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.

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.

David, like David and Goliath, like the statue
was made in 1501 by Michaelangelo.
A fatherless son, born perfect to the world. Full Grown.
But in Italy, they'll tell you that Michaelangelo
never wanted to be a sculpter;
That he was an artist but that his gift was his curse.

Yet he still managed to create this marvelous marble masterpiece.
Gave the world beauty to call it beautiful and behold it for hundreds of years,
because heaven knows he never would.

But sometimes I feel like you see yourself more like Galatea.

But a rose by any other name might smell more sweet than thee,
My fair, dark lady,
Only to be loved by those of your statue.
I mean, stature.

My fair, dark lady,
who chased me from the light in spite of just wanting to help
the charity case.

My fair, dark lady,
I made you to be a hero,
But a villain you became.

How can one love the name of a rose proud enough
To ***** the finger of tender green thumbs?

Still, its handed a clean slate for the sake of soft petals.
Justified by sweet smells and vibrant colours.
Excused.

Just, if only I could forget the thorns,
I'd have spoken "Love" differently.

I wanted to love you like no other sister would,
but couldn't.

I wanted a savior to stay even when things are okay,
wouldn't you?
When the giants weren't around.

Well, who's hero are you now?

Tell me how a statue saves lives,
rather than turning to stone when the sun rises
And I will eagerly believe.

Or don't.

Strike your pose.

Bask in the spotlight.

It's what you wanted.
It's what you got.

Hear them say "Galatea."
Not marble but ivory,
"Eliza."
"Aphrodite."

And believe them.
"Perfection created."

But I'll call you David;
Never abandoned,
forever alone.

Because humans don't need solution or heroes to depend on.
We need friends.

Well, congratulations, beautiful.

Everyone loves you.

Except, the people who should.

She Looks Like a Tiger
See how she places her paws so lightly, so as not to be heard.
Silently, she moves through the crowd, head held high, today she doesn't want to hide.
Depicted in peach coloured stripes. No red, no brown, no blue, no black.
Today, is the first day she felt it was safe to show them.
Asking for the first time in her life, for the world to continue doing what it's always done
Lean on her, sing her our our sorrows so she could sing them back and pretend, that we could not see her scars.
She has always been the brick wall.
The concert hall
The shoulder to cry on.
The logic you would chase after with your pedestrian problems and she was the designated driver.
But when it looks like you're a casual on bridges over troubled waters, there 's no one talking you down from the ledge.

She would never have asked you to.

Hannah, your name sounds like a semi-permanent tattoo.
I hope that's what this poem feels like to everyone who hears it
So that every time they think they know broken,
they feel cold lines crisscrossing their body and can honestly wonder,
was this feeling your blueprint.

But I think you look like tiger.  
And I know, I shouldn't give time to some little boys who refuse to use her real name because it fits her to well.
Callin' her some emo, weak hippie freak.
she's just looking for attention.
Because when you're the first person to make it through Hell and back alive, you're a liar.
A hitch hiker piggy backing on someone else's problems.
But her arms served as straightaways for razorblades for nine solid years,
and its no thanks to people like you she's still here.

You think, she should be ashamed of herself. As if scars are a ***** in the armour.
Like she was peer pressured into self-destruction and couldn't resist.
No one asks you:
"Hey there, wanna cut? Wanna, self-mutilate?"

Just like I won't ask you not to hate the idea of someone being that low
That every beat of the heart feels a little like ****** assault, and cutting was the best way she could find to say no.

She looks like a tiger,
and she didn't earn her stripes. People rarely do.
But she has earned the right to wear them for what they are;
Battle scars.
Things she's long overcome.
Her head is held high again.

And I know, I shouldn't be wasting my time on people
Who refuse to use her real name,
but Hannah is still Hannah inside out, upside down,
Backwards, Hannah is still Hannah,
Even with her insides out,
Hannah is still Hannah.
She's still here.

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 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.

