two sides
black and white
day and night

there's always the hidden third
but we rarely talk about him

he's quiet
soft
there to give us the truth
but what references does he have

what proof does he have

but what proof do we even have

we are always forced to follow one or the other
but when do we ever consider the third side

who is not the truth
but the realization that a lot of things are wrong
and we only point them out to each other when
it is relevant to the failure of others

sometimes it's like a movie
too uncomfortable for tv
too important for dvd

the whole thing opens with me screaming in the middle of a field
grass slicing my knees
dirt flooding my fingernails

i am the only thing in turmoil
the trees dance in the distance to a tune i am unable to hear
the wheat looks away in respect
while the mosquitoes become nosey and unable to mind their own business

and somehow i am reminded of when i was young and could sit in the silence for hours
confined in a house with a ticking clock
it's sharp arms slicing into my spine

reminding me that everything ends
the trees will forever dance
and that the wheat will always look away

i.
it's the look of realization and protection in a crowded place
the look of understanding from across a white lined table
its the brush of fingers when we're too close
or maybe not close enough

it's when you're dying to pull away from this reality
and dive into another one
that i agree and almost take your hand to follow
but it's not that easy


ii.
it's not hard to realize that you have my back
it's not hard to understand that those eyes of yours
are meant to look after me


iii.
sometimes i notice that you want to say something
when you look away from giving me the longing gaze of escape
like something's forcing your throat to close

is it the regret of not saying enough
is it the knowledge of the power that your words hold
is it me

just say it like you mean it
say something
say anything

this house will never be my home as much i try to force it to be

its the remembrance of pieces of myself i've left in different places
that wakes me up from my dreams

its the hole they've left where my happiness used to be
that causes a migraine when i am alone

i've clawed at my skin to try to bind the hole shut
but nothing is strong enough to keep it that way

i've tried ripping up the roots of myself in those places
so that nothing of me is left

is it because those places don't deserve my memory
is it because the only reason that my roots are still grounded
is that i cannot let those places go

is it that i cannot change



it seems that all i can really do is let the previous roots die
and plant brand new ones in the places i never want to forget

i heard that you tell people to turn off
that song
when it happens to come on

did i ruin something for you?
did i bleed into everything you once enjoyed?
did i claw my way into your thoughts and make a home?

i hope that i did
because me ruining a song for you
is nothing quite like what you ruined for me

i used to see my own grave in my sleep
now i see yours right next to it
i only see our names floating around each other
no dates
no corny phrases
whether which one of us went first is still fuzzy
i'm sure it was you
because i'd do anything to stay

i'm tired of asking nicely
all my life i've been asking for permission
or hoping i won't be caught
i've never been bothered with wanting more time
not until i met you

running around a slippery parking lot
frolicking in the rain like children
suddenly afraid of the fall
the potential collision of my brains across concrete

but at least your smiling face would've been the last thing i'd ever see

i find myself wishing for this feeling to come in familiar patterns
instead
it's erratic and various

it never comes the same as before
and it never lingers as long

but is that a sign that i'm getting better?
or is it a habit of ignoring it after a while?

at this point
i don't know anymore

i just feel entrapped by the fear of not being good enough
and the hollowness of not doing enough

don't we all wish we could go back and change certain things?
don't we all need a period of rest and reflection?

i think about the past a lot.

not a certain time period or memory, but all at once.
i don't quite think it's good or bad, it's just there.

waiting.
ready to strike at any moment.

throwing me into a nervous frenzy.

"countless nights of wandering thoughts
limited daylight of questioning and prose

a follower very trusted in our words that we built

she never told me no until it got bad

fire for fire
anger for anger

just how i am

and how i'd wish she wasn't

but this is where it ends


it's been seven days
and i have no hope

but i never really did


i know in a year from now she'll still be gone
and i'll still feel like ****"

many different sounds can cause someone to go mad
i didn't think that a few seconds of eye contact could feel like hours
or if it would make my bones crumble

i used to hate the silence
i used to have to distract myself at every waking moment
just so the panic wouldn't settle in

but now it's the ticking clock
the loud. spinning fan
the noises that sound murderous

and vain

im halfway there
fifty percent
almost

the feeling has peaked
you have come out of hiding again
it's refreshing to see the black and white lines that make you
how they bend and connect
how you breathe and recollect

i never miss you so, because i know you're always here
binding the parts of me that don't really fit together
making peace within my brain
and rest within my soul

