I haven't written to you in a very long time.

That's not true, I've written of you,
But I've written lies.

I've written about how you hurt people,
And how I'm stronger without you.
How I let you die inside me,
Like a miscarried child, someone I was never really meant to meet
and how I'm better now.

But in truth, darling, I miss you.

And I hate you.

And I want you,

but I can't have you.

Your kisses were sweet relief,
Your taste was divine.
And now I look for your face on every corner,
I look for a reason to call you up again,
even though I know there is never a good reason
to call you up again.

She hates you.
He's afraid of you,
But they don't know what you mean to me.

I love you.
I am not afraid,
The night I almost gave you my heart was not a cry for help.

I want you back.
I want to feel like I am human.

I want to open up and wear my love, seeping through my sleeve.

I am so lost without you.

You wanted to write her a love poem.
You wanted to make her feel like she was a brick of gold,
Forgetfully delicate and so pure, to hold her
would be the perfect example of effort and reward
But you were never very good at writing those.

So to keep yourself from getting bored, you're writing a poem about yourself.
Its still not a love poem though, You were never very good at writing those.
You are your own worst enemy.
Its pathetic really, denying that she was your lover,
But you are NOT her ******* mother.
So let her dig her own graves.

Now rob them.

Sometimes its hard to be a poets friend, because you know they'll twist your words and spit them back at you.
Their dark sides are the tiny spiders you left in the corner of the room to shrivel up and hang themselves in cobwebs made from old mistakes.
You don't expect them to bite.

Last night you heard her laugh and laughed louder to try to drown out the sounds of your own heart breaking.
Sometimes, it hurts to be strong.
Sometimes the smiles are fake and and the lines are all wrong, but you
Honey, you are an actress
Live in method, mistake stage light for the sun, inhale dust of memories like air,
its not like you can breath without her anyway.

Sometimes, its hard to be your own friend.
Because you are a poet and a poet is a sophist and a sophist is the worst thing you can call a person,
you drown in words and no one wants to save you because it looks like your a competitive swimmer.

Sometimes, its hard to be a poets friend. There are so many of you.
7 billion poets of their own craft. 7 billion.
And she will learn to love all of them. Call them darling.
Hold them away from ledges, pry knives from their hands.
Drain the bath tubs over and over.

She does not need you to feel loved.

Part one*

When the boy at the bus stop whistles at you on your way home from the Take Back the Night march,
Give him the finger.

When your boyfriend tells you he only likes long hair,
Shave your head.

When a stranger calls you a ****,
Say thank you.

When your mother tells you not to write the poem,
write it anyway. Perform it. Take the criticism, take the prize.

When they target your hometown with hate crimes,
Explain calmly. They are mistaken.
When that doesn't work,
Fight. Yell. Make them afraid to cross you.

When your best friend needs to cry,
Be quiet.

When the world tries to ignore you,
Don't let them.
Be strong, be proud, be courageous.

You are a role model.*

Part two

The first time he hits you,
Stay with him.

When he asks for your forgiveness for the sixth time,
Give it to him.

When he does not stop at no,
Close your eyes. Wait until he's finished.

When the girl tears down years worth of built up confidence with one number,
Starve yourself.

When a boy whistles in your direction.
Give him the finger. Turn away. Hide your smile.
It shouldn't matter that he was the only one who noticed the colour of your lipstick.

When your lover sheds kisses on your wounds,
Laugh. He will not ask you to stop.
You would not ask him to stop unless this was somehow different.

When you begin to backslide,
Do not ask for help.
Break down in public.

Love them when they start to worry.
Love them like you never learned to hate,
Make them scared that you will.

You were supposed to know better.

Part three

You are an abstract work of art.
A compilation of every sort of experience wrapped up in one.
You have made mistakes, you can make up for them.

Be proud.

When they try to lock you up,
be proud.

When they try to hold you back,
Be proud.

