i am a creation for your convenience
i exist to adhere to your every desire
i am a sculpture of sympathetic nods and words you want to hear
i am the shell of your naive and selfish definition of beauty
i am your to oppress, to ignore, to beg for
i am not human, i am yours to use
           reliable and spineless

these things are true:

       my existence is a winding path consisting of
       first and second degree mistakes, accomplishments, sorrow, fulfillment
       and unexpected events that i have the power to determine to be        
       devastating or miraculous

        everything i experience is temporary

        the feeling of emptiness that physically consumes me
        is included in that category, and at some point i will stop bearing it

however, i never want to hear anyone’s heartbeat against my palm ever again

i never want to appreciate the life of another person because their demise is inevitable,
and if anyone tries to set off fireworks on the fourth of july i will move to sweden

i can’t ever have anyone depend on me to stay through everything,
and i never want to hear another taylor swift song because she’s a terrible musician

i never want anyone else to understand what i’m trying to say
even when i’ve left my sentence unfinished,
and i will impale the next person who tries to hold my hand

i am filled with your absence, overflowing with emptiness
so i will wait until i don’t want to understand anymore
i will wait for everything to become interesting again, for everything to hurt less

you are an ache somewhere between my stomach and spine
(i'll forgive you, friend)
you are my writers block
(forgive me and we can be in love again)
and the panic that i've misplaced something important
(forgive me)
that wakes me up at night

if you are a scab that won't heal
i am the one full of grass and childish metaphor
who won't stop picking at it
isn't this just another version of the classic story,
shouldn't i have learned by now that
bringing something back from the dead
doesn't return it to it's original state?

doesn't this in turn make you a waste of time
(i'll forgive you, friend)
doesn't this make you a painful habit
(forgive me, and we can be in love again)
burning smoke in my lungs and i'm coughing
i'm coughing but please
(forgive me)

hung up like the stiff dress shirt in the closet
the one's that's too tight around the collar
not quite forgotten, but out of the way
not quite useless enough for goodwill

hung up like the phone when the telemarketer
asks if your dead father is there
quickly, don't let them hear what happened to your breath
(but how dare they not now)
(how dare they test me like this i know i am weak)

see also:
a tugging on your shirt sleeve from behind
(i dreamed you were carried away)
it is a fragile movement because so am i
(on the crest of a wave)
you are so close to being so far away
(baby, don't go away, come here)

i think about you when my heart
       breaks, shifts, cracks, expands
in that way, and yes, i wonder
if you do too.
but mostly, i just think about you

mostly i just remember
deer and batcaves and the shoulder
of my t-shirt warm and wet,
ashes flying from airplanes and
secrets that are still buried at
the base of that one eucalyptus tree
loopholes in the u-drive and clarkfork cake
and a feeling that all of forever
was happening all at once and every
bit of it was okay, more than okay

i guess i shouldn't write poems about you
anymore,
i guess i should separate scattered nostalgia
from the linear chill of
now.

i sat by that eucalyptus tree the other day,
i hope you're doing good.

i have never been so afraid of anyone
what a fascinating way to self-destruct,
to completely ignore that fight-or-flight instinct
(i would've chosen flight)
are you going to hurt me?
almost, not quite: i'll keep waiting
are you going to hurt me?
are you going to leave?

it was august and we were on the swings
and i wanted to cry, i did
i held you so tight and i have no idea why.
you brought so much of me with you
but i will never thank you for anything
it was august and you held my hand under a pillow
it was august and i stayed with you for hours
because god, oh my god, i don't like you when you're
angry.
it was august and i'm still trying to forgive myself for what i did

sad boy with crisp collar, good grades
he is handsome, his hands become loose before he will notice

time has told me that some places stay the same
i forgot his name, but he dressed in corduroy and
his mind was woven in brassy string
that day, clouds fused with sunshine in the last hours
they kissed the ground, soft and wet.
there's a sound that belongs to you; there's
a sound that maybe a bit of you resides within.
lost for words? yes, i am, but not too many
people are, right?
i pick a new flower for you each time one withers into death,
in the end you have a bouquet that would hold itself
together only with dry stems
and hopeful thought.

moon, or ocean?
i am warped by her tide
this time i do not land on my feet; this time
i do not come out dry
today the waters abuse me. the repulsive
warmth of liquid draining from my ear:
i would rather never hear again. but i could
still see your eyes that do not shine, your
eyes that are so empty and haunt faces
where they do not belong. scrape up the
tar from inside of you and tarnish everything
that my heart can love because i will always
think of you and every drink i take will taste
like your hungry mouth.