still i felt desolate
while singing miley's "the climb"
while laying on the pavement
with her watching the stars
while blurring the lights of el paso
behind my sights
because while i love who im with
im not in love
and i constantly wonder
what its like to be with someone
who loves you back
all the same.

I need to stop looking
at her as though the sun has risen,
and the rays paint the universe in a collection
of pinks and oranges, and sparkles the terrain.
She cannot be the most beautiful thing
I have ever seen. For she is also the night
who constantly leaves me in the dark
when I need only a single slant of light
to scarcely live.

Realizing I am slipping away from her when she didn't text me happy birthday this year. Even though we haven't talked in four years, the very least we could do is say, "I thought of you today, and I hope it's going great." The absence of that sank its fangs into my throat.

Sipping a hot cinnamon dolce latte while sitting on the second floor deck of the student center. Watching students stream in waves to classes, and wondering what their story is.

Hearing the three chimes in 'Cassy O' and the guitar's chaos at minute 6:47 to 7:45 of 'Freedom' live at the Hammersmith Apollo, 2007.

Gazing at the sky when the sun is on the other side of the world, but a shade of crimson tinges in a terrifying drench.

Conversely, when the sky is so white, all one smooth blanket, I wonder what color will I see when I finally go to sleep- or will I be stuck in a black film?

Knowing a boy is near me so I stretch my neck, straighten my back, and hope he notices everything I want a person to notice and grow to love.

The disappointment people have in me swallows my whole body. Sometimes it's an act of cannibalism, and I can't push away regret faster than it starts to lick its lips at the sight of my glistening blood.

Seeing a picture of my younger self from sixteen, and it seems I have changed far too much to connect with the person in the image. She didn't know anything. I still don't know anything.

I stare at myself in the mirror, sometimes fully clothed and sometimes naked, and I wonder, "Who the hell is this? Who is she?" I detach my soul from my frame, and my face does not match my mind.

My eyes can just take a picture. I know the quality and the subject, my camera does not. I see angles and perspectives differently, and it frustrates me that I cannot get my vision out.

Some days my hearing does not affect me whatsoever. I don't even think about it. But others, particularly when I make mistakes, I blame my disability. And I hate to make excuses.

I want someone to film my passing moments, catch my laughter, study my ****** expressions. Expect me to glow and beam when I hear my favorite sounds, know where my dialect comes from, smile when I mention my friends.

One day someone will hold me and reach intimate places, and I'm afraid I will not be sufficient enough.

The scariest thing, however, and I absolutely have no way of explaining it, is life after death. We live for a fraction of time. We will forever live in white space, and not come alive again. Doesn't that terrify you?

They say you can’t keep your prying eyes off of a w r e c k.

The extended siren diminishes even as it creeps closer,
the road only grows harder, pierced glass and incarnadine blood.

Clear in your head where you're setting those sights,
disregard the stench of burnt metal and the doused fire of the passenger seat,
block out the screams that streams into your ears.

There is nothing to be curious about.

The slow, infantile pause while your pitying gaze
shifts across the midnight scene
is the only thing the jaded victims can feel,
beside the rusted pain destroying their decaying bodies.

Strangers are the distraction from the d e s t r u c t i o n.

one pitcher of sugar, three tea bags
can't sweeten the southern drink
any more than you could sweeten
your flat, stale love

My mind is a thousand rooms lit on fire,
a fuse crawled on every window,
pins and needles holding up posters of blank faces,
for the person that belonged in that body is not the same as the memory.
My mind is the intersection at dawn,
lazy cars drowning thoughts,
red lights on all four corners,
until the light turns into a green frenzy.
My mind wisps like tendrils of coffee,
sweet bitter dreams,
that never does quite come alive
when it only leaves a faint taste.
My mind cannot erase the doors you walked in,
or the smiles that blew my way,
and the air you scented in your perfume
of hay and horses from your Saturday hobby.
My mind likes to pretend that I hated you,
that I despised how we sat two desks away and we never said hello, even though it’s been three years since we’ve spoken a word.
I’m doing all that I can to not crumble when I see you have moved on.
My mind constantly replays that night at the football game,
and the conversation we had a week later that said
“I don’t want to say it. But we can’t be friends anymore.”
It broke me like a summer hurricane.
My mind doesn’t know how to let you go.
It, and I, are having a hard time
finding something to fill the space
you have left
in my mind.