He called me princess. I don't think much of it, let it slip my mind from time to time.
I'm fine with it.
Until today, when I watched a woman tell a little girl she wasn't one.
Talking about how her daddy shouldn't call her what she's not and her mama shouldn't be filling her head with words like, "You can be anything you want to."
Like, its not true and if you don't tell her now she'll never outgrow the idea of being
A princess.

And though Heaven forbid we dreams big,
I, was definitely a princess.
Princess Aleisia of the Beauties, a forest is my own back yard,
my castle was a tree I literally believed gnomes lived beneath: Alglenia.
An orphaned warrior; I was half gypsy, half native, half Neopian Light Faerie,
And though I clearly was not a princess who did math, I protected my subjects from monsters and evil that was constantly trying to overthrow good.
I could wield a Morning Star better than any boy on the block.
I had inner battles with myself, for I had the blood and horns of a dragon and it was always a challenge to be both Athena's apprentice and an aspiring sage because I thrived in the dark.
I was part demon like Inuyasha,
I was Sango,
I was Mononoke,
I was Mulan,
I was Pocahontas,
I was Bell AND the Beast,
I was Susan and Lucy,
I was Esmerelda, Anastasia

And that's still a big part of me.

Because, if someone had listed all the things I couldn't be while my knees were still to weak for me to stand and speak up for what I believed in, I probably would never have been a poet.
So excuse me for using the word "heroine" with the last ounce of innocence the world has yet to offer a little girl.
Pardon me for trying to learn to infuse grace and charm with strength and loyalty.
Now, imagine with me.
The places I used to play left in ruin. My castles disintegrating. The echo of my battle cries through the forests and fields and mountains have long since faded because the heir to my throne never took her place.

Deny her the right to grow out of her child hood?
Deny me the right to write?
This was never a career choice of mine,
This will always be a way of life.

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.

Ahh, the friend zone.  Have you ever been there? Stuck between wanting and not being wanted by who you are certain must be the love of your life? Well don't you worry your lonely little head any longer, because experts have finally developed a fool-proof way to escape this unfair wasteland void of affection.

Step one:
Admit what has happened.  You, friend, have been friend zoned.  For some unfathomable reason, girl has deemed you, undesirable. Do not be discouraged when she calls you brother.  Instead, accept the challenge of making ****** seem appealing.

Step two:
Spend less time with her.  Make her feel as if she values your company more than you do hers.  She will begin to feel confused and lonely. When she calls, do not pick up until at least the fifth ring.

Step three:
Up your flirting game. If she doesn't respond positively, send her a sarcastic remark via text guilting her into giving you more attention.

Step four:
Change. Change everything about yourself until you lose the person she first befriended.  When she sees you, it will be like looking in the face of a stranger.

Step five:
Break the touch barrier.  Invading a woman's personal space with unwarranted physical gestures is a sure way to make her used to your dominating body movements.  Soon, she should submit to her instincts, and to you.  

Step six:
Stop doing things for her.  You can't expect a girl to want to date you when you already give her everything a boyfriend would and she doesn't even have to put out.  (I mean, the only reason women even have *** is to keep their man around).  Instead, tell her to do something for you, like making a sandwich.

Step seven:
Explain to her why her boyfriend, girlfriend, other love interest, or singleness is not right for you.  I mean, her.  She is, after all, incapable of making her own decisions, or else she would not need to lean on you for advice.  Understand that you are better than anything else she could want, she just doesn't know it yet.

Step eight:
Date other people.  Women easily become jealous of other women.  This will make her small mind react territorially.  Much like step two, this will lead her to feel insecure around you, and she will begin to show you only her most formal, prettiest parts.  

Step nine.
Confess your feelings for her.  Humans in general can never tell when someone is romantically interested.  Overstep boundaries, tell her how you are almost too good for her, and she will never find someone like you.

Step ten.
Congratulations! You've done it.  You, sir, have escaped the friend zone.
She does not look at you when she walks by. She does not call.
You, are no longer her friend.

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.

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.


