
So I'll party to pass the time.
Dance once I've had enough wine.
An exchange of words
In passing.
May I have your attention please!
Undevided.
You're sliced up
And diced.
First come, first served.
And the fans want an encore.
How could you say no?
Nor would you know that I've been waiting all night for the twenty minutes when everyone else ceases to exist.

*Maybe tomorrow then.

Hey, so I felt like writing.
But I didn’t know what to write.
So I’m here.
Talking to myself.
I’m eating pizza pockets in bed.
I’m listening to the **.
I’m cold.
I’ve had a glass of summer red and it’s too early to sleep.
I’m thinking about Ben.
I’m thinking about my dad.
I’m thinking about where I’ll be in a month or two from now.

It’s hard to wake up some days.
Because I think this is as good as I’m going to get.
Because I’m not so good at this.
Any of it.
I’ve only just mastered breathing.
But functioning?
Sustaining healthy relationships?
I can’t even win the approval of the person that’s sole job is to love me whether I deserve it or not.
My dad has given me the cold shoulder before.
But this feels heavier.
And I can’t help but to think that perhaps I deserve it.
I’m not always very nice.
In fact I think sometimes I like the idea of people thinking I’m a complete *****.
If I was a therapist I’d probably say something like: “It’s a defense mechanism.”
Yeah. Maybe.
Maybe I’m actually a really nice and I like being in the company of others.
Maybe.
Maybe I’ll find success in my future career.
Maybe I’ll live in a nice house
and I won’t **** up my children’s lives because I never had a proper parental figure.
Maybe I can give them the stability I’ve craved my whole life.
In a perfect world.
But the world is infamous for its lack of perfection.

What I hope to accomplish through my writing is complete honesty.
If nothing else, I want to be able to be honest with myself.
The one place I can do that is my writing.
Honesty comes easy on paper.
It’s softer. Gentler.
But words spoken always seem too harsh, and too loud.
I don’t know much about anything, but there are some things I do know.
I know that I want to give and receive love.
I know that there are parts of myself that I like to pretend don’t exist.
I know that I am scared of just about everything. But…

I think I will be okay despite the odds.
But I’m not sure okay is good enough.

I used to be pretty. My skin once pitted deep around my collarbones as if my skin were being pulled so taut, the bone nearly burst through it.
He said: “I’m not going to pretend there aren’t times when I won’t go down on you for the sheer fact that I fear being smothered by the cellulite of your thighs.”
He said if I wanted to be told I was pretty I should be with a man that says yes more than he says no.
He said: “I’m not for the weak of heart.”
But he overlooked the fact that it’s my ego that’s weak.
So I punch at my thighs until I’m certain they’ll bruise. And when I wake up in the morning with legs blotched purple - I will remember what stands in my way of reaching the realm of perfection.
He said: “Love means I don’t have to be careful with my words. Means I don’t have to withhold what I want to say.”

And I believed him.

Every memory
is a painting in the gallery of my mind.

Will you be my curator?

Go sit in the corner and think about what you did.
So I sit.
And I think.
Because that's what you do in time out.

You are more important than proving a point, or whatever else excuse I can come up with. I don't want you to wake up mad and I'm sorry you had to go to sleep upset. It was wrong of me to drudge up past mistakes when I have far greater offenses and you never do that to me. I'm really sorry for being unfair in that way and for undermining you. You were justified in how you felt.

I am so sick of trying to make people like me.
There is something to be said about an acquired taste.

I didn't always like mustard.

i know a boy
a boy that thinks about a girl,
a girl that seldom thinks of him.
only when it's convenient.
only when it feels good.
only when it's late.
and no one else is around.

He wanted to be a man
But he was
Nothing more
Than a 19 year old boy
With buttons for eyes
And a claustrophobic soul.

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'll go first
#1: I can finally smell your hair.
#2: Your grandparents would be furious.
#3: You.

I'm offended I'm only #3

Fine
#0: You.
There. Now you're pre #1
#4: Your chicken.
#5: You.

My turn
#6: Festivals with me.

(In unison)
#7: The Neutral Milk Hotel gig.

#8: Soul mates.

#9: Seeing you naked.

#10: Legal drinking.

#12: Taking advantage of you when you're drunk.

#13: Lack of time zone annoyances.

Yussss
#14: Making French toast for you.

#15: Cuddles are better in the cold.

Get out of town! I was just about to say cuddles!

We're psychic.

#16: Watching you sleep.

#17: Creepy comments about me sleeping.

I need to move to Britain.

Boo-boos heal if the right person kisses them.

Yes, I do like being vulnerable.
Because it enables me to still believe in magic.
It enables me to fully give myself to a person,
to love without withholding,
to love the way I want to.

