On

my

deathbed,

I hope that I am visited by
what I think are angels

or demons
(it doesn’t really matter which)

and,

as I wheeze out my last breath,
they reveal to me

that I was actually an alien
from another world

trapped
in the misshapen body of a human

for the entirety
of my existence—

all 28,000-or-so

days of it.

Because
then,

my role in
this whole charade

would finally make sense:

all of the mind-numbing

awkwardness

and suffering

and bullying

and incomprehensibility

of the world

laid out before me—

a picnic for a malnourished soul
to finally feast upon,

a glistening Colorado River to drink from

and,

at long last,
to rest beside.

i'm getting tired of it,
waking up once a day,
feeling dead and forever unpleasant.
i love too much,
i'm not much pride to swallow.
let your roots grow into me,
feel yourself waste away.
we wept, sea between beds,
always but a dream never to be seized,
nothing is forever.

All these pieces and not enough space to hold them all
All these guilts and no one to confess them to
All these words and no poet around to marvel
All these potentials and no motivation to fulfill them.

All these sadness and not enough time to carve them into art
All these emptiness and this 5-9 job
All these numbness and this full blown party
All these familiar faces and not a single friend.

All these laughter and no echo of happiness from within
All these glorification and anticlimatic reality
All these walls and no windows and door to get in
All these things to hold on to and there's your memories.

All these raining and you're still caught up in a draught,
All these homes, and you'd rather lay on the road
All these pretty things, and the raw, unadulterated you
All these lingering silences, and no peace.

All these blooms and the graveyards' laments,
All these flutters of heart and the outrageous mess it makes.

I wrote letters
for myself
five years from now
telling him
that it's okay
to cry
once in a while
that tears
are not a sign
of weakness
but an emotion
taking shape
freeing itself
from the binds of body.

I comfort him
with lies
telling him
that if he waits
eventually
everything will
turn out
fine,
that the fire
won't burn as much
if left untouched

I tell him
that broken guitars
can sing too.
Out of tune
maybe
but the melody
is there
howling
on the moon
and the shadows
are its audience.

I convince him
to tuck himself on bed
every night
and sleep
to count the sheep
and drift away
without the help
of tears.

I tell him
that I hope
five years from now
that he reads
these letters,
that i pray
it won't be left
unread
collecting dust
in the corner
of an empty room
deprived of joy
and life.

This is what it feels like
on the days that feel like
lonely summer nights without you.

I wake groggily to the rays of light
seeping through your cupped hands
that play peek-a-boo with my broken windowsill.
The wind exhales chills down my spine
that inhale me to into the mattress
until midafternoon
when I can finally gasp for a drink.
When I’ve had my fill of toxins,
I can poison people in the hallways of my complex
with venomous small talk that produces
half glazed stare simplicity.
You know the one I’m talking about;
the kind of look that hangs on people
thinking about what to say
while you’re going on about
some nonsense you heard at
some place from
some pretty person.
They have a certain finish over their attention
that doesn’t quite compare to the varnish of your absence.

This is what it feels like
when summer rolls over the hills
like the ongoing thread of my oversized sweaters
on seventy-degree days
because I was always a little too good
at playing hide and seek growing up.

I feel like I get stuck in a loop sometimes.

I heard
somewhere from
some pretty person that
children don’t see scars on adults
because those people
never quite make it past getting their GED,
but here I am as an undergraduate student
mocking what little authority is left over my existence.
At the age of nineteen,
I understand that solitude is the most fulfilling companionship
I will ever browse for,
but I’ll never be able to buy us matching necklaces
at self checkout.

This is what it feels like
to cry in the middle of the day
when you haven’t paid the water bill in two months.
When I put my clothes on,
you aren’t there to watch me leave anymore
and I can’t turn around to grab your neck
and mount you again.
My lips started parting for a cigarette
when I was sixteen
and started parting for you
when I was eighteen
and now they are parting for a finger gun
aimed at the back of my throat after a meal.

I feel like I get stuck in a loop sometimes.

I heard
somewhere from
some pretty person that
I needed to be a size zero
to wrap my legs around you
and still be able to leave some room
for your opposition
when I’ve drank too much whiskey
on a Wednesday night,
but here I am as a size six
and I’m happily tipsy off your rejection
when I’m sober.

This is what it feels like
to exist off of your own
self-destruction.

I arch for attention like a cat under the hand. Look at me. Look at me. Make me worth it. This blessing curse of looking at others dripped like tobacco juice from the corners of the mouth into how I view myself. I began to see myself as a vase to hold the flowers of another, if they chose. I am a herding dog's snap at the heels of another man's ambitions. Distracted by the dust of so many people walking purposely in their own direction. To each their own, but what is mine? Never satisfied with this body of mine, this heart of mine. Pour gasoline in my eyes if it would set my heart on fire, like hers, like his. I've only got half buried desires laid to rest in the graveyard of other people's dreams. Am I cursed to always be a mirror reflecting someone else's smile? Will I ever brush off the dust of another man's feet clinging to the bottom of my shoes, rubbing my heels as I tread a path that is not mine, lagging far behind someone's confident back. A pathetic copier is all I am. This quest for my own authenticity is drying my bones, to become dust inhaled by another's lungs.

I hauled clay
for days
to fill the deep
washout of our love
and all your old loves
who bled to death
too, I even searched
the cold evenings
of your eyes
and ran my fingers
through your moonlight
while tasting the blood
of strangers on your lips
but I would have
to have a backhoe
and a crowbar
to finally get down
to the heart
of the matter at night
and in the rain
though I'm afraid
I would only find
a deep dark cave
with blind starfish
like those I see
swimming in
the cold sky tonight.

Cameras flashing in rapid succession
She’s reunited with the lights,
Descending from heavens above
She throws herself to the wolves
Wrestling crowds and wrist cuffs,
Drowning in the spotlight
As she’d always dreamed