One summer I was
So out of shape that
I decided to run
With my little sister. She was on
The cross-country team.
I always told myself
I could beat her. I mean
She’s younger than me.
The first day she dragged me
Out of bed I couldn’t feel
My legs. There were creases
On my calves from the dusty sheets
Of the bottom bunk. I tripped
On my laptop trying to find my shoes.
I realized she didn’t
Wear shorts that often. The muscles
Beneath her skin smirked at me
While I fumbled with my laces. Her hair
Was in a high ponytail, pulling
At her cheekbones.
We jogged out of the driveway.

I had to clean out the back room when
I decided to skip class. There was so much
Random **** it made my head spin.
Hours consisted of me choking
On dirt and throwing away boxes.
The cardboard reminded me of
Moving day and how we all slept on the floor but
She left her canopy still hanging when we
Drove away for the last time.
I found a drawer full
Of paintings. None of them finished,
All of them signed.

I didn’t even know she could
Write until I found a journal in my
Hockey bag. Blue leather, full of stains.
Words I don’t think I would’ve
Noticed coming from someone else’s
Hands.
I left it on the locker room bench, open
  
We went cliff jumping and
I trembled at the edge with my
Heartbeat in my mouth
The water wasn’t liquid it was
Made of welkin stone
I couldn’t find my voice and my pulse was
Way too high
She leapt from above me without
Looking down

Don’t be confused. Don’t be afraid. Don’t think it’s your fault. Don’t stay up wondering. Don’t stay up wishing. Don’t ask about me. Don’t cry. I have your rose and it’s rotted but so was I so don’t worry. The scent that follows with decay was always under my skin. Hold on to the bruises and showcase the neglect. If you remember the dark days you won’t dream about light.
You didn’t know me but tell yourself you didn’t want to. I’m half of you, yes, but not the half that you would like. When you wake in cold sweat or sneer at someone you love the green eyes I gave you will glitter and gleam. Your mother will have told you that I liked to sing. Your voice is your own and the resemblance is eerie but mine was all minor, not worth the strain.
The blood in the basement was only a hoax. I’m fine I’m just hiding; it’s for your own good. There were so many voices in my head and they all want to know you, but I was afraid of what they might say so I murdered them. The problem with that is mine was too close, so when silence ensued I couldn’t speak either.
I know there’s an undeniable urge to fill in the blanks, but you’ve heard that ignorance is bliss and it’s a bliss you can’t ignore.

Whisper as you wish
The black waters mute your voice
Do you see me?
Are you blind?
Now deaf to every noise?
From the depths you don’t emerge
Yet you stumble, step by step
I don’t know why you’re here
There is no noose around your neck
Is there wind, so deep down there
Where the crimson shadows drift?
Does the black wind tear away your mind?
What sane thoughts do you miss?
Brother still, you steal my sleep
You’ve dragged with you all our memories
And though I miss you, you are dead
Black waters once;
Now red.

Loving you is like the
static ache of sleeping limbs
It’s like yawning when exhaustion makes
your back knot up like yarn it's like
stretching out your fingers till
your shoulders glide again
lavender, soft yellow and red raging
in the rain, tendrils of pink promises
proposing to the sky it's the
first sip of hot chocolate
it is reading
by the fire it is racing home to leave again and sighing under sheets, cradling
my ankles cause they
never felt your lips

Wondering was waking up and finding
only empty rooms, slamming doors and
calling out to
nobody at all,
crossing sidewalks
backwards and ignoring traffic lights,
guided by the sand around my eyes and
in my shoes
worrying was poisonous, it
pinched me all day long,
underneath my armpits and
behind my pen tattoo I
wish I
didn't know you touched her did she
hug her ankles too did she
know how many freckles there are
sleeping on your back

Losing you was cold it was
my heart made out of lead, sinking into
stomach aches and leaning
on the stall, puking out
your promises and pulling out my hair,
counting cuts at midnight checking
ribs for wandering knives it was
the day they put him underground he couldn't drown me anymore and they
said it wasn't anybody's
fault but his alone and it's
weird because i watched and not
a single person cried
until they dropped their chuckling roses onto earth made out of lies,
spitting up aromas of
my brother's drunken wish
I peeled back lazy scars **** I
showed you all that I
had left, hoping you
would stroke my hair and
help me be alive

This second try is
fragile it's a
glass full to the brim, a leather seat
on a summer day
on the far side of the lot, warm enough
to doze off but
too hot to really dream

I’ve never been an artist. I wasn’t born to hold a paintbrush in my hand. I’ve never felt the need to capture the reality I see with charcoal or pencil or oils or clay—I just haven’t. Some people stop seeing the world as it is and they change it with their art but I’ve never been an artist. When I see something beautiful I remember it and I learn from it but I see no need to recreate it. I don’t feel the urge to twist it. They say a picture is worth a thousand words but a fake one is only worth questions and I’d rather have the world be raw and blunt and unpolished than have people try and show me how they see it because I don’t care. A picture may be worth a thousand words but there are millions of words inside my head and I can show you everything you need to know with a question and some time to think because the world is not beautiful sunsets or rainy streets it is ketchup stains on trembling lips and empty backpacks soaked by faucets. It is a scarf wrapped too tight around a freckled neck; a goodbye kiss and a leather suitcase and everything in between. You can keep your charcoal if you want it and draw the smiles why I tell you all the reasons there are smiles to draw. The sunsets and the rainy streets exist but they are not important. They are the neon lights and the shadows they don’t reach but they do not highlight the people dancing in between. They are the best days and the worst but they do not show the days of effortless laughter over fractured dreams, messy hair and tear-stained skin. A picture is worth a thousand words but if you have a hundred good words a million pictures can be born. I’ve never been an artist, but I understand that the things that are real are invisible. They cannot be captured by a pen or reined in by a canvas. What everyone calls art could never be extensive enough, exquisite enough; real enough. No matter how many images you see there are always pieces missing. I’ve never been an artist. But if you hand me a paintbrush I will use it to write. I will use it to form the letters that form my life that form the world. And if you insist I can write the word ‘art’ but know that I don’t believe in the plainness of charcoal and paper I believe in the long nights curled up reading and the silent afternoons wishing your story was the same as one you’ve read. Or one you’ve written.