Can't I be clean?
Is it okay to try and scrub away
the failure from my tongue and
the disappointment from my heart?

Would it be possible to look
in the mirror and be okay with it?
I want to be happy with the reflection
but all I want is to cover it in fog
with the hopes that there will be
someone different when I wipe it clean.

I want to be someone you deserve.
I don't want the hate, the jealousy, the fear
that this is all I'll ever be.
I want to say sorry for being
*****. Tainted. Hideous. Sad.

We are not born with hatred swirling around in our skull
It is something that is built within the structures of our environments
This civil war whose bombs wake us up in the morning
and whose grenades disturb our sleep.

We are not born with ******/******/******/****/****/**** on our tongues
This is the product of this billboard society that teaches us
to spit daggers rather slip our tongues around and caress

We are not born in fear of the other
It is not genetics that implore us to engage
in the ongoing battles between
     fat and skinny
     black and white
     religious and faithless
     straight and curved

Our world is a wasteland
filled with our soulless cardboard cutouts
doing nothing more than occupying space.
We examine our fingertips in search of identity
and are shown skin that has been scrubbed smooth
by the buffers created to stop our minds from
expanding too wide and our dreams from growing too big.
We look to the too-distant stars for directions but must turn to a foreign map
to tell us where home is.

What we are born with is excitement.
With adventure running through our veins.
With eyes the color of flawless wonder
and skin scarred with wisdom.

We were born with longing.
Longing for a great escape.
For rebirth.

Love.  

Love is
awful/wonderful/
terrifying/beautiful/
frustrating/amazing/
foreign.

It's amazing how something that you've never had
can leave such an empty feeling inside you.
I was made with an empty space in the middle of my heart.
Meant to be filled with someone's "I'll love you forever."
There must have been a mishap in the factory, though,
because there seems to be no complimentary piece.

I have a mantra I go through, a set of excuses I remind myself of
whenever a chance is lost, an opportunity runs sour. '
I call them "The Three Things I Know To Be True About Love."
             Not interested? Someday he will be
             Isn't into relationships? Someday he will be
             Isn't attracted to you? Someday he will be

Well, I can't say I know the third part to be true.

I know what you're thinking.
Sad, whiny fat kid complaining about something he caused himself.
Look, I know what I look like. I know what it allows me in life.
To be fair, it is my own fault. I've let myself stretch,
outgrowing my skin and confidence till they're threatening to burst.

I know it would be hard to look at me and say "I love you."
I never have been able to do it.
I think if I heard it just once, though, I'd be satisfied.
Just to give me the sensation having the words
pass through me, enveloping my insides
with warmth, hope, promise.

I'm not asking you to mean it. I couldn't ask you for that.
Even though I'd know of their false implications.
I have always been a fan of playing pretend.

I know that I'm young,
and that I haven't been far outside of the
cornfield fence that has enclosed me for 19 years.
But patience has never been a virtue I've held.

I'm just someone who is desperately tired of "somedays."
All I'm asking for is a "today."

I remember the day we first met.

Two scrawny, energetic young scamps too excited to make the transition into our education.
From day one, we were together.
All day, every day.
People asked us if we were brother and sister.
And everytime, our answer quickly escaped our grins...
                       Yes.

Let's fast-forward to the third grade.
Our heads were still innocent enough not to know the flaws
we would eventually have but I was still mature enough to know
that when you walked up to me that morning with
tears and terror streaming down your face,
letting the words "My mom left us" seep through your painful gasps.

I was nine years old when I first saw someone's heart break.
I tried to sweep the pieces back up and glue them back together...but I failed.
It wasn't until later that night that my mom woke me
in the middle of the night to explain that your mother didn't leave,
but went to prepare a safe hiding spot from your father's fists.
We talked on the phone every night until you came back.
The stupid chatter of whatever a nine year old even thinks about
tying up the phone lines for hours at a time.
That was the first time you told me you loved me
It was the first time first time I ever believed it.

Now let's fast forward to the seventh grade.
Junior high.
A boiling *** of hormones and hate.
By this point, I hadn't talked to you in two months.
The judging panel of life had already confirmed what I knew was to happen.
Bubbly, boy-crazy blond girl rises to the top
Insecure, boy-crazy ****** boy sinks like a boulder.

I was thirteen when I first felt my heart break.
My eyes were opened to the **** life was ready to dump on my doorstep.
I knew that lines were to be drawn
I just never would have guessed we'd be on opposite sides.
I got called ******.
You called yourself silent.

Next, let's talk about year that ended everything: senior year.
A year of endings.
Graduation from the hell hole that was high school.
Leaving my mother for the first time since birth
Leaving my friends since the first day we stepped onto the playground together
thirteen years earlier.