You can't put all of your happiness
into one person. They are
temporary. They do not last
forever.

Things break.

The dependence is a thin line that stitches
your heart to the object,
struggling to not slack,
and one day,
like she broke you,
you will crash backward.

The sun undresses its silky rays
before the blushing earth.

The earth gazes,
her sapphire eyes soak in
the glimmering shot of dawn. The moon
hide away, curving against
the hangnail of light. Stars
scintillate their last dust of evening.

“You always act like you’ve never seen me before.”
The sun removes another layer.
“Like each time is too good to be true. ”

Spinning, the earth grows dizzy. “You are the one who
abandons me in the dark.”

Above the horizon, the sun smiles.
“Clairvoyance is buried inside of you.
You know I will always return.”

The sun’s amber skin
radiates along coasts and cities,
intensifying. Brightness diminishes-
night turns into day into night once more.

“I’m still alive for you, love.”
The earth tucks in the trails of dusk
as the sun cradles revolving planets.

“See you again, soon.”

I’ve always believed that we were on the same wavelength,
but never the same tide.
From here I can almost see the sea
with you on the other shore.
Are you reaching out to me? Or is this morning fog too strong?

I glance at you from the other side of the room,
hoping that maybe you are looking back
wondering if I was looking back at you.
My eyes shift down when they’re tangled in your sight.
I wish you’d notice me.

There has only been a few times when you stood close to me.
As I felt the heat radiating off your tall body
a hurricane collided. The tides have crashed.
It feels like lightning running through my veins
then it all stops when you step away.

In little ways you remind me that we belong together
but you don’t see it like I do.
Of course you don’t.
It’s been eight years. By now,
I figure you’d realize it too.

It’s lonely being on this side of the ocean.

Some nights music has to be turned up
at the highest volume
so that my thoughts
do not **** me in my sleep

the world is mind numbingly quiet
the streets drenched in nostalgic sepia,
the kind that ushers you into a movie moment reeling in
under the notes of a power ballad
and all of a sudden you just feel
alive but detached from your life.
your body is immobile in a moving vehicle,
your brain takes pictures
of the people that is around you,
and you realize that their life
is not yours.
they are under impressions of sunrises
and the shading of trees in the summer's sleep,
while you exist
because of the way the street appears
at night beneath the empty moon.

One day, maybe in two years, I’ll eventually
finally experience the rush
I’ve dreamt of the future
that I so terribly ached
for, that I would undoubtedly  risk
the factors of throwing away used

items that I no longer cherished, used
people only needed to be a stand-in, and eventually
the risk
will not catch up to me, since the rush
of real happiness overshadows the ache
like a penumbra clearing away in the future.

But it’s terrifying knowing that the future
will become a washed up, used
daydream to quiet the ache
I thought would never eventually
stop the overflowing rush
knowing that my biggest dream is entirely a risk.

I am willing to take the risk
so that my deserved  future
will swell over the echoed rush
coffee beans stained  used
cups will eventually
wash away ache.

Eclipse, n.
A phase when the universe is completely dark, minus the illuminance of millions of stars dancing around the earth and the moon, celebrating the reunion of two objects in an embrace of shadows and light, in which no one can see what happens on the other side of this event, but you and I know exactly what is happening.

I'm the sappiest tree ever grown.
My fear, though, is that one day someone will
cut me down, take all of my treasured
products and leave me with nothing
but the scar from their jagged saw.