When they call you a hypocrite,
Do not run, do not be ashamed.
Forgive them.

*Forgive yourself.

Here, this is my voice box. Please be careful with it because I only have one, its not as loud as yours, and sometimes it cracks when I get nervous,
but for only three minutes of your time and the part of your mouth where it turns up at the end, its yours.

I've always known you thought of this world like a trading post. That each person you meet is absentmindedly trying to bargain away your most important parts,
every piece of gold and silver you have to offer, every wink of eyelash, ever giggle
As if we are untouched, untarnished miracle,
but a rarity waiting to be stolen.  

This life, you say, won't always just give you what you want.

It is all a game of operation that you are so good at.
You know exactly how to pull away people's most important parts without compromising your own.
Giving crocodile tears and counterfeit laughter for footsteps to walk in time with yours.

You guarded your heart like a bird in a cage,
so when it stopped singing, you began handing out ribs you thought were expendable like housewarming gifts in hopes a little company would bring its song back to life
Only I think someone stole it.

Because even though no buzzer went off, you seem to be looking for something to fill that space,
something like someone else's passions, something like power,
Something that is big enough to push out your chest like the way used to, when you still believed that people were worth more than the sum of the parts the could afford to give you.

Now you're all barter and a handshake with fingers crossed.
All swindle, all smooth talk, all scam
and no fairness.

But I am not a pawn shop.

There are things in this world I will forsake for the right deal:
the blush in my cheeks for an extra set of hands,
the grace in my step for the memories of dancing,
lend me your tenderest glance and I will give you every grown up tooth you can see when I laugh
But we are not made of infinity.
You ask for my lips to shape your favourite words
But never my eyes or my shoes to stand from my point of view.
You say their is a beast in my heart, you can see its outline in my jaw,
You offer your tongue to use as a whip
train it not to whisper or sing or beat out of time like yours.
Like the figure eights it creates in the rhythm I dance to were eternal.

I cannot afford to trade this.

I knew a boy who sacrificed his lungs for some peace of mind, and lost both.
I've seen girls who traded in liver and saline for a kiss that they would never be able to call their own
I have watched you chip off your vertebrae one by one, hand out pieces of your spine as currency to keep people off your back.
But I know when something is worth more than the sum of what you are willing to give me.

If you want me to tame the flutter of my heart,
Best bottle up your tears and make room for my own,
or else give me a reason to smile.

One.
Beautiful and young. Wise in the worst ways possible,
You took your own life by hanging yourself in the shower.
Your mother, clawing at splintered wood to reach you.

Two.
They said it was your fault.
That when four boys tugged you up the stairs to play Red Light, Green Light with your body,
You should have known they were colour-blind.
You should have known they would not stop.

Three.
We grew up in the same town, through the same years, with the same people
I never once say your face, or the picture they released of you, bent over, sick, on a window sill.
But I remember the first time I heard your name, the day they took you off life support.

Four.
They call you Angel now that you're gone.
They say our school was where we tried to clip your wings.
I wish I could say that was my doing.
I wish I could say that if I had been the one with the scissors,
you would have stayed. Grounded.
Icarus would never have fallen had I been the one to hold him back

Five.
I see your face in every stranger.

Six.
I hesitate before saying your name like its a curse word and there is a child standing next to me.

Seven.
I am getting tired of retelling your story over and over with the details no one else seems to hear and being expected to feel guilty for a crime I did not commit.

Eight.
I know it's not your fault,
You were a hard pill to swallow and were spit back out so many times it started to taste bitter.
But the world left over has scared compassion away with death threats to people we both thought we lovedbecause no one can figure out who to blame.

Nine..
I don't want to hate you.
But every negative feeling I have, towards the boys, the camera, towards locked doors and street corner gossip is wrapped up in you.
Your death has woven itself through friendships and titles and torn apart everything I thought could make me feel safe;
replaced it with vigilantes out for blood, replaced it with a hatred I didn't know exsisted.

