No one knows anything,
if everyone is anything like me.

Memories are riddles with solutions
drowned in lies we used to tell ourselves,
bobbing under and above the surface
of lies we tell ourselves now.

Still, there are things to say,
and I say them like everyone.

"No one knows anything,"
is not one of these things.
Why ruin a sun setting on water
while we struggle to bob along?

The darkness of drowning blankets
shared dreams with held hands.

Somehow the life guard's chair
stands a sturdy right angle in sand.
His paycheck arrives by mail.
He buys his girl a ring.

Tides are predicted, and research
arrives in ships that rarely sink.

Some days
The words don't flow
The bank of ideas has gone bankrupt
And the well of thoughts has dried up
This is one of those days

I do not remember where we were.
I can not fathom why you said it.
I do not recall if I was crying.

But I do know that you were drunk.
And I know that these words shaped my life.
From the moments they left your lips
To this moment and beyond.

"Son, complaining only makes you look like a *****"

I never complain even when I can barely stand.
My tongue remains stilled.

Weakness is not something a man possesses.
The world has enough boys.

Pretty
Pretty.
What does it mean to her?
Since the beginning time, she was always told she was pretty,
But at one point that little girl began to question
If what she was told was a lie.
Everybody seemed pretty,
But her.
She was no longer the “You should sign her up for modeling” girl.
She became “Oh, she’s ….. tall”
Or “Wow, you’re big! Oh I mean big for your age.”
When the “pretty” faded, so did her spirit.
The omnipresent smile was gone,
As well as her joy.
She became her mother’s nightmare
Moody,
Sensitive,
Irritable,
Argumentative.
She covered up her self-destructive insecurities with faux confidence and
“No really, I’m fine”
Just as if one covers up their unsightliness
With aggrandize grand eyes, cheeks and lips
No one ever knew that underneath all the bravado
There was still a little girl,
Who seemed grown physically and sometimes mentally,
Longing for someone to tell her she’s pretty.


Incorrect.


This little girl was waiting to tell herself she was pretty
And believe it.

It's hard for me to say
But there's not really
Another way to pen it...
I nearly died today

I nearly became number 52
And counting.
And I wasn't afraid for me,
I was afraid for you.

I feared ceasing to exist
For the first time in my life.
Because I was not to be forgotten
But irrevocably missed.

We lay together, it's a beautiful night
No clouds in the sky, just a full moon

We hold hands and you look up at the stars.
"It's beautiful," I whisper.
"They are, aren't they?" you say, gesturing upwards.
"Oh, you meant the stars? They're pretty ugly compared to what I'm seeing." I reply.
Curious, she turns her head and sees me staring at her.
A smile lights up across her face, and for a moment I am blinded.
Then we kiss, and for some time, I am the happiest person in the world.
_

This happiness was not to last
For when I woke up, she was not in my arms
But she had left a note.
Before I even read it I knew something was wrong
There were tear stains on the letter
And it was written in messy handwriting
I begin to read
And words burn themselves into my skull
"It's better this way" or "nothing will change"
or even "I'm sorry I couldn't love you as much as I hate myself."
And then my world shattered.

You are so tentative and terrified
and we both know beyond a reasonable doubt
exactly how much of it is all my fault.

There is no way to deny
my responsibility this time.

But I am confident and competent
and, at this point, not really giving a ****-
(rock bottom has advantages sometimes.)

I have nothing left to lose
because I have already misplaced you
but I am a master of Hide and Seek
and you are not terribly hard to find.

**I gave you fair warning that I wasn't backing down this time.