I have a bit of a blunt proposition for you:
let us move to Wisconsin or somewhere just as hidden
among soy fields and monotony;
let us leave our names behind,
the concrete slabs too heavy for our broken frames and silk rucksacks;
I am tired of fulfilling a Sisyphus contract, to be entirely honest.

I think that we could hitchhike from I-95
and drum our anthems on fleshy kneecaps,
our sights pulled away from the windows of some random Honda Accord
as scenes of purple mountains majesty paint themselves
on the insides of our singed eyelids.

Wouldn’t you love to skip along dirt roads
and forget the concrete jungles
that left painful calluses on your palms
and broke my left arm in a juvenile monkey bars contest,
complete with purple cast and a tablespoon of kids’ ibuprofen.
Pleistocene mulch would no longer plant itself
in our pink feet,
and the scars from past romps would heal.

We could lay in the high grasses until high noon,
until the moon rises high in the sky,
until it sinks behind our worn heels
and lights them with its cool flame.

Our minds could wander in Wisconsin,
wily teenage worries abandoned in favor
of punk-rock philosophies.

Maybe we could even make up that alt band
you dreamed of at sixteen,
as blandess is the birthplace of creativity;
you could pick up a flea market guitar,
and I could sing with a newfound, folksy humor.

We could do anything, and we could do nothing.

That’s the glory of something over the turnpike.

Just shake my hand,
those callouses scraping my crepey skin
and forming a blood bond like no other.

No signature required.

Leave your post stamps on your pock-marked kitchen counter.

He didn't know how to love her.
He was clueless, didn't know better.
He held her when she wanted to fly.
He asked her "what" but not "why".
He looked at her when she wanted to be invisible.
He was a joke but she felt miserable.
He rose up but she wanted to lie down.
He gasped for air but she prefers to drown.
He pressed flowers but she is meant to bloom.
He dreams of a house but she wants just a room.
He wants to learn but she isn't a teacher.
He just couldn't love her.
He didn't want to be separable
but they're just incompatible.

-m.b

At night, when the sky is darkest,
just before the glow of dawn,
I think of you. Pitter patters
of memories, right down
to the curve of your smile,
the fluttering of lashes,
your refreshing curiosity, like a child;
reviving them before they turn to ashes.
Add daydreams to these memories.
With wishes and dreams,
love, humour and fantasies;
bursting at the seams.

What is it like, to be a part of you?
You are a godsend, a blessing.
My dear, nothing compares to you.
You are as smooth as a dark satin,
as precious as gems on a king's crown.
Oh my, more precious perhaps.
You are flowers blooming all year round,
as joyous as a baby's first few steps.
You are as eloquent as a scholar,
with looks blessed by Aphrodite,
as humorous as a jester,
and you are a star to me.

A life-long dream, manifested in a body.
Who would've thought it'd come true?
Your presence makes me
fearless, safe as being on a plateau.
I can conquer anything;
even my nightmares and insecurities.
The painful past I carry doesn't sting
as much when you're here, Achilles.
Perhaps it is a mistake
to adore you this much. But oh,
it is a risk I'm willing to take.
Especially when you give me this much hope.

I pray that one day,
our matched souls will meet
at the gates of heaven.
I will finally get to speak
these words of love I've written;
to unleash my undying thirst for you.
Maybe we'll get to dance among
the stars I've whispered to.
And we'll all shine brightly.
Our reunion will be rejoiced,
with me in your arms safely;
and close the book on our story.

-m.b

I'm looking at everything and at everyone
but not at anything or anyone
in particular.
My eyes fleet over the distance
but not drinking in any detail.
I'm in a daze;
Hunched over in my oversized jacket,
hands hidden in pockets.
Sad sad.
This place is too noisy;
I'm getting warm with agitation.
My eyesight is blurry.
I just want this to stop.
But it goes on and on.
They're looking at me oddly.
Shrugging at each other
when I don't respond.
I tried to smile but fail.
Came out as a grimace again.
I did it again.
Always the odd one out.
"She's in that mood again"
I don't know. I don't know.
b r e a t h e
You'll get back on track again.
Hopefully. Eventually.