We started off strong.
We were determined to end our school years the way we started them: together.
We would go off to the same college, get an apartment,
and everything was going to be fine.

Six months had passed
We hadn't spoken for one of them.
You had me pegged as your sworn enemy.
I was terrified to wake up in the morning
because I knew I would have to look at you
instead of seeing you.

I was eighteen when you broke my heart for the final time.
Your army of farm-town morally upright teenagers
had done their best to destroy me.
But I still walked. I still dragged myself around,
****** and bruised from your attacks.
I thought things were cooled down.
I just wanted out.
Then you said it.
That final day.
You called me a ******
and said you hated me.

Now, almost a year later, whenever I think of you my eyes start welling up.
Your words, spoken and unspoken, still sting.
I know that I hate you.
But I don't know why I still care.

What I do know is that I don't need you.
I've met the most wonderful group of people
far greater than I could have ever imagined.
But still, whenever I'm with them, I'm thinking of you.
Wondering what I need to do for them that I didn't do for you.
I just hope their feet are more stable than yours.
I can't handle anyone else running away.

Guilt

The worst feeling in the world.
It slowly eats away at my mind
Until that’s all I have left.
The guilt.

The hardest part about
dealing with it is I know
it’s something I’ve caused.
The difference between
feeling and being.

It’s my fault.
I could have prevented it.
But it’s too late now.
All that’s left are what ifs.

What if I would’ve thought before I said that?
What if I let you make your own decision?
What if I wasn’t here?
What if I would’ve answered that phone call?
What if I really do have a choice?

I wouldn’t have hurt so many people.
You wouldn’t be filled with guilt.
You wouldn’t want to die.
I would’ve been able to say goodbye.
Maybe I caused all of this.

I can't fool myself.
Not again.
It's all true.
Every part of it.
I need to man up
and face my jury.

On the counts of
being an *******
being too domineering
being a mistake and a reminder
being selfish
and being what you never wanted me to be

I'm guilty.

I am tired
of feeling this way
and being like this.

I am so sick
of having these thing
living inside of me.
I should have tried
to get rid of it sooner.
But I let it grow
become it's own being
now it has a face
it has a personality.

I'm done being sad.
Of having gloom
draped around my shoulders
every time I get dressed.
I'm done with looking in the mirror
and seeing a monster
who I fight everyday
and always lose.

Paranoia.
Being unsure.
Always second guessing angels.
Being selfish.
Putting myself above others.
Knowing what I'm doing is wrong
and continuing to let myself
get wrapped up in a hopeless
situation.
It has exhausted me.

I am done burning.
I want to extinguish
the nest of flames that lap
under my skin
that have me thinking
the only way to relieve myself
is reach under the skin
and let the fire slowly trickle out.

I need to learn honesty.
I want to be a better person.
I need to stop kidding myself.
I want to let it go.
I need to let myself be happy.
I want to let you be happy.

I have the reassurance
that I don't know better
than the universe.
It knows where I will be going
and who I'll meet along the way.

I have the knowledge that
overcoming tyranny isn't easy.
But my willingness
to be happy is stronger
than any depression.
It may be tomorrow
it may be in ten years.
But it will happen.
Happiness will happen.

I'm still pushing against a boulder.
Trying to climb over
only to scrape at the sides
leaving my finger tips ******.
But I know I have something.
pushing me. Carrying me.
I have the hands of the angels
that sit on my shoulders.  
Elevating me and helping me
to get my footing.

Everyday.
Every ******* day.
I have to have this conversation
with you.

About what an idiot you are.
How ******* pretentious you are
to think you could ever have him.
Do you think he even notices you breathe?

Probably not.
Maybe you should try not to
That might get someone's attention
you pathetic little piece of worthlessness.
You should be ashamed of yourself.  

How arrogant can you be?
To think you would ever be considered
worthy of his time and attention.
He is everything you lack.
Everything you will never be.
You are a monster.
He is everything that is good.

It amazes me that even though
you know you don't have a chance in hell
you still make up these
little fantasies in you head.
You still write poetry about it.
You mind keeps convincing yourself it isn't so
but your idiot heart won't let you forget.

It's a little cute.
How impossibly naive you are.
It's time to end this little charade
and just give up.

You could turn off your feelings.
Or you could just stop thinking about it.
Or you could really show you care
and **** yourself.
Stop the embarrassment.
End the nuisance.
But suicide would be pretty pointless since
you are already dead.

Everyday.
Every ******* day.
I have to have this conversation
in my head about you.

I want to scream it so loud
that you can't help but hear it.
But the truth is, I know
you already know I'm right.

So I stop talking.
I look away from the mirror,
away from my reflection
and continue with my day.
Praying I take the advice.