- Billy Collins

Midas my love,
you are a king among thieves.
The humble saviour that lifted the beggar man's leftovers up from her knees
where she'd knelt in prayer, or defeat.
It doesn’t matter.
You made me a queen.
And we, ruled our world like no other lovers ever could.
when you'd touch me and say, "baby, you're golden."
You'd touch me, and I would feel soft beneath your fingertips,
when our lips would meet,
those moments were more precious than all the riches in the world,
Those moments were so rare.
Midas, my love,
You made me into a fountain of youth.  
demanded I water your roses that would not grow themselves.
And I did.
I poured my heart and soul out until it overflowed into the garden,
I watched you stare in wonder, I watched you fall in love with me
like a child.
Selfish and unafraid.
You named me life, you named me gift,
You did not name me woman.
Midas, my love.
golden hearts do not float.
They sink in disappointment and hit bottom with a thud the third night you forget to call.
Though you will not see them rust, they will become cold and hard and heavy.
Midas, love, am I every bit as precious as you wanted me to be?
Am I a trophy to show to strangers, am I a symbol to kneel before like an alter,
Am I the idea of perfection you sought?
Midas, your highness, king of kindness, you are alone.
Statues of saints are made to look at, not to love.
Martyrs were not forged to love in return.

I've been told my whole life that my life is easy.
I don't disagree. I have a house and a bed and free education, I'm not hungry.
But I've never thought that these are things to be held against me.

As far as I can tell, I've never done this before, I did not choose the way of life where the problems on this earth barely reach me. The questions left behind today, the ones we only now seem to have the power to fix, they're not my fault. If I could, I wouldn't have chose this kind of guilt-tripping, doom-impending "easy".

Things used to be better, so I'm told.
Family's used to stay together, so I'm told.
There were still things left to discover, so I'm told.
Men kept their word, women were more respectable, there were still things left to fight for.
As if we have left nothing to worry about anymore.

We have new age problems that started with your first engine.
Your first lightbulb.
Your first sweatshop.
Your first cellphone.

We are left fighting for balance between an undeniable human nature and nature itself, dwindling.

This isn't the age of sin, it's the age of freedom,

Where you feel the need to point out that too much of a good thing can single handedly destroy the world. You should know.

And we are not taking things easy, We are not lying down easy,
We are working.
Things are different now but we are working.
Trying to tell ourselves: Its not our fault
Danger, is just a household game for children.

Normal is no longer a house hold name.
Everything is so ******* up these days.

But we are working

to think everything through before we go ahead and do whatever might be a temporary fix to the mess that was made.

A mess you created, and no I'm not ungrateful 'cause you only ever did what you thought was best for us, to make life easier for us. You worked hard and lived hard and everything was hard, at least that's what you tell me. And God, I hope it's true.
Because that's the only way I can wrap my brain around the thought forgiving you.

I don't believe you never saw this coming. Unless,
Were you simply working too hard for a brighter future, a world for your children and their children and their children to live life easier to stop and wonder what might happen if?  

This is not the dying world I would want to bring a baby into.
I wouldn't want my child's life to be that kind of condemning easy, lazy
I'd want it to be simple and stress free.  
But never easy.

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?

To the girl he will cheat on me with,
Forgive me for my naivety, for loving him even though he will not deserve it
for trusting him to go out alone, go home alone,
and for being the reason he leaves you before you wake.
I am so sorry.
You, must be so pretty.

You must know that that is never a good excuse.

That night,
You will have captured his attention while dancing beneath twinkling lights
that catch the gold and silver in your hair just right.

In ten minutes,  
He will have asked if he can by you a drink, so that he can watch your red lips move in conversation.

In two hours he will have had you in some quiet place,
He will have enveloped his senses in your feel, your taste, your smell.
He will have told you as if on cue that you, are so good at being pretty.
And witty. And bright. And he will kiss you for it.

He will not know that your "pretty" tonight was not completely meant for him,
It was, just-in-case.