Sometimes I wish you didn't
Love me.
It feels like I trapped you.
Like you'd choose to stay with me
And stay miserable.
You think I'm the best
You can do.
That shows how much you know.
You were overcharged
For the limited services I provide.
Return me and get your money back.
Then invest it in someone
Without tears and cracks.

Forgetting  easy
It's remembering that's hard.
It's retracing  steps
With all 5 senses.
The way he moaned when you kissed his neck.
The way she tasted first  thing  in the morning.
The nimble way your limbs fold together like lawn chairs.

I'm never leaving this bed.

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.

tell me a secret my summersoft beauty
can you tell the difference between something good and something bad?
when you're needing to be needed
look up and the moon
and promise to return to me one day.
very soon.

A boy that's good for your body
And better for your head
That's who I dreampt of
As I squirmed in my bed.

Tingling limbs
All fire and heat.
Making it hard to stay in my seat.

A boy with a soft body for cuddling
And a strong will for a healthy mind.
But above all, please let him be kind.

Sometimes being in a relationship means
Being called a ***** at 1am becasue you're too drunk.
Sometimes it means breakfast in bed and savoury kisses.
Sometimes it means annoying the **** out of each other with words that don't mean anything when you can't even remember why you were upset in the first place.
Sometimes it means holding hands inside your coat pocket just to have an excuse to touch.
Sometimes it means you need to hurt him like he hurt you in order to dissolve your own pain.
Sometimes being in a relationship means, the little victories overshadow the defeats, which is enough to make a love endless.

I'm too busy looking for people to be lonely with,
To enjoy my own company.
I'm ******* thrilling,
And if you don't agree then perhaps you're not stimulating enough for me.

I'd stay awake if it meant the stars wouldn't go away. I fall asleep next to you if I could. I'd make my home in your heart because it never gets cold there. Your arms could be my foundation. Nevermind walls, your embrace should be what holds me together.

We love each other differently
But that's not a bad thing.

We stay up late
Reaffirming our affections.
We go to sleep
And dream of a future where we aren't sectioned off by the sea in between.

This night and all those that follow
I'll grow to love you more and more.

I feel refreshed. I feel new. I feel alive and free. I feel hopeful and romantic and optimistic and grateful. I want to give my time, my energy, and everything in me. I want to care and love wholeheartedly. I feel these things with an overwhelming urgency and it's a flame that won't soon be doused. I have this new found hunger to do more than I ever aspired to before - and an emerging confidence to follow through. All I kept for myself from fear of vulnerability, failure, or loss - I now freely give to anyone who desires. Love is an action - a demonstration of sacrifice. I want to fully grasp this concept. I want it to define who I am. I shall live each moment as if it were to teach me how to further understand what most people often reduce to "a feeling". Love is not something that comes and goes as it pleases. Love stays. Love holds on. Love never dies. This I believe more now than ever.

baby grew up
and baby turned bad.
but all the babes liked her,
which made her daddy mad.

Roller derby, disco.
Bump and grind
On the dance floor.
Drink some punch,
Sip some wine.
Party, party, people.
Flirty, *****, girly girl.
Do a spin,
Flail and twirl,
Dip, but do not fall.

All of these
And many more
You're sure to learn
In a year or four.

She felt so one dimensional.
Like the  clock hung up on the wall.
No one sees the gears.
Without proper acknowledgement they hardly exist.
All people see is the clock's face.
All people want is the clock's time.
Not the clock itself, but what it represents.

And when people look at this face, they don't often like what they see.
Where is the time going? It's moving too fast.
or
There's so much time on our hands. How shall we **** it?

Never the right balance.
Not even at noon.

the emotion i'm most intuned with is (sadness disguised as) anger.
i'm angry (sad) that I am the way I am.
i'm angry (sad) that people can't fix me.
i'm angry (sad) that I keep being misunderstood by the people I thought knew me the best.

my stitches keep bursting open.
from beneath a red valley rushes towards the surface.

making eye contact with my reflection -
I am not looking at me.

i'm angry (sad) I can't feel the love others ****** towards me.
It doesn't feel real.
Disingenuous at best.
i'm angry (sad) everyone has their distraction  except for me.
i'm angry (sad) that my motivation is being weaned by anxiety.

Not many things are as satisfying
As peeing when you're drunk.
What a rush.

I always realize how lightheaded I am
And that makes me laugh.

Then it's back to the kitchen to replenish
My body's alcohol supply.

Invest all my assets in this stock.
Empty my pockets,
Take my pride.
All I want is a guarantee that you'll stay
And promise to love me.

RSVP for our future.
Look into a crystal ball
and tell me what you see.

Is it me and you - us?
Or is it me, you, and the sea still in between?

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 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.

*******,
dry heave,
dry eyes -
all on me.
I'm a picture
I'm your paint.
Smeary me, deary
to show that you love me.

I add a poem because I feel a should
because I want to
because I can.

