i stopped talking to the stain on the wall when i realized it wasn't you,

just the desire of it to be you.


the house where you were born, is standing up just by the bones of you,
i'm sure.

dad sometimes says your soul is still trapped here,
like it dug a grave and buried itself in the foundation.

i wonder how that can be --
have you wrapped the roots of the maple tree around your middle?

are you holding your breath as if the soil is water;
As if the meaning of you is still refusing to go on because there's a snorkel attached to your mouth?
Because i'm here waiting for you at the maple tree
with the ash you would call snow,

in my arms,

and you're still in some place I haven't found yet.


The stain on the wall doesn't look the same.
The place where you should be feels void,

and outside there's a storm,
it's causing the heads of the flowers you planted to bat against each other.

I wonder if you've possessed one of them,
I wonder if you're trying to **** me so I can possess one too.

I wonder if you're even here,

or if I am even here.

Sam.
Sam.
little brother?

i'm sorry.

The ground beside your grave is cold,
I've dug dirt stained nails into the earth to try and reach you,



but you never reach back.

***** lived on your tongue,
***** lived in her throat.

there's a hiding girl,
she's crying and she's also bleeding.
you bend down, old levi jeans
suffocating your knees.

"it's alright," you say to her, "I promise."
but you can tell she knows its a lie.

her first time riding a bike,
you push her, let her go.
5, 4, 3, 2, 1 -- blast off.
she falls and scrapes her hands.
she earns a scar on her ankle.

you kiss her,
she turns away.

you shush her in bed,
sooth the crying girl.

"don't tell a single soul"

she tells her 4th grade teacher.

13,
nicotine washed into her hair.
she blows, fogs the window,
draws a face -- its frowning
her hair is the same color as her bleeding wrist.

13,
three people are holding her down.
it takes her back to the
sinking rocks she threw in the river,
the sinking mattress she was pushed into.
the old, sad man.

"sedate her,"
make her disappear.

don't kiss her,
she doesn't want to be kissed.



*****,
beads of sweat.
an axe, a noose, and a pool of water in the tub.

she decides on none,
she goes back to the river to find the rocks.

there's a path of wet kisses

danced up an emaciated spine,

the one that belongs to the skinny

and precious boy,

laid out underneath you.



you know each **** there,

have counted them multiple times.



there's something beautiful, you think,

in the way the bones crafted themselves,



The way they formed and fit;



locked away beneath tight skin.





you wrap a hand around the beak-like neck,

the fragile piece you love,

and when you squeeze,

the boy doesn't reject it.



his pulse is quickening,

trying to break through the skin,

you can feel it reaching for you,

it begs silently.





"Shh,"

you say,

"don't make a noise,"



so the boy closes his throat,

holds back that rebellious tap,tap,tap,

and falls.



hands rest now, unclenched,

and you let go then.



you will him to breathe,

and somehow he knows,

knows what you want like its carved into him.



there's blood on his lips,

blood on his nose,

and tears in the corners of his eyes,

hiding away





you smile because you can't help it.



you love him,

yet you want to **** him.

Love him if you can,
If you are able.

He’s fragile
Too delicate to be held.

Keep him safe if you’re sure you can,
If you're positive.

He’s too timid to fight on his own,
Too weak.

Kiss him if he says you can,
If he kisses you back.

He’ll breathe if you tell him to
He’ll smile if your order,

But he’ll never love you the way you love him.

they sculptured you,
"a replica of the sun,"
they said.

"the world is dark and brutal,
but she is so brave"

you draw art
and you drink on the days you wish
they never sculpted you in the first place.

you write love stories
and poetry
and you cry sometimes
and you call yourself weak

"nothing more than a failure,
I am just no good"



"she's something unique,
don't you think?"

19 years is too young to feel broken  

"oh how she smiles just like the sun,
and oh how she weeps just as the moon."


but a few years from now
you'll sit yourself outside,
you'll play the soft tunes in your ears
and you'll sing along a little

and you'll realize,
you'll realize

the sun is a courages thing
she hides at night,
but she flaunts herself so bright.

you really are

an exact replica of the sun

2 am,
you slept,
knees curled in towards your chest,
a ball,
trying to protect the fragile bones
lying there.

3 am,
you cried,
gripped your pillow tight,
begged for the lost to come back.

4 am,
you showered,
cleaned the sweat from your
achy limbs.

tried to scrub
the sadness from your hair.

5 am,
you made tea,
looked at a picture of them,
and wept.

6 am,
you walked,
flowers in one hand,
a book of poems in the other.

7 am,
you kneeled like a pastor
besides their grave,
prayed for deliverance,
prayed to see their eyes,
just once more.

8 am,
you read to them,
love stories,
you told them about your adventures,
and how you aren't doing so well.

9 am,
you slept with your hands
dug in the dirt,
wishing you could dig them out
and hold them in your arms.

10 am,
you gathered your things,
and walked back alone.

11 am,
you flopped yourself on the bed,
you wished you were dead.