i want to write you the perfect poem
i want to string words together so spectacularly that you tattoo them on the inside of your eyelids
i want to write you the world, wrap these lines in a bow and leave the package on your doorstep
i want to write you the perfect poem,
but i'm an imperfect person and love,
so are you

you are the bags under my eyes
i carry you with me wherever i go
and you draw the most attention to the brightest parts of me
my under eye bags are the only cosmetics i wear daily;
you are the result of late nights of laughter and 1 AM drives home

you sopped up the spilled cherry coke in the back of my car with napkins from my glove box
i braked too hard and it spilled all over your feet
it was a quiet ride home
my knuckles were white on the steering wheel and my head a blur of apology
my favorite mop;
my messes are yours and yours will be mine and i've never been one for tidiness but i'd scrub the world clean for your smile

you are
the dent in my passenger side door,
the soreness in my muscles,
the paint stains in all of my jeans;
i can’t get rid of it, i’ll never get rid of it;
the dent gives my car character
the soreness makes my body feel real
the stains make me feel free and the jeans fit me like a glove

i like routine and you are a part of mine
text you tease you love you
wash rinse repeat

i could send you a thousand love letters
i’ll keep them in a shoebox instead

i'll write your name into the stars,
i'll carve my love for you in the moon,
print it on postcards,
press it into my skin
but i cannot write you the perfect poem

my english teacher asked me
to write a poem for a young author contest
she likes my writing
and thinks i could win

i wonder how to tell her that i can only write poems when my emotions are on high
my hands only know how to speak when i am spitting fire
the only time my claws come out and carve words into trees
is when my eyes leak venom and my jaw is unhinged

i can’t write poems about fall without ******* the life out of the season
i bite into the beauty and leave it bone dry
the leaves from the trees are not leaves,
they’re the burdens i place on my friends when my brain changes color

i can write about love; god knows i can write about love
i’ll write ten pages on the heaviness that it leaves on my chest
the pressure on my lungs makes it hard to breathe but my god is it addicting
the love that falls from my fingertips is real, it is intense, it is too much for anyone to see

poetry is not my passion
it is first and foremost a coping mechanism
my head is a ship in a bottle
i only crack it open when i start to drown

loving you in twelve year old cars
soft kisses in the front seats
a dent in the passenger side door
your backpack in the back seat

paint lingering underneath fingernails
achy joints
i love art
does art love me?

my friends are all ghosts
i see them
we laugh and we love
illusions shatter after too long

i drive you home at 1 AM
i can barely keep my eyes open on the way home
your love is thrumming through my body
and my gaslight is on

i get a little bit reckless when i’m on the road alone
breathing is just easier with one hand on the steering wheel
in, out. in, out.
this year is hard

i’m up to my neck in responsibilities
is this what growing up is like?
i want to sit down
close my eyes

planes fly above me and i feel a sense of longing
i’m already made of metal
wind me up and watch me go
i’m ready to fly

i have never felt heavier
my head weighs a ton and my neck is made of straw
i want to live in between the bricks
i want to go home

my rationality is a house drenched in gasoline --
my emotions are a handful of stricken matches --
i hold them delicately between my fingers,
try to wave out the flames,
blow them out one by one --
but the embers catch on the curtains.
the house goes up in flames;
it burns to the ground;
the ash scars the earth and i can't breathe again --

and why stop there?
why burn down a single house when i'd devour a whole village if you asked?
my emotions can be dynamite; they're a nuclear blast;
set me off and watch the world turn to dust
i'm doing it for you
my flames are engulfing the planet
for you
they're my reactions to the small things;
they're the clench of my jaw when you send short texts,
they're the shaking of my fingers when your shoulders don't curve around mine
the conclusion of my analysis on your body decides whether or not the world will go to sleep in bursts of red and orange

my spine is in a pool at my feet;
my frame has melted and my heart is on the loose
smoke is slithering down my throat
i'm sorry i am the way i am --
i'm sorry i'm clumsy with fire;
i'm sorry this house was built with popsicle sticks;
i'm sorry that it's so easy to watch me burn

numbness upon
beholding
mangled roadkill,

i cried for hours once
when i went to the skating rink
instead of the carnival

most outgrow
their crybaby stage

i grew into
mine

i love to sit on
the sharp-****** shore
and watch, wait
for the next wave
to destroy 3 months' work

the gritty, hamd-scooped sandcastle
mercifylly spared by some
of my white-tipped peaks

obliderated
by the occasional
flash of monstrosity

does hamburger meat stick together because it is still searching for the ghost of it's bones?
in college, i worked in a factory.
i trudged to work every monday morning at five thirty and put on gloves
to plunge into the sticky mess of beef that i weighed and clipped and submerged in.
the meat sticks together and bleeds into the same palm, which is my own.
i am livestock.
i am a nonsensical sticky mass of fat that is being pulled apart by another.
although i am trying to pull myself back together,
the bones i clung to were yours.

no taste.

still, though,
cool and crisp enough
to bring about a smile.

and what a relief,
what a change of pace
to write a poem
about something that don’t deserve no poetry,

for once.

i feel a little bubble of anger,
of bitterness
at the knowledge that the words come easier when my mouth is on fire.

what the hell.
for a few seconds the cool seeds slide down easy.

no taste.

(a.m.)