You will wake up tangled in cool sheets, and understand.
Be glad you took the precaution before ******* my lover,
Comprehend that he will never have been worth our time.

Still, for giving him the time,
for giving him this opportunity to tear out my heart and crush it in his fingers,
I thank you in advance.

You, are so good at being pretty.

Your lipstick will stain the collar of his shirt.
The glitter in your hair will stick to his skin.
He will reek of a perfume I have never worn
And I will know.

So, thank you
for making yourself so pretty that night,
just in case he had a girl back home.

There are always tells with an abuse survivor.  
My friend had a dog once that she adopted from a rescue shelter.
We do not know the home she came from before,
all we know is that she hates being left alone in a room with men,
she whimpers at loud noises, and sudden movements send her into hiding,
even now.
The first time you labelled yourself as an abuse survivor,
You felt like a sham.  
There was no tell for you,
It'd never been hell for you to relate all the terrible things that boy had done,
You forgave him.  
You preached your sins like a success story,
as if you mother had raised you with the right combination of strength and self-understanding to be immune to the world's poison,
you were sugar and spice and everything nice with just enough chemical X
to make girls wanna be like you.

The second time you called yourself abuse survivor,  
you realized just how unbroken you were.
You smiled and laughed and loved without hesitation. Broken glasses don't send you into a pit of despair, you don't flinch when you hear his name.
You don't even miss him.

So who do you think you are?
You, the one who started the fights,
you were the one who left him.
And everyone knows abusers don't have hearts to break.  
The boy doesn't smile anymore.  

So you stopped calling yourself survivor.
Corrected others as they told the stories of grander,
demanded everyone admit the demonic part you had to play,
you monster, you beast, you manipulative liar.
You are no survivor.

A twisted sister with no bruises or scars, who stopped saying no and pushed back doesn't sound like a sob story to me,
a strong enough spine to walk no matter how long it took doesn't sound like recovery to me,
a girl looking for an audience's attention doesn't sound like a grown woman to me.  


You are nothing but a misbehaved dog, so let them call you *****.
Roll over and beg for the forgiveness you do not deserve.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry

The first time the new one called you survivor,
You were lying on the bathroom floor shouting apologies from beneath a veil of hair.
He picked you up and wiped the tears from you eyes.
Told you, it’s okay.  
It wasn't.
But it will be.

I remember how warm the look in your eyes used to be.
You see, I play those moments back in my mind,
Time after time.
A little light just for me.

I remember how safe I felt whenever you held me close.
That strength you swore would stay for any length of time.
You promised you'd always be mine.

I remember how your voice used to sound.
Your song would make my heart pound, but now?
I'm so damaged I'm numb.

And you are too but by *** and coke
And not a word is spoken between us because now,

You lie here.
In my arms.
Fading fast.

While I try to fend of the pain the morning is bound to bring back to you again
And pray it migh last.

But the look in your eye is so distant.

The warmth,
The heat is gone.
Cold feet.

Your hands are shaking as you ask if it's really me there.

You don't even recognize me.

So, why do I care?

You appologize, but the diction is slurred.
The meaning is blurred.
I can't breathe near you.

Still, I can't bring myself to leave you.

So, I kiss your cheek and tell you that I know.
I also know that yo won' remember a confession of love to me,
Your "saving grace sent from above," so I pretend not to hear.

I hold back a tear, tuck you in bed.
And remember the things that I should have said.

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.

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.

A mocking bird is a creature that mimics the sounds that its surroundings want to hear.
And you never did stop singing.
Every word that came out of my mouth reminded you of a song
And when you'd sing to me, everything would feel alright.
You became the soundtrack to my life.
You were the melody I  couldn't get off my mind and
We were the Love Story even Taylor Swift couldn't write.

We were like Bonnie and Clyde.
We lived by our own rules like partners in crime.

We had our own world.
Our own language.
Our own customes that nobody really understood
But we didn't give a flying **** 'cause we,
were sitting in the stars,

Like, on Pandora,
Only this little planet of ours
Took 167 months less to make.