-m.b

I think that today,
we should all scream
until our lungs ache
from the distance we’ve tread
and the things that we’ve said –
anecdotes that fill our hearts with joy,
tearful stories of all of that wrongness which we’ve faced,
the lyrics caught between our ears
and have been for days and months and years,
all of those words that we’ve written
in bright fuchsia gel pen in the margins of diaries
from our awkward third grade years
that we hoped no one would ever lay eyes upon.
Scream until the last syllables
crawl up your throat in an effort to be heard.
Scream until your tongue ties itself into knots
from the exhaustion of spilling all of your secrets.
Scream until you grow weary,
but that kind of weary where
you fall asleep with a smile on your face
and a soreness in your every muscle
that means you have accomplished something.
Act like a little kid again
and chase after ice cream trucks,
shouting along to
the sticky-sweet cadence
that drips into your ears.
Or crumple into a heap,
***** laundry piled as high as
Mount Everest
on your puke-colored carpet
and
scream.
Just scream
and scream
and scream.
And when you lose your voice,
come to me
and I will make sign language jokes
into your sweaty palms,
fingers curling expressively
as your shoulders lay just a bit higher,
the scaffolding that had been holding you up
torn down joint by joint,
rod by rod;
but it didn’t hurt did it?
It felt exquisite,
like waking up on Christmas morning
to the smell of just-burnt Pillsbury cinnamon rolls
and dented, wrapping-papered packages.
Let these memories whisper through you,
not scream,
and let them carry you to sleep.
You screamed today.
Now,
you can whisper
or send back witty one-liners into my palm
without the fear of explosion.
Now you can chase ice cream trucks with jingling pockets
faster than ever
because you are so
*******
light.

It’s ironic, huh? How when the small of your back is pressing into beige carpeting with those nail polish stains from that one experiment in the eighth grade, your rib cage suffocating you as your lungs expand like a party balloon animal, that that’s when you are your strongest? Your fingertips are cold and blue, your cheeks flaming as if you had tried to stick the sun under your tongue, but all the while you only feel a slight warmth coursing through your veins and a pleasant breeze on your thighs. Shrapnel and pieces of broken stucco plant themselves in your forehead, tilted up towards the crumbling cerulean ceiling, but it only feels like the light sprinkling of rain you used to try to gulp down for refreshment. It is ironic that when you falter, you lift your shoulders a bit taller. You feel like you are falling apart, limbs numb yet pricked and prodded as the whole world’s pincushion, but you are being rebuilt out of marble. When your mind’s scaffolding is collapsing, your face still keeps that slight smile in the corner of your mouth stained with berry lip shade. Everyone admires your genuine smile while you know that it was carved by Donatello himself, your torment hidden behind layers of compacted stone.

Do me a favor
and color in my lines –
between my ribs,
my heaving chest,
my flushed cheeks.

Keep my mouth sharp,
my words precise and meaningful.

Add a bit of character to my
picked over hands.

Tickle my sides with
Prismacolor
or Crayola
and pinch my body pink with joy.

Color in my lines
and make me everything I want to be.

Add definition with thick black lines,
to give me structure
when I am falling apart.

Make something of this empty outline.

Bring out the beauty that I want it to hold.

Ill rumors slid down my throat, gelatinous and coated in bitter mucus - reminiscent of when I was five years old, just dared to kiss a slug found in the school's daffodils. They burned my esophagus, leaving me without taste for days. They left me stumbling over too big, too-there feet to the nurse's office in search of Dramamine.

You've cut off your hands; convinced that you're not what you consider beautiful and it saddens me. But I'll plant a seed of love everyday just so you can walk through a garden of all the love I feel when it comes to you, and what you should feel about yourself. I'll do this just so you can see the beauty that I see. And with every grown seed; the flower that you touch, that's you. You're the beauty. All the bright colours  and scents within these petals and buds. That's what I've been telling you, love. You make the world better.

-m.b