But sometimes I shouldn't
Sometimes like now
when my words don't add anything but instead take away.

So really this poem is selfish.
This poem is being spit on by a best friend
or being stood up by a blind date.

You'll forget it
because you have better things to do.
Like joining a cause
or giving to a charity
or liking an inspirational post on Facebook.

While I'm writing selfish poems
you're winning humanitarian of the year...
**Congrats.

Words aren't so reassuring anymore
Because words are what got me to this nowhere place.
The place I can't feel your flesh pinched between my fingers.

My nerves don't remember the sensations
That once nurtured me.

It was hard to be happy.
Harder to stay happy.
Too much work.
Easier to be sad.
Or miserable.
So I was.
I committed to it.
Stopped pursuing happiness
Even though the constitution says I have a right to it.

I grew to enjoy my misery.
Convinced myself it was what I wanted.
Got used to being alone.
Numbed myself to bliss.

And then you.
Not even anesthesia could numb me after you.

There's no way to talk about fate without sounding pretentious, but I will try.
You were exactly what I needed precisely when I needed it.
I needed you to be far away so I could nourish my independence and learn how to love something without touching it. Because no one taught me you don't have to touch everything you hold dearly. Sometimes the things we love have to remain under glass cases.
And sometimes to touch something is to hurt it.
I needed you to not need me as much as I needed you.
I needed you to ignore my advances.
I needed you to be snarky.
I needed you to have brown hair and eyes the size of saucers.
I needed you to have an affinity for otters
So you could tell me that thing about how they hold hands so they don't drift apart.

I don't know how to end this poem, but I will try.
It was you in the red sweater with the white birds.
It was your neutral expression.
It was that you were up late and willing to chat.
These are the things that made you the exception.

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.

Don't you dare touch yourself.
That's my job.
I'm going to touch you in public
to make you want me in private.

But I'm going to make you wait.
Make you want it.
Feel my arousal.

Nails trailing down my spine.
Sandwiching your bottom lip between my teeth.

*I'm counting the minutes until I can taste you.

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

Maybe I'm too willing
To share the intimate details of my life.

Maybe I'm too willing
To be the right person
for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe I use my dad as an excuse
to hold on too tight.

Reject before rejected.
Eject like a vhs.
Perplexed
By the direction things have gone.

Forget before forgotten.
Bought some time.
Stopped
Checking watches so I didn't feel so blue.

I played my part well
until I opened my mouth that is.
                                    It always got me into trouble.
I'd cried on the inside so long
                                                  I was beginning to d
                                                               ­                        r
                                                             ­                            o
                                                               ­                              w
                                                               ­                                 n.

What started off as a cold shoulder
Escalated to frozen stiff
And I was afraid to be around you  
from fear I'd catch pneumonia.

Drag your fingers
Along my arteries.
Dance along my spine.
Touch my nose
With the tip of your tongue.
Kisses on my elbows.

Independent.
One thing I've never been accused of being.
Because I'm a leech that clings and feeds.
A moth that hovers too closely to things that singe its wings.
I'm this omnipresent mass of sadness and tear filled eyes.
But independent?
No.
I'm not that.

I was lying in bed all wrapped up in my favorite fuzzy red blanket remember fond memories of C and I. Sometimes as a lie within my red fuzzy cocoon of comfort I feel as if my bed is an extension of myself. It is hard to tell where I begin and it ends.
It’s tiring being so painfully aware of how single I am. I don’t want to be this girl I’m becoming. The girl that doesn’t exist unless she’s somebody’s girlfriend. I want to exist apart from someone.

baby when you taste me
I forget all the misery,
no weeping when you tease me.
no melancholy when you get ******.

I am the kernel lodged between your bicuspids.
Use your tongue to nudge me loose.

I'm so                       tired.
Sleep beckons.


Come hither.

but I refuse to succumb
before I'm ready.

My shoulders ache
my eyes burn.


I can help.
Let me fix you.
You need me.


How can I refuse?

and I want to be this perfect thing that you would want to show off to your friends.
maybeyou wear long sleeves now so you don't have to feel the cold against your arms.
but your arm hair reminded me how sweet you could be. How human. How thrilled by the smallest of things.
I wonder.
Do you still have arm hair under there?
too sad to talk to
sad because no one's talking
Not talking because far away.
While you're busy being busy
I'm thinking about what we'd be doing if we were together.
One drinks and the other sinks.
One's boozing and one's losing.
Mingling,
Praying - for comfort in the form of a hug
From the right someone.
Boring,
That's it.
The condition I'm diseased with.
Think of a complicated excuse
For a simple defect.
I'm that, personified.
Guilt guilt guilt
because you can't handle my wilting.
But your voice is still the same.
(I don't hear the annoyance. So if I close my eyes I can pretend it's not there.)
So why couldn't I be?