I didn't jubilate the anniversary
this year. The song is still one
of my favorites, but I've forgotten
your voice singing softly,

only for me to hear in a room
of twenty other kids. It was the happiest
I had ever been; that moment you noticed me

as more than the girl who sat
next to you, and pined for you for two years then,
and nine years after. But I realized
it is not exactly an anniversary

       if you don't share it with me.

i hate that im not sleeping with you tonight
i finally warmed up to the comfort of being near someone somewhat close for a long amount of time
obviously it doesnt have to be specifically with you for me to feel that comfort
but i know ill crave it until i find someone that im remotely comfortable with
even though i panicked i still liked the idea that i was next to someone
and now i feel a little empty with no body shifting beside me
(and sleeping with their mouth open to collect air rushing in)

Even white clouds form into
        demons at night.
How terrifying they appear
beneath the crescent moon,
a parchment of wispy black and expiring halo.
          When the sun is awake,
the clouds are innocent angels,
           relieved of their sins
from blocking the stars.

             Demons are not villains.
You have to give them a chance to change.

All I want, though, is to be a part of a disaccharide, and never dissolve. Someone I can grow old with, share a bench under the Space Needle, take photographs of me when I'm not looking. I don't want to be old news to them. I want to be the newspaper they pick up every day, read my stories, and know tomorrow will still happen, there will still be more stories to read. I would very much like to be in someone's life the way I wish for someone to be in mine.
I don't want to spend my whole life searching, chasing, waiting for you.

I want the edge of Christmas, where the nights look like it's about to snow, and only the brake lights of cars are seen. The chilly air whips your cheeks as you leave the building. And because you know Christmas is coming, the nights don't seem so lonely anymore.

One day we were counting
the ghosts of our mistakes
and you randomly brought up,
"Ernest Hemingway saved his manuscripts
by throwing them out the upstairs window
while his studio was burning."

I compared you to Hemingway
that a man can love words
more than an actual person,
more than his own life at stake.

To which I responded,
as I hope it marred your mind,
“I liked the idea of loving you.
I wanted some sort of filler
to compensate for the feelings I got.”

Your fixation was intensely unnerving,
like you were unwrapping every vein that rippled in my body.
I carried on, watching the embers of fault lick you profusely.

“For some reason, I use people until there’s nothing left to use.
Romantically, I used you to cover what I wanted-
Cast you in daydreams where it is like this right now,
in a coffee shop underneath the streetlights.

“It was all the idea of it.
As much as I wanted to make up our relationship,
I couldn’t imagine what it was like to really be with you.
To be close to you, your hand in mine,
to watch your favorite movies under a warm blanket, to jump
in the car with you to chase a sunset.
To have you text me at two in the morning
and tell me I’m beautiful.”

You began to protest,
but I wouldn’t listen.
There is something satisfying
in expressing true happiness
rather than dwelling on it in your mind.
I knew you weren’t giving me that.

“So I don’t think I was ever in love with you.
Just the thought of you.”

I do not get paid to be an extra
in someone's story. The director
does not offer me notes or cues
on when to interact with the other characters.
I am only there, standing alone
eyes darting around for a subject to speak with.
Even the antagonist drops their sight. The other extras
barely glances at me. Their role is just the same as mine,
but they're hoping they'll outshine me. They brush shoulders,
fingers, as they bump against the crowd.
I remain invisible, lingering in the background,
waiting for my scene to arrive. Ready for a line
in the script. Anxious to be a first choice for once.
No matter how loud I scream that I have yet to tell my story, they will not notice me.
And I know the other dying extras are told the same thing-
write your own script. Make your own production.
Pitch ideas until one sparks, and that becomes your entity.
But it is hard to see that the girl in red
is pushed all the way in the back of the white sea unwillingly.

I didn't expect this dream to be a stillborn
after so many years of seeing this false image of reality
it never arrived intact.

Reglossing, rewashing, removing, returning,
she kept using the same cloth to wipe up the mess.
All of the same mistakes constantly repeating,
spools of half-hearted "I'm sorry's" unwinding,
foolproof promise to cover for her missed absence.

I keep on reloading, rewinding, replaying
watching the film of our lives together, pausing
at moments where temporarily, I confess,
unpredictable happiness ceased repeating.
This trainwreck of a show carries on, blistering
slides that I want to swipe clean, but her name suppress
stained slates developing, deflecting, destroying.

