Stalemate, double-date;
Go ahead-
Keep tempting fate.
Cross your fingers
That I'll take the bait.
Sideways glance,
check and mate.
Your move, Darling.

I'll sit
And wait.

Won't you scoop me up
into your arms as if you'll                                            
carry me to sleep?

You once told me
How much time you spent
Screaming "I'm sorry" at the stars.

I must admit that I am starting to see
The reason you need excessive apologies.

Finite time is not designed
to accomodate a poet's fate.

If Love is a Drug,
maybe
I'm actually abusing you?

You were just lonely
for so long.


I was bored.

I

Kissing you
was like tying my shoes.
(He said)
It was that automatic,
that natural.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

Your eyes so blue,
I'm overwhelmed and confused.
(He said)
I can't help but to lose my breath.
Can't help but to drown.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

Waking up with you
is all I want to do.
(He said)
Tangled up in each other.
Up in between sheets.
It's true.
(He said)
I just want you.
(He said)

I really just want you. (He pled)


II

I know,
but we're at the end of the road.
(She sighed)
This can't keep happening.
Can't be sustained.
I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

Even though,
I've never felt so comfortable.
(She sighed)
We fit together so snugly.
Our lives and legs  intertwined.
But I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

This just got so out of control.
I'm ******* miserable.
(She sighed)
I feel so conflicted.
Feel so confined.
So I should go.
(She sighed)
We just need to let go.
(She sighed)

We really just need to let go. (She tried)**
*I think we finally let go. (She lied)

breathe in,
                 breathe out,
know
         without doubt

i Love you.

I stare steadily
with great interest and
the unrivaled concentration
usually reserved for tasks
such as bravely attempting the
(ever-humbling)
Sunday crossword,
clinging to the fragments
of the dream
desperately trying to escape
with each new moment
you are awake,
and other endeavors that hint at grave importance.

The solutions to my life's predicaments
haven't yet turned up,
but, just in case I could find them here,
I will continue to refill and
search to bottom of this coffee cup.

Some love is patient.
Some love is kind.
But just not always necessarily mine.
My love is urgent.
My love is fierce.
Like a memo not to be ignored;
like weaponry-
When readied can strike and pierce.
Some love does not envy, boast,
and it is never proud.
My love is capable of all of those things
and can be really ******* loud.
Some love is not easily angered
and keeps no record of wrong.
But my love flips **** sometimes and
has a list of grudges a mile long.
Some love does not delight in evil
and instead rejoices with the truth.
Well mine can play some twisted games
and deceives with the ease of impetuous youth.
My love can be difficult, irrational,
and devastatingly insecure,
but if you are fortunate enough to earn it,
it is guaranteed to
always protect,
always trust,
always hope,
And always persevere.

Each time my heart cracks
it just opens new spaces
for love to grow back.

In a moment of weakness
I said that I felt
like I was in your world now-
and it's true.

And don't get me wrong,
it's less than ideal,
But I still feel
so much more sorry for you.

Because I am in your head now,

And this time
it's going to take more than
a tank of gas,
a quick **** from someone new,
a million hits from whatever **** you're smoking now, or
a few bottles of whiskey
to get rid of me.

I never had a choice.
This reality has always been my truth,
(And it might be overdue)
but the only difference is
that  now it includes you.

Unimpressed by excess,
(gluttony doesn't strike a chord with me)
Contrarily, I forever seek more,
but rather than in quantity, I prefer in degree.  

I demand extremes.

If its hot,
I want it to blaze;
If its difficult,
I want it to incapacitate.
If its confusing,
I want it to dizzy me to the point of vomiting.
I want to shake and storm about,
and overwhelm and be overwhelmed.

I demand extremes.

Words need intent and meaning.
If they are meant to inspire,
they better make me ******* soar.
Biting words should drain the victim,
make them bleed,
instead of simply causing discomfort
or stunning momentarily.

I demand extremes.

Why say it,
when I can scream it?

Why just feel it,
when I can be consumed by it?

I  can't just idly sit by and watch my life
but rather I must fight and struggle and
lash out at it violently.
Days are long and meant to be conquered
and nights are meant to be devoured.

Why be content to just live life
when you can beat the **** out of it instead?

*Just don't be surprised when it returns the favor

The percussive April sounds
work themselves into a perfect storm
as the electric Spring hues-
you know the ones:
the shocking orange,
an almost toxic green,
explode with little regard to ceremony
and settle into spaces
that were splintered by winter
and buried away, forgotten and lonely.
It helps me remember that I am not the only thing
to survive the harsh reality of December.

And, trust me, it was easier said than done.
As the world around me shifts and begins to renew
I start to learn to grow back too.

Potential,
as opposed to the actual,
is just that:
an almost tangible force
of what could be.
Simply capable
of becoming or being-
the expression of possibility.
It goes hand-in-hand
with sometimes soaring
(and often heartbreaking) hope;
shares company
with expectation.
Waiting and wondering
to determine the likelihood
of something to develop.
Potential is promising
but never a promise
and in some cases
it is even a lie.
For there is no disappointment
deeper than having
a front row seat
to stand-by
and watch
potential be
ignored,
defeated,
and
quietly
dissolve
and
die.