I  hate how you still bring up those old traditions because now,
They only come under certain conditions.

Like, you used to kiss my palms to give me something to hold onto
But now,
They only come when you find yourself ashamed of the scares and the scars that you gave to me.
Only to turn the tables on me and act like I pressed self-inflicted wounds to your lips
And made you taste it.

That's all you.
So, don't go looking at me like I'm poison running through your veins.
Not when I remember a time when I was your fix.
You needed me.
You put that needle to your own arm, baby.

No relapse for us.
I went to rehab to get that song off my brain.
And I don't need your painkillers replacing me in your bloodstream,
Headed for what's left of your heart.

But all that strain is gonna tear the muscle tissue there apart, you know.

And all that numbness still won't explain why I thank you, though.

'Cause I didn't know how deep I could feel until you filled me
With a sea of my own tears.
I didn't know I could come so close to death
And feel that rush between each breath.
And I'm gonna use that gush of air to sing sonnets like a prayer to a God I don't believe in,
In hopes she won't see the playground bully
I see in you.

You switch sides like a game
Of Red Rover.
And when you sing, you change everything on me.
Tell me, how am I supposed to keep up?

How am I supposed to keep my chin up when you tell me to look down?
'Cause I know tomorrow,
You'll be coming around thinking it's okay
To be my best friend.

And still,
In a couple hours,
You'll be listening to our song again.

You don't need to say you still love me.
I can hear it as you purposely misinterpret the words that used to sound so lovely.

But if I'm wrong,
Explain how our song meant nothing.
Our words? Meant nothing.
Our dance? Meant nothing.
That our world meant nothing to you.

Tell me you didn't feel,
Something.

You were a melody I couldn't forget.
But now?
I regret ever learning the tune.

And I hear you singing louder than ever,
To remind me that you're fine. Well,
That's all fine and dandy.
But who told you I was prepared
For a love song
Turned tradgedy?

I'll admit it.
You got me.
I believed every word, but
You never kept a single promise to me,
Mocking Bird.

Question: What do you do if your car crashes?
Answer: Don't crash your car.

I drove myself home from the hospital the morning after I drove myself insane.
A note in my hand listing ways the doctors could direct to get me home safe from my own self.
Come to a full stop at sharp edges,
Steer away from liquids you can drown in,
Put in your caution lights so people just drive around you,
Take your medicine,
Don't drive alone,
No not that medicine
Here's a phone number in case you have something worth saying,
Bus to class,
Unless that's too hard.
Flunk out
Call your mother.
Don't tell her everything.
And it becomes a challenge just to say I'm not okay.

Because after a disaster like mine,
No one wants to hear you haven't healed yet.

And I can't count the number of times I've been offered a vaccine instead of a remedy,
and scoffed at when the cast comes off and I'm still a little too broken.
As if I haven't healed fast enough.

Don't tell me I'm being overdramatic,
Don't tell me I chose the broken glass,
the bending steal.
That it was all avoidable had I just not blinked,
Had I just slowed down and stopped to think
Had I just snapped out of it.

I wouldn't have crashed.

Question: Have you ever gone driving in the rain?
In the snow?
Cause then you might know how it feels to lose just a little bit of control.
And the next moment find yourself in the bottom of a ditch,
waiting once again for someone to pull you from the wreckage
Because you can't save yourself.

I wanna save myself.  
And I don't need to know how the engine works.
Just teach me to read the warning signs when I'm heading south and there's no way for me to turn around.  
Let me know that when I start to let go, there are safety nets 'cause sometimes my mind is more of a balancing act, the bridge accident than a joy ride
So give me air bags,
give me seat belts,
Give me a crash test dummy.

If I cut the brake lines, show me how to coast to a stop.