I throw away the footage, romanticizing  
sheer ideas of finally making progress
forgetting her. But relapses result repeating
bad habits. There is not a remedy. I cling
to the seasons of the past, wanting to digress
reminding, rewinding, removing, regretting,
until the cloth is clean, her faults keep repeating.

Nostalgia hijacks unnecessarily
bleeding into a bloodless heart
where I feel peculiar
outside of my puppet body
the force dragging me to the next location
the next goal
the next unfulfilled dream.
I do not feel alive. I do not feel like I am breathing.
My stomach rises, but my hopes crash.
Every lock crunches together when I run into a bad thing
I shut myself off to protect myself
from an inevitable feeling that will not matter
once I'm beyond the earth
once I'm packed in a grave
and shipped off to the next meaningless life.

I can't say goodbye to the fact that you saved me. That you understood me, the fragility of my heart, and the broken glass of my thoughts. You were always my first choice. You're my strings of lights that's guiding me home. You made me forget the world. There were so many things that you have done for me, that I can't thank you enough for. I'm still living because of you. Please do not feel guilty for my actions, and yours. Time and life happened. We were just meant for those five years, no more and no less.

There's a huge disconnect when I see your face
that memories have burned themselves
far too much to resemble ashes
and as I try to rearrange the picture
it seems the person I knew
does not exist anymore.
the person I tried so hard to forget
when you were the only one
I wanted to remember
I can't rush back to the start
and not notice how much you've changed.

Now that I'm alone
I try to find people to talk to
go through my contacts
and my eyes fell on your name.
I have not spoken a word to you
in about four years
but on text, it's been sixteen months.
It felt weird to consider talking to you.
My first choice, always, but now
a choice I can't choose.

missing someone who doesn't miss you
is a colossal waste of time
yet you do it anyway,
loving the idea of having someone to
ache from their absence.

my stomach churns at the thought
of the 20th Christmas i'll spend
without someone who loves me.
everyone in my family has someone else
and i wait for someone to fill
the empty spot beside me
holding my hand.

the song you listen to on blast
as you wander around campus
8:53 pm
and the holidays are approaching,
you know you are still alone.
even with your family, you are alone.
no one loves you,
the whole of you.
not yet.
but you wonder
if ever
will there be such a person
to walk along transatlanticism with you
in such a moment like this?

we promised we would be there in the future
together
we have to get through the present
separate

You made it clear that you moved on
without texting me "happy birthday"
five months ago.
That's what we always did, even
when we fell out.
Now it's your turn to turn twenty
and I don't know how to deal with this situation.
I want to let you know
that I think of you all the way home
rooted in thoughts that wonder
what our lives would be like if we still talked.
I want to let you know
because you ignored me
I do not want to ignore you,
but I feel that given with your apathetic, unexisted reply,
I have no choice.

we make plans for the future but we're never guaranteed for it to come through

I write letters to people who
do not speak to me as
often as their name screams in
my mind full of words.

My heart quickens
so terribly fast when I listen to the voicemail
that I've gotten an interview
for a job I blindly applied to.
That dreaded "tell me about yourself"
question, I respond with a different answer every
single time. I don't really
know much about myself
except that I change as often
as a song in shuffle,
the clouds drift in seasons,
rising from sleep
after a long night.

I've kept my promise to her for six years now, and she broke her promise four years ago.
They were made to be broken, but a human heart deserves to still beat on.

I felt homeless
even though I had two houses.
I asked myself,
why do I always have to pack a bag
to go to the next house.
I never really felt at home in either place.
Of course I appreciated the bed
hardened by years of my emotionless body
but I never had a home within range.
My real home is 2120 miles away from my house.
Sadness is just about the only thing I experience,
beside the anger in my parents for their sickening divorce
beside the loneliness that hallowed me into a stone heart
beside the nostalgia I crave to be at peace again
for the first time in fourteen years.