I like to make lists,
of things I've lost, assignments I've missed,
Of people I want to meet.
And I admit, most of those people are poets.
And I know how typical that might seem,
aspiring poet looks to understand a greater inspiration,
be enlightened by the sound of their voice as humans,
not the voice they use on stage, a made-up persona, a super hero.
And all of that? Is true.
I want to ask questions, I want to hear about their triumphs and their regrets and try to match each one with things I've heard from other poets, relate it to myself.
I'd think maybe I can be great one day, display one of my own poems on a trophy shelf.
And for every person on that list I have another someone,
on another list labelled People I am Proud to Know.
And all of these people are poets.
People you will probably never hear of,
And if you have, you still can't possibly understand the origin of their stage names,
The inspiration for their concepts.
And I will try, with every ounce of my being to spill out the trivia into a fishbowl as if these people were goldfish. As if I could ask you to stick your hand in and try to grasp the idea in your bare fingertips with my muck of explanations as your only net.
But its hard, because not all poets have pens, not all poetry is built with words.
It is built with sweat and and laughter and pride.
In name calling I wish I could go by on stage.
There is poetry in the way she kisses her boyfriend,
There is poetry in the way Malawi still sparkles in her eyes,
There is poetry in our long nights and jokes and the way they tell me to shut up simultaneously.
There is poetry in our dances on the sand.
I will forever follow in their footsteps.
When we were little, they they used to make me cry just so they could be the ones to tell me it was okay.
There are still days I cry. There are still moments I feel homesick no matter where I am and feel like it'll only get better if they let their baby sister crawl between their sheets.
I follow in their footsteps because it makes me feel like I know where I'm going,
through sand or snow or mud,
there will always be poetry there.
I feel it. Its all I've learned to know.

You chase away shadows,
Despite knowing you are ignorant to my darkest secrets.
You have picked me up when people have dropped me.
Thank you for that
You have propped me when I tore myself down,
even if it wasn't out loud,
with almost compliments like "you're the 30th hottest girl in grade twelve at our school,"
or "on a scale of one to ten, you're definitely above a six and a half."
You thank me for being real.  

You tell me you will never fall in love and foolishly I tell myself again and again that you are only afraid.
You thank me for being real.

My heartbeat is reflected in the flutter of my eyelids.
I love you. I love you.
I stay silent, smile sweetly and softly sigh.
You thank me for being real.

Your mind is like a thousand piece puzzle and just when I think I've got you figured out,
the pattern changes.
A project I will never finish.

She is perfect, you tell me.
Beautiful and talented and as willfully committed to everything she does, like you.
But that includes the lack of harmonious passion.

She hears no bells when she looks at you.
Her face does not flush when you so rarely yet so willingly lead her into an embrace.
But that is what you like.

You always want what you can't have.
She has everything and wants for nothing at all.
While all I want is you.

But she will always be too perfect, and I
will always be too real.

You told me that real eyes realize real lies.
But I,
I am a dedicated liar. I devote hours to detail. Spend a lifetime of effort just to make them believe.
The only time I speak honesty is on this page, in these words.
through this mic.
Sometimes I wish that someone would notice somethings weird. Strip me down and cover me in these pages. See me, for me.
Hear me for me. *
Not this strained voice you hear coming through the speakers. I hate that voice.
She speaks to strangers. Imaginary friends. and shadows.
I hate that voice, it is the voice of a coward.  
a child, if I can't see you, you can't see me. What I say doesn't matter.
It just feels good.

Real eyes realize real lies
But  my mask is Rorschach. They see what they want to see.
What I want them to see.
"Yes, this is what happens to my hair naturally,"
and now no one catches on if I slip up that I went out last night. No one guesses I was with her.

...Maybe that doesn't make any sense to you but I learned at a very young age you never leave it at "No, I did not cut myself."
The silence will hang in the air until it is stale and awkward. The red light blips, the graph plunges.
The secret is in the details.
It's like, compromise, the more you give, the less they ask for.

Real eyes realize real lies.
You told me that you can tell when I lie by the direction I look away from your eyes and down your face but I've known that trick for ages.
I look where I wanna look so if I want you to think I'm lying I will **** well stare at the freckle on the lower left side of your face.