i never see quite as clear as when i'm near you

i watch the way your fingers touch the kitchen counter
so thoughtful and unaware of contact

when i notice my own fingers
they're gripping at the seams between the tiles

your eyes, half open and searching for words
when the night becomes dense and the world stays quiet

sometimes i feel it only stays quiet for us
for as long as it does

i want to write of you
but i cannot bring myself to finish anything i say
writing about grief through grief
is hard

and you would think that it would be easy
since i've been writing for years
i hate leaving things unfinished

i try not to think of it often
maybe that's the problem

i freeze when i do

you come around when i least expect it
or maybe when i need you the most and don't want to admit it
i miss you whether you're here or not

it's like you appear behind a passing citizen
and watch me look at you through a crowd of people
and i notice it faster than i should admit

and i want nothing more than for you to approach
to ask if i'd like a cup of coffee
to have a conversation

you disappear just as fast as you've arrived
already leaving me with finding the answers myself
my jaw aching with things i never got to tell you


your legacy is the only one i'd be willing to uphold if you leave
even if it's short notice
or something you've prepared for

if i said that i wouldn't die for you, i'd be lying.
such a naive thing to say, i know.
but it's my honesty.
it's the rawest thing i can give you.
i'd **** for you, i'd do anything for you.

an open letter can become a treasure chest if you open it the right way.
a technicolor dream of gray, a projector screen of pink.
a hallucinogenic vision i dreamed about a year before i saw you.

this was meant to happen.
all of the things in my life have happened for so, all of this is supposed to happen.
i was always supposed to feel this way.
i do.
i have.
and i always will.

i don't believe most of the things she's said about you.
most, because somehow she'd like the truth to be told.
because you're wonderful, but she'd rather make the bad things noticeable by lying.
maybe she's angry that you don't love her.

it's the miles deep pain i feel in my abdomen that shows me the truth.
it's the heart attack i experience when your eyes light up that shows me your real heart.

it's the knot in my throat when you talk, that shows me you're alive.


and so am i.

i didn't come to you for salvation
i didn't enter the circle to be saved
i was lost

i was looking for a leader
i was looking for advice
i was looking for directions

but now you tell me that the moon will deceive me
the sun will destroy me

the heavy heartbeat in the back of my mind
doesn't make me want to come back
because i know you want that more than anything else

and i don't owe you anything

eight years is either a long time or a short time for something
some days it feels like there have only been a few days in between
it feels like a millennium on others

i think eight years is both good
short and long
for things to change
occur
begin

sure
a lot has changed for me in the past eight years
but sometimes it feels like nothing has
just a vast forest that never grows

some days i feel twelve again
others i feel that i'm eighty

but somehow certain things can stop me from feeling either
and make me feel good for just a few moments
and remind me that no matter where i go in life
i'll always have this moment
these things
that i used to die for and have moved on from

i'll always have them
and i'll always feel that way the first time i accessed them

"time for the quarterly internet rabbit-hole of your early life.

are you going to spend the next hour looking for pictures of an old mall?

or by finding out the real reason why the first movie theater burned down eleven years ago?

or perhaps look at how your favorite grocery store has changed?

how about we look at the once empty fields that are now occupied by mattress stores?

then will you end it by crying yourself to sleep?
wondering why you cannot remember any of it all?
why you cannot make sense of being a child?
did you ever become conscious before 2012?
are all these hazy memories just dreams?
did you even exist in any of it?



what are you even searching for?"



anything.

i don't quite understand what i did in a past life that was so bad
that i was born in this small globe of worry.

i also don't quite understand
the small instances of confusion
or
misconception
that make me repeatedly run through every
motion i made
or
word i spoke.

there's something wrong in the world inside my head,
maybe famine.
maybe natural disaster.
maybe war.

some days i feel amazing.
not a bone in my body feels anxious.

some.

but no day is the exact same,
and sometimes it's best to take it one day at a time.

crime, staring competitions, tears.

these small things that lead us further
into the fog, closer to the moths,
attached at the hip, nothing new.
nothing blue, always red.

your guitar rips through the
navy skyline, alerting the stars of war,
violet mornings creeping over the
trees as sleep envelops your eyes.
i've dreamed of something like
this, but i got more than i asked for.

i'd never go back.
i'd never go back to that place where you
don't exist, the dark, the damp, the treacherous.
becoming a threat, was the purple leaves and blinding snow.

but the next morning was lined with amnesia, we both forgave;

but we'll never forget.