I keep writing you into manuscripts that I'm never going to publish
as if I could ever find a way to keep you,
immortalize you into something worth loving completely
I am never 100%
anxiety puts me on the edge and depression throws my body off it
everyday
so how could I ever find a way to keep you here?
When I can't even write you down as one person
my characters are full of your traits
he has your brown eyes which I never liked until I looked into yours
she has your intelligence, your Gemini know-it-all but still love you trait
there is a piece of you in every person I write,
in every person I see,
I guess that's how I can keep you here
Because you never really leave.

this is a poem dedicated to distance.
to every time i have wanted to kiss you, but couldn't.
to every time i looked at my empty hands and thought of yours.
to every time i was in a crowded room and secretly hoped that i'd find your face.
to every happy couple we see that inadvertently mocks our inability to be near each other.
to every time i've played your laughter over and over in my head to drown out the silence.
to every time you just wanted to hear my voice, but i was busy.
to every missed call and every undelivered text and every time your internet was down.
to every miscommunicated statement and every typo.
to every time that one of us was asleep when the other needed them.
to every time you wept and i wasn't there to hold you.
to every self-destructive tendency we share.
to every pill your mother has hidden and every razor blade i have flushed.
to every worry that plagues my consciousness whenever you take long to reply.
to every night we have been together through a screen, but alone in our beds.
to every, "i miss you" and "i wish you were here".
to every broken-record apology that never makes it better.
to every makeup stain that mars the sweater you sent me so that i could
feel like i was sleeping with you (and to the fact that it doesn't smell like you anymore).
to every hour, every minute, every second of difference in the time between us.
to every dollar i don't have, and every time i wished for your chest against my back.
to every, "why are you even with me?" and "you could do better".
to every spectator and cynic that has told us we'd fail.
to every doubt of mine and to all your jealousy.
to every ounce of water in the pacific ocean.
to every ******* mile between my head and your chest (i checked, and there are 9,752).

you will not win.

- m.f.

The inside of your throat is fully lined with silver
Where the plates meet there are seams of ancient gold, that was once old slivers of coins and has since been melted and painted on top of your organs and has become the tubes of your bloodstream, the molecules that faintly glimmer in your dark platelets
Like tiles on old church houses, nearly purple flakes of slate separate and cascade into the piles of dry  leaves
I hear pieces snap when I stand on them and it reminds me of how your voice cracks
It reminds me of stiffened folded pieces of dusty linens or fabric found in small wooden boxes with black over-painted hinges
You remind me of charms on charm bracelets, ones that are labelled with prices attached to pins which pierce through cheap looking velvet and thin padding
You are inexpensive and caged up
But we can see you, and like a modern tiger we hear your electronic yawns

i am hunted
                        and haunted
by memories -
            once good times turned sour.

                                                               ­ vines claw and grasp at my feet
                                                            ­ while i try in vain to trudge forward.

i am picasso with paintbrush poised betwixt my teeth-
                                                          ­                                                             arms bound
                                                                ­             by a straightjacket sewn from sorrow.

the lacrimose landscape of my limbic system is a scarred battleground.
fear and regret clash with my spirit and sanity like angry gods.
i fear i may be broken.

how many times have i apologized?
'til sandpaper throat
and crimson finger
from repentance and gripping pen?

                                              not enough.

Careful, small mechanical pencil, or found pencil drawings,
invisible molecules of led dust settle upon and mingle into silky warmly lit pages
Secretly sandstorms are weaving and pushing marks between the leaves
They bloom into inky coloured metallic wire branches,
and delicately poke through modern punctuation,
tying knots and threading cotton timelines
Coiling and stretching out to catch through spilt glitter hazes,
attaching and embellishing hand crafted lace surfaces preserved in a brittle sheen of sealing wax
Collections of paper leaflets and dried ink observe patiently as you hold up precious encased and bound sentences
which breathe
lightly and calmly, at the same time as your heart echoes it's noises, so that you only feel the pulses
You are standing by your window, at the panes of square glass, keeping out the cold
Probably wearing gloves indoors almost ready to get lost outside
When you return and the cold melts away quickly I imagine those echoes of characters keep you company.

I do not have it in me to be the kind of empty and full that you need
I carry secrets and liquid sad feelings in my stomach like an antique hot water bottle
They are the colours of mashed up autumn leaves and ***** puddle water and decaying petals floating on some pretend witches potion
Crimson rust lines the edges of my eyes, I use black eyeliner to patch the pinprick holes, where I have previously sewn, trying to forget
These are the remnants of my rock heart which has been eroded away
The powder sits regretfully in my veins
When my heart beats I feel it scrape and catch the pink surfaces
It aches too much
My insides are losing their pinkness
Your presence is abrasive
Use a higher grade sandpaper and be done
Take off the old circus ride paint layers, my nail beds are already saturated with chips of red yellow and blue
Reach something clear and peaceful
Cut lengths of my hair, and separate them into small twists, tethered with small satin ribbons to be used for some happier embroidery
Or to be stored in tin lockets
Or to be disposed of in rivers like those Georgian keepsakes that mothers leave at hospitals
Let other people write with it
Pass the used up glass needle like straws through calico or linen
Felt tip the colour over
Cut out my heart and let the elements sit.

11.09.13; 11:48 PM

The house going to sleep is a matter of sounds fading, tap-dancing one after the other into oblivion. I know it’s just me when gone are the television sounds, the whir of electric fans, fingers tapping on the keyboard when I pass by your room, the air-conditioner hum when I pass by our mother’s, gone are all the reminders of life. The bags under my eyes are unwanted proof. By 12, my nail beds are bleeding and I am blinking at a million open tabs so I don’t think of you. At 1 am, there are gaps in my soul and I can feel the bitterness of a smile that may be mine, or perhaps yours (the one you never gave me), the saltiness of tears that may or may not come out. Last is when at 2 am I think I hear floorboards creaking and there are shadows in the kitchen that cannot be accounted for, my fear is limited where loneliness is not. my soul longs to be gazed upon, for a conversation to be begun, on the topic of truth and the depth of the ocean.

I am selling myself to death because life will not take me.