Real eyes realize real lies
Bu you, might as well be blind if you choose not to hear.
I am not stupid enough to believe you are willing to listen this time.
These are not fibs. And you know it.
These are not half truths and you know it.
These are not exaggerations and proverbial dances around the bush.
I am not hiding that I am upset now.

"Go write a poem about it."
It's a joke.
You are relieved I take it as such.
But I will.

And you?
You're afraid of what I'll say when I say it. That one of these days I will stop dismissing what's missing from these conversations. I will stop leaving the tension hanging in the air. I will stop. sling loaded for a verbal attack.
This mistress of word no longer kind and gentle.
I will be harsh and true and horribly inconvenient.
But I don't have the time to spare to choke out the words that will hit heavy. Not today.
I am too busy looking in the eyes of other people who are the same as me and while smiling and nodding I label them as dedicated.
And I wonder, can they tell I'm lying?

This.

This is decorating my living room, and only my living room,
With every available piece of holiday cheer.
This is sitting by the fireside, drinking apple cider and listening to the woman who can recite Twas the Night Before Christmas by heart.
This is shortbread cookies.
You may ask if you can have one.
You may, but not the one who looks like a man.
His legs have been broken and icinged back on. He is special. .
This is not enough wrapping paper.
Too much wrapping paper.
My dad will never learn how to use wrapping paper.
This is managing not to fight with my sisters on the darkest days in winter.
This.
This is skating on black ice in winter boots,
Using icicles as lollipops,
This is mittens, hat, scarf, forgotten on the snow man.
This is the fort you couldn't knock over,
This is making lists.
Breaking lists.
Writing and rewriting.
This is advent calenders.
This is candycane addictions.
This is pleasant smiles from the grumpiest holiday shoppers.
This is the  reason I love Christmas time more than Christmas day.
And this,
This is not a miracle.
This is a tradition that is older than I am.
This is the family I can always count on.
This, is home.

I am the portrait.
These flaws are hidden in an attic.
Under the stairs.
Covered by cloth.

Every wrong turn has had an awful effect
despite the fact that you cannot see it.

I am the knife,
that I place in my own heart.

So, to you, I remain
perfect.

Some nights, I dream about our perfect day.
Painting our fingernails, the sky our most cherished shade of grey, the change of seasons in the air,
And the closest thing to a bad omen anywhere near enough to reach us,
is you reading me your favorite poem.
I should have known then; angels don't paint their wings black for fun.

Despite it, I clung to you every day. Every hour. For every second,
you were my everything, and I was your something.
The reason I wrote and your desire to listen.
More than that, you were the cheerful post-it note I'd find in my locker, and I was the
healer who could spin stories of ugly ducklings into beautiful swans.
We needed no one but each other to lean on.

And every time your feathers fell I'd braid them back into your bones, I told you that your past made you strong enough to face these things on your own.
I didn't mean without me.
You never told me you could fly.
I don't know how I missed that,
But the second I realized, I wanted to teach you how to land.
Said, "Everyone has to come home again sometimes.
He will. I'm not ready for him to go."

But you were. While I was off fighting battles, you were writing Dear John letters on those post-it notes.
I've never been one to hate the change of seasons until now that I realised
migration is just something you can't avoid.
'I get that you have mistakes to make and risks to take.
But I'll bet those promises you broke still cross your mind.

I mean, hopefully. Maybe you think this is something I should just be over by now.
That I shouldn't want.
But, I want you to tell me you miss me. I want to say it back.
Hissing "I hate you" feels like they must be someone else's words in my mouth so I spit them at you.
I love you claws at the back of my throat, caged by clenched jaws when I see you.
And for every useless metaphor, a poet could think of,
I still can't find the right words to tell you I'm sorry,
"I'm sorry."
I still need to hear it from you.
"I'm sorry"
A cover up for our communication issues.
I'm sorry they chipped away at our friendship. But like the nail polish on your fingers,
I thought we could just paint over the problem.
But our hands were never steady enough for that.

I watch you wash it off. Pick a new colour. Maybe something that doesn't remind you of the fall.
You still want to be the simple boy with no problems, a bright smile, skirts and short hair.
But I know you better than that. No matter what you think, I still know you better than that.
You haven't changed.
You're just, gone.

So,
"Leave no black plume as a token of that lie they soul hath spoken. Leave my loneliness unbroken.
Quit the bust above my door. Take thy beak from out my heart."

Please, try to understand.
I can't speak to ravens anymore.