I don't know how snow would feel against my calloused palm
but I think I have an idea. Is it in any way to be compared
to the burning cold your metal bones exhale on me?
What is white winter? Falling leaves branding the earth's skin
with red glowing blisters, only to burst and reveal
smooth ice underneath? I've heard of the earth clotting with
greens and dandelions and lavenders. I've heard of how
the earth heals itself, but I've never even had a glimpse.
Is it in any way to be compared to lives and deaths
of creatures living inside a mechanical box?

You cry over the things
you deem insubstantial.
You break from gentle winds,
and you evaporate from electric heaters.
But that does not make you weak.
Stardust sting eyes because they touch beneath eyelids
in a way that supernovas can't.
Don't let it weigh you down,
but let it lift you up to the heavens
where you truly belong.
Let the tears leave with the pain,
and you'll come out strong.
Then you can reach the skies you own--
your home.

You were my favorite Sylvia Plath poem
Your words were contemporary,
oh, you were classic in your own way, dear
How I loved the way you tasted
as your poetic melody rolled off of my lips,
as your sighs and laughter filled my head like smoke
gathering together in a room where those stoner kids
from the other street would inhale the wafts of their
sweet, sweet chocolate
You were a poem sweeter than chocolate
and I don't think anyone ever really told you
Well, I'm telling you now
even though I can't quite recall how well
you mixed with me
I don't think I ever really paid attention to that--
I suppose I was too busy reading between your
short, firm words--lyrics, perhaps
though I don't quite remember any music
I don't quite remember much aside from all
these things that I have written
I don't want to ever forget you and that's why
I'm having all of these written
You may not be as clear to me as you were before
(back when I read you far too often for my sanity)
You were my habit, my addiction--but never my vice,
for you were my favorite Sylvia Plath poem
and though my vision and my mind are both failing me,
my memory still holds you dear and your words,
oh, they still ring true to my ears.

This is me, awake again.

My eyes stung from the last time I cried.
Salty tears on each of its sides.
My head throbbing from the past night,
Searching in vain for that familiar light.

Give me a reason, give me a pen.
Let me write alone in my den.

Let me write my struggle within.
Let it fill that small old pen.
Take your chance on my sins.
For this is me, awake again.

I don't think we're there yet, kids.
We haven't quite reached deep enough.
We haven't quite grazed the tallest stalagmite of the cave of their hearts,
and yet we act as though we've lived there all this time.
I merely listened, and the steam has worked my engine up,
and I created a monster that existed to be misunderstood.
An expression that has gone to ****.
And I apologize.
I apologize for not apologizing in the first place.
I apologize for not trying to make people understand.
I apologize for writing up a tragedy.
I apologize for writing off your right.
I apologize this all has gone to **** and
I apologize for I don't know how to fix it.
I apologize for being so ignorant
of all the throes of your little tongues.
You matter, too, just not to me, perhaps.
I apologize.
I'll go try to listen a little less and care a little more.

You ripped the wings off of her so suddenly that, ****, I didn't see it coming.
Well, to make it fair, I wasn't there. ****, that's so unbecoming
of you. Well, *******. How could you?

She used to soar into her dreams a lot—her dreams that featured you.
You and her, together—storming all the weather, and all the idioms I have wronged before.
I'll be frank, kid, I've always known it was so much much more.

I'm a cynical ******* but I know beauty when I see one, recognized hope—
as hopeful as her hope could get, despite all the steep, slippery slopes
that could have, should have pushed her off the edge, but didn't.

Because she believed in you.
She believed in wrapping oneself in soft flimsy shell, and waiting for it to harden
until it can finally protect you—metamorphosis was what she believed in.
Like the monarch butterfly, she believed in it all.
She believed in larvae and crawling for the emerald pupaic goal.

She believed you'll grow wings one day, for you're only just a kid
She kept waiting and waiting, won't let you open the lid
of her jar. She loved her jar but she loves you more.

You love her, too, I can tell. Don't tell me otherwise.
I'd be insulted, little kid. Oh, but wouldn't it feel nice
to disprove my accusations, Mr. J the Ripper?

For months, you pulled her wings apart ever so slowly
So slow, in fact, that I somehow hoped you would stop and proceed to sew it back
But you never did—no, you ripped her ******* wings off, bones fractured with loud cracks!

YOU RIPPED HER ******* WINGS OFF, YOU ******* WATERSAC.

I've only seen the horrid wound once and I can still smell the ichor from her back.
I must commend you though, since decency was something you lived not to lack.
I just wish you'd grown the wings she wished for you to have.
But that cocoon must have felt cozy, so you never really left.
I'd like to be polite now so beware of your first steps.

You'll see the flesh whose skin you tore enough to expose.
You'll see her face everywhere, in poems and in prose.

(Now, I must bring my poem to a close.)

And like the monarch butterfly, dear, she will remember—
not just one, but all of it: all the pain you caused her,
hurt you chose not to lift—dreams that used to hold her adrift
Young lad, she'll remember everything
I assure you: She will remember every. Single. Thing.

(I wish your heart the heaviest of anvils, your mouth the tightest of zippers, your limbs the strongest of chains. I wish you luck, lad. I sincerely do.)

I wish you loved me enough to know when I need to hear your voice, my anchor.
Because right now, I'm so close to exploding, so close to coming undone at the seams
And I need you, dear, I need your laughter to fill me up,
yes,  I'd dispose all my bones for it
I need your words to replace the blood in my veins with a novel only you could craft
yes, I need to read it everyday before and after I slumber
I need your thoughts to take mine out for a sweet dance under the moonlight
yes, I'd let them bathe in the lake as long as you wish
I need you, love, I need the silky thread of your voice to stitch my spine back up
yes... I'd let you sew them as loosely or as tightly as you want
Loose enough so you may still come back to fix it, tight enough so you may never return
I'm leaving you with all the choices; I just wish you loved me enough to see them
I wish you'd call and ask and talk and laugh and stay
I wish you loved me enough to stay
But you don't and you won't
And now I've exploded, gone completely undone at the seams,
and my heart is aching for you.