~

Today, a family friend marveled at how much I remind him of my father.
You must understand how much this scared me.
Nothing scares me more than addiction,
yet I perpetually submit myself to addictive behavior, substances, feelings.

These holes I've been digging cannot be dug forever.
There is a bottom and that is excommunication, prison, death.
No person will dig me out,
no person can.

The clock may move slower
after I use this,
and it may move quicker
after I use this.
It doesn't matter to me,
as long as moves in a way other than it does in sobriety.

The sun will rise and the sun will set,
all according to plan.
For hundreds of years into the future
astrologers have predicted at what time which stars
can be seen from certain locations on Earth.
Yet I do not know where I will be tomorrow.
I do not know who will be with me.
I do not know if my father will still love me,
or if we will still share a home, a family, blood.

Dime bags burned up in one bowl,
two **** rips to make your head spin
backs up against an old fence,
paint flaking off onto your beige sweater,
It seemed fitting that the last time we would be able to make love,
we had no where to go.
Instead we kissed under the stars,
in a strangers lawn,
and I knew without words
that I had already left your concerns.

I held you like a helium balloon,
cautiously,
knowing all too soon,
you would float away from me.

You will flock to the ocean,
where it is easier for you to breathe,
and eventually
I will retreat to the desert
where my bloods flows easier.

You were one of the people,
we all come across in our lives,
who mean so little
and so much
to us, all at once.

Your gorgeous freckles,
and the smell of cigarettes mixed with cologne,
will remind me of this summer,
and nights with no sleep,
anywhere we could find to be together.

I told myself I wouldn't write a poem about you,
spotted boy
but I can't fully accept what happened
without writing it down.

So thanks for all the nights you held me,
and all the kisses you gave me,
and all the times you made me feel good,
and all the times you made me laugh,
and thank you for making this summer so much brighter
with your big smile and your big blue eyes
and of course,
those gorgeous freckles.

If you’re driving home from a friends house
in twilight and soggy muscles
I hope you’re rolling down your windows
For fresh air
And the way it widens your eyes
To pines beyond the roadside
Freeing the world to hear Matlida

Home in 10 minutes
But for ten minutes you are free
To appreciate windy road, solitude,
And what was given in summer nostalgia
Contented

My upper body becomes uncomfortably hot.
My lower body doesn't seem to want to move.
My hands become sweaty and a bit shaky.
My eyes dart around, not content to rest in one place.
In my mind there are many memories of your touch.
There are many memories of your smile,
but there is only one memory of the last time I saw you.

Whilst I was searching through forests so lush
I came across a red wood, she soon became my crutch
I fell down in weakness, leaned beside her roots
she told me dark secrets, of the one beneath the lake
my heart was no match for her brilliant gaze
she watched me run down futures past
fleeing the scene, with a cave-dweller dream

it was magic
that I was after
it was magic
that was dark

the dragons wait restless in caves with my soul
they want me to drag the witches from their hole
temptation is frightening, I want to grasp it all
the power of darkness beckons me too deep
long nights before me, the monsters will wait

it was magic
they were after
it was magic
that was light

I found myself dreaming, dragon hearts in my hands
blood more black than night, blood all in my eyes
no more sight, no more thought, but I feel
a presence
what's this? I'm here.

The darkness calls, the darkness screams
the darkness keeps me in her arms.

I wake to a noise of a branch, breaking thin
it's wood, it's the tree, she's a blaze in her red
in my head, I try and hold her, in my hands
I'm a flame
I am free
such as a stream
I am tame
such as a whisper
I am free.

I watched the film
not because she told me to,
but because she told me she enjoyed it.
You must understand how important this is.

there is no such thing as an antihero,
only a villain
who has found an exuse,
an antagonist who can speak more prettily than
all the others
who can lie holes straight through
the hero's
heart,
find their place in the universe
and blot it out on the map because
the universe
does not tend towards anything
but solitude.

you will find yourself all alone.

you will find yourself all
alone
and you can snap the neck of every doll you own but
despair will never be anything more than
an unrequited love, an
attachment that you never grew out of, a
high school crush that you stapled to your heart so as you grew it was like
a gastric bypass
you cannot hold as much love in your heart
as your mother
said you could
but you can kiss and sigh and with every moue you'll wonder just
why
your chest feels fit to burst when you get any deeper than
touch
heart fit to rupture you are the main villain
of every book
i've read
the antagonist in every story you are
the angry girl whose doll parts
lay in pieces
at her feet
whose bomb will detonate if you get too close
{the character i could relate to the most the character i hated the most the character
i talked to whenever i could and
memorized every line to replay, god
i hate
the way you speak
and i want
to hear
it more}
i ripped out your staples and added my own.
{despair will never reciprocate but
i understand you i
do
because we are the same and i hate you because
you hate yourself
and i could give you nightmares every night and
listen to your motives
every
morning
'people are disgusting'
you said
as if it was
a revelation}
you're not ****** up, just out of luck
because four-leaf clovers can't survive droughts.
you are seventyeight percent water
and every drop you spent on
drowning
the background characters
and every doll on your bedroom floor
{i love the way you cry when you laugh because every time
i hope
that one, that one tear
is the final drop wrung from the shroud
of a sailor a burial at sea
and you will crumble
into
dust}
you angry girl your eyes
are a yellowing bruise on the storyline
your backstory is a rash
on the protagonist's hands
and all your inner demons told you you were not alone but
you explained them away and
appeals to pity left you empty.
i will rip out all your staples i
will make you
seventyeight percent
saltwater
my heart is a mirror you can find yourself there and
reassemble yourself
from all your broken parts
i will be the blueprint from which
you rebuild
yourself

{a story is nothing
without
a villain}

It's like this:
You sit in your bedroom and the fan is on, the window is open, yet it is still hot.
You have your laptop open and music is playing.
On your walls there are numerous posters, a world map, and a dartboard.
On your nightstand there are letters from last year's World History teacher, empty bottles, a switchblade and an ashtray.
There are books on your shelf written by many great authors, poets, playwrights, and philosophers.
In your hand there is a cigarette, and in the other there is The Stranger by Albert Camus.
You sit alone, smoking and reading and drinking and suddenly you stop doing all of these things because inspiration has struck.
Although you prefer a pen and paper, you begin typing on your laptop.
The words come out and form sentences.
The sentences form stanzas
and eventually the stanzas form a finish a finish product.
That is what it's like to be anything at all.

~

I'm not pretty enough for cornflowers.