Just look at what you've left us with.

Ten.
I wish you were here.
I wish I could meet you, have something other to hold onto than this.

Other than saying home and knowing they hear danger zone
I say nothing. They do not forget. You remind them of where I am from.

You have tainted every cherished memory, discredited every word this Cole Harbour **** could ever say.

Its where we tried to grow up,
Its where I found myself while you lost yours
But I learned to take pride in where I'm from
And I cannot apologize.

Hey you, Mr. Bad Influence,
Who the **** do you think you are?

Strutting in here with your stupid, too-tight sweater, smug grin and reeking of mary jane's latest perfume.
I, for one, am not impressed by your ***** hipster/bad boy/deep and artistic attitude.

You're like one really bad habit the world forgot to break.
You're a good liar, and an articulate debater,
the kind of guy that makes you want to tear out your hair
because their very existence is so incredibly perplexing.

In the worst ways possible.

I DON'T UNDERSTAND YOU.

You are junk food.
You are addicted to dying and make it annoyingly attractive.

You're all, "I don't care what anybody thinks of me."
You're all, "Challenge accepted."
You're all, "Look at me, I'm talented and smart and totally make it seem like I waste it on unconventional activities and tempt other people to do the same despite the fact that they might not have the skills necessary to pull that **** off."

And I know that everybody else probably thinks you are some, great guy but I,
refuse to buy into that
cool and detached act.

Because you, are not some great guy, Mr. Bad Influence.

You peer pressured me into falling for your smile.
You tricked me into getting caught, red handed, hoping you felt the same.
You dare me, every day, to trust you a little more and I am only so strong.

I don't do dependancies.
But I've thought about taking up smoking just so I can taste you on the exhale,
I mean, just so I'll  have something to miss that isn't you,
I mean, you're not even trying and I'm already hooked

You need a ******* warning label.

You are, frustrating and dangerous and toxic enough to stunt my growth;
I will never have another day I won't find you in my poems.
I wanna miss you right.

You are so wrong.

You are not some. Great. Guy.

Boy. You are everything I never wanted.
And yet I find myself here, missing you
Before I've even left.

While having a heart to heart one night,
My friend informs me that as a straight person, I will never understand what it's like to be closeted.

That there is a reason people understand the term "gay suicide" without context,
That love looked like moth wings that would flutter away or wither at touch,
That the secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.

That same friend once asked me if I've ever thought about joining a nudist colony.
She said that the comfort I find in my own skin and my ability to separate naked bodies from beds was admirable.
I told her, there was a reason I never read her my poetry.
I told her, I don't wear make up at Wal-Mart.
That I turn off the lights but still let him love me.
I read to estranged ears.
That bareness was something I would never grow into.

"Darling!" I told her, "there are some things you just aren't meant to see."
I have been truth-or-dared to strip naked, and its not as easy as you might believe.
There is a little something that sits at the back of my mind I like to call "modesty."

Modesty can be defined as the quality or state of being unassuming or limited in the estimation of one's abilities.
"Darling," I wanted to tell her, "You have no idea what these hands are capable of."

There was a time I was proud of that.
They were small and feeble, but holding a blade firm they became strong.
They became what I needed.
My skin became less of a barrier and more of a costume. When I slipped it on, I became original.
I became identified, if only to myself.
The scabs were a serial number the First World girl who was a little too white,
a little too straight,
and a little too doubtful could call her own.

But I was a little too weak,
and a little too lonely
and had a little too much time on my hands to wrap around the knife.

They became my drug. I became a liar.

My skin became an apology for everything I thought you should blame me for.

There was a time I would have done anything to show you, but I have always been a performer.
No one ever asked to see the curtains close.  

My friend told me that I would never understand what it's like to be closeted.
That secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.
The tally of every moment I'm locked in is a timeline of my mistakes, visible on my own skin.
There are some things you just aren't meant to see.