Enough
ungraded papers
to make
a coffee table.
Hello, Sunday!

I AM A ******* ADULT.

At the very least, the status is implied
by the Jenga-tower
of (mostly unopened) envelopes
on top my refrigerator
(which is full of ingredients now,
occasionally,
instead of scraps or dead-end, quick-fix options)

My wine comes in bottles, now;
$6 bottles, on average, but still.
(though I maintain my
unconditional support of the
undeniable
economical benefits and efficiency offered
by pumping it into/out of a box)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


Two years ago, I bought a file cabinet,
for no other reason
than it seemed like the
'adult'
thing to do at the time.
Inside lies reams of papers
instinct tells me to save.
Some with impressive
time-sensitive, stamped, sealed, italicized importance.
Times New Roman.
PAY ATTENTION.

My plates don't match,
and technically until less than four months ago
I only had one bowl,
but i have a decent can opener and
measuring cups of various degrees.
-No ladle. -
(But how often does one really need a ******* ladle?)


Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?


A queen-sized mattress
minimizes the volume of my
minimally-spaced apartment.
A point of pride last year
after the 24 it took to shake the twin-sized option.
Sheets with a thread count
low enough for my cat to count to
but I could get some throw pillows,
or a dust ruffle. (do people still have dust ruffles?!)

I am a ******* adult.
What a shock
to discover
from where I sleep on this red denim couch.
(Did I forget to mention, that
I only sleep in my bed like once a month?)
But I can see the file cabinet from here.
Doesn't that count for something?

**Why is the measure of maturity exhaustion?

Pull your chest to mine.
Lets smash our hearts together.
Beats
        perfect
                   in time.

Tonight
I need violent words.
Not the soft, sweet whispers
of syllables
meant to comfort or console.
I require a certain salty vocabulary
that will stun and shock
and sting the eyes
of the unfortunate souls
who stumble upon it.
I seek the pieces necessary
to construct sentences
that send messages of
dissatisfaction and
distain.
I want to foam at the mouth
and inspire shame.
Tonight,
I need violent words.
to make you realize how small
you have forced me to feel
while manipulating you
to feel the same.

I declare this a lazy Saturday.
We'll drink scotch in our underwear,
share cigarettes and stories on the stoop.
And just once pretend we have
absolutely nothing better to do.
Measuring the hours passed
with the pots of coffee
And the empty cups.
Affectionate insults, used as currency,
Cure  us of our quarter-life ruts.
We'll mix  nonsense
and narcissism,
A cocktail for the unrefined.
We'll talk pop culture and trade white lies
And leave adulthood sulking on the steps outside.

Eyes like a screen door
voice like a sigh
we talked through
those spaces
for hours
but you never
offered to let me
come inside.

Passion,
immediate and better (or worse) yet,
unable to be explained;
Not sparked or ignited
but rather somehow
instantly ablaze,
and consuming.
Selfish and relentless
it tore through our lives.
A force so potent, unforgiving,
and undeniably alive.
Violent and manic,
it forced us to believe,
magnetic,
that the universal powers that be
had something for us
waiting up their sleeves.
We trusted it,
followed it,
and tried to exploit every delight
while fighting and protesting,
falling victim to hope,
and subjecting logic to spite.
The rising crescendo was intoxicating,
aching escalation bringing us to this.
But who would have predicted
that this tremendous passion
would not explode
but rather fizzle out so abruptly
with a quick whimper and a brief final hiss?

I am in love with a boy
I can only really love when he sleeps.
Once he wakes and starts to speak
We run into trouble.

The way he uses spite is appalling and
(quite frankly) impressive.
At the end of the day we are equals of the worst kind-
Weaknesses targeted
and terrorized.
Bent on destruction
of both each other and (most certainly) ourselves.
We pick and choose the rules.
Common decency means nothing.
What is common?
What is decent?

Why can't we just find a way to love each other that makes sense? (I frown)
Why does it have to make sense? (he pries)

But when he sleeps
It always seems rational and reasonable and
even sometimes doable.
Every movement, every whispered word, every muffled thought
dulled by dreams and expressed by snore.

Your breath is never regular.
You are never regular.

sentences,
       words,
syllables,
      sounds-

unstick  your lips/ push them around.

I'm in Love with an *******.
It might sound harsh,
But its mostly just accurate.

He says his feeling for me are in a state of 'flux.'
He says a lot of things like that.

He thinks I repeat myself too often.
It's one of my many flaws he feels compelled to highlight
With alarming frequency.
But he says a lot of things like that.

He ***** me like he has something to prove though.
(Probably because he does.)
It's almost biblical ****; I swear
we can move mountains then.
Or more impossibly,
we can show each other we actually care.

The things his wandering hands can whisper to me
Coupled with the things his hips can scream
Give me brief moments to believe
this is real.

But then its over.
And it's back to
nit-picking
bickering
******* contests.

We will never be comfortable.
We will never behave.

We both know how this will end.

An endless loop.
The world's worst song on repeat.

He says a lot of things like that.

You once told me, over drinks, that
" 'first sight' isn't a thing."
I think at the time we actually agreed but
I guess we didn't think about
what that would ultimately mean because
now we still have to find an answer.

Then, how long does it take to fall in love?

The length of three movies we will never watch all the way through?
The time it takes to make a clever joke,
drink a few glasses of ****** wine,
or finally wash those **** dishes you are never motivated to do?
Long enough to roll my eyes a thousand times,
listen to a Radiohead album,
or battle three rounds of death rattles and the flu?
How about the amount it takes to share 100 cups of the best coffee,
finish a gallon of milk,
or to deliver the evening news?
Or maybe just the mere moments it took
to memorize your eyes and their exact shade of blue?

To determine the specific time length it takes to fall in love,
would be impossible,
and a definitive answer found, I would probably doubt,
but at the very least,
I can tell you that it is a hell of a lot less than
the painstaking time it is taking to fall back out.

Even my
      coloring books
            imply
  where my
             fierce loyalties
                     lie...

To the student who called me a "stupid *****" in period 7 today:
It's okay.
I know you didn't do it because you wanted to hurt me,
but rather you have been hurt earlier
and you were just feeling frustrated.
It's okay.
I understand.
I hope tomorrow is better.

To the student who refused to work at all today:
It's okay.
I know you don't really think this class is "stupid"
but rather you were worried you looked stupid
and you were just feeling insecure.
It's okay.
I understand.
I can help you do it.

To the student who was out of control, obnoxious today:
It's okay.
I know you weren't trying to be disrespectful as the center of attention,
but rather you were really craving attention from an adult
and you were just feeling neglected and ignored.
It's okay.
I understand.
I see, hear, and appreciate you.

To the student who slept through my entire lecture today:
It's okay.
I know you aren't just lazy or refusing to care,
but rather there was no one at home last night to take care of you
and you were just feeling exhausted.
It's okay.
I understand.
I want you to rest.

To all the students who were with me in E18 today:
It's okay.
I know I will never really know exactly what you have been through
but rather I want to help you get through this day
and I am just feeling overwhelmed.
But I promise it's okay.
(With me)
You are understood.
You are safe.
You are important.
You are loved.

What's the going exchange rate
for a heart/body, used?

"You overwhelm me Chelsea."
For someone so uncertain about so many things i am sure of that.
I think
( I speak I scream I want I need I curse I feel I fear)
I love
too much.
At least be comforted
that no one will ever be more overwhelmed with me
than me.

Snowflakes fall-
tiny, dancing razorblades,
to welcome me to Tuesday.

It seems fitting you said,
that we fell in love
watching the sun rise together,
and now we only separately
watch suns set.

Please ignore the cigarette holes
Burned into my clothes.

I will always lie
And say they aren't mine.

But these secret smoke rings
Carry away unspeakable things
And tonight from this balcony
They are just what I need
to be fine.

If you need this much
reflection time,
just go buy a ******* mirror;

(I'm waiting)

Because while you're away
investigating,
I am quietly sitting here.

(Still waiting)

We woke up entangled-
just bare limbs
wearing suggestive grins.

Elbows propped on tabletops,
we roll out our worlds, like a red carpet,
across the surface between us.
Mapping out our weeks
we speak in riddles
only able to be understood by
present company and others with
an acute appreciation for the absurd.

Round 1
We begin by bouncing pleasantries
mingled with snark and
littered with nonsense stories
across the space where our scotch glasses
drain lazily between us.

Round 2
Brings with it a new tone-
we begin to slip into hypotheticals
and start the dangerous
and all too familiar process of
looking over our own shoulders.
The past seems to sneak
into the pauses and reminiscing starts
to seem too surreal to be appealing.

Round 3
And we are forced to keep reluctant company
with the regret that now speckles the tabletop in front of me.
Our eyes retreat from each other
as our  mouths start forming
around our greatest inadequacies.
Fear of the future,
we're petrified by the present.
We are forgetting how to be hesitant
as coping mechanics drift and split.

Round 4
**** starts to get real.
You try to be ambivalent.
And I just get angry.

Round 5
I am entertaining the possibility
of weeping publically.
(It's an unfortunate emotional default setting)

Round 6
We find our way back
to the familiar.
Accessing the damage
we joke to save face
while working to wind the loose ends
back together again
to stash them from where they came.
(But nothing ever fits back into its box as easily after its been unpacked)

Each week we try to be
each other's comfort zone
to crawl inside
to rest awhile.
But tonight we're too exhausted
and too self-absorbed
and too similar to get it right.
We'll try again next week,
on the next high-top next Wednesday night.

We lost ourselves
for a moment there,
and found eachother
in the aftermath
with hands clasped,
laying shoulder to shoulder.