Because people cannot live in a plastic bubble, rolling around at 5 mph for the rest of our lives,
repeating caution signs:
Don't blink,
Don't breath,
Don't move,
Don't freeze,
Don't drive,
Don't park,
Don't live.
Don't tell me don't tell me don't tell me
this is defensive living

Sometimes veering off the road, eyes shut tight on a straightaway covered in obstacles bigger than ourselves is the best we can do to survive.

Question: What do you do if your car crashes?
Answer: Just crash your car.

Hello there,
Let me introduce myself.
My name is Punching Bag.

It doesn't matter how long you neglect me,
Because, when you need a scape goat,
I'm just as tough as the day you first met me.

Hit me all you like, I'll barely budge.
And no matter how hard you throw that punch,
I'll only move closer to you.

Not once will I ever swing back.

You'll find those more well-aquainted with me sometimes call me,
Used Tissue.

When things get a little too messy, I'm the reliable one who cleans you up.
Get sick, I'll take care of you.
A broken heart? I'll dry your tears.
I'll fix your make-up.

Then, when the exitement is over,
Just toss me out.
I won't mind.

As you spend more time with me, I'm sure you'll learn to refer to me as:
Closet, or even Mirror.

A part of the furniture you're used to having around
But even whenyou get bored with the look,
You don't throw me out.

I'm a place to point ot your insecurities,
Then hang them up along side your skeletons, locked inside me.

Then, seeing yourself as better than you are,
Go on with your day.

Go ahead and stick a lable on me reading Story Book,
Even though I'm still fairly empty of fairytales inside.

I won't even read into your faibles;
There's nothing more exciting than a history that never really happened, right?

Make up what you think might be fun to tell before passing me to someone else,
To read and add on more.

But, now that you've gotten to know me better, why don't you call me Staircase?

I let people walk on me, walk all over me 'til they reach the top.

I'll have to warn you about this though.
I'm not made of marble, stone or brick.
I'm made of wood that's been warn away by heavy boots
So, each step is a little less thick.
One of my dusty, rotten boards might give way and you might fall.

Please, don't blame me.
Even with all my identities, I can't change what I am.
As har as I try, I'm still only human.

There is nothing on this Earth more glorious
Than biting into a warm Lindor chocolate
To find the center has completely liquefied.

As curious as it is to wonder how it got there in the first place,
You don't.

You're too distracted,
Racing to keep it from dripping down your chin.

In that short moment,
Your taste-buds take you to your own private haven.
Saving you from the many trials you are forced to endure
while inhabiting this world.

Do it as stealthily as possible,
Else be prepared for
"Yum! Can I have one?"

Lindor chocolate is not for sharing.

Brown eyes scan the crowd.
Wild with fury.
Frantically hopping from face to face.

She is hunting, with an intention to ****.
Your heartbeat spills over her eardrums.
She knows her prey is nearby.

She focusses on you,
And you finally see her, too late.
She is only meters away.

No escaping this time.

People slide past like ghosts.
Not one of them notices you, frozen in fear.

Her hate cannot mask her hurt.

She is an injured creature,
Out for vengence.

Her mouth curves back into a snarl
To reveal the sharpest teeth you've ever seen.

You search desperately,
For a man with an axe,
For someone to protect the castle.

But an imposter's lips can only call for help
Is so many instances

You are caught.
No escaping this time.

She circles, preparing to strike.

Her lips shape one word:
Liar

It's soundwaves wash over you,
Truth knocks you to the ground.
You were only ever house of straw.

Retracting her claws,
She retreats into the sea of oblivous faces.

You're humilty served.

You are left in shreds.

Nobody notices.
Nobody cares.

This poem is a suicide note.
Tonight, this pitiful life is finally coming to an end. I,
have finally accepted that much.
No longer suspended in a lost, hopeless state:
Not quite asleep.
Not quite awake.

Oh, I've been trapped for too long.
Wrapped up in you.
A translucent bubble wrap.

My voice has given out by now,
Absorbed into this shell.
Thrown back in my face.
No.

I feel like a marionette,
Losing control over what I do
And yet,
Despite my best efforts,
I'm just tangled.

Up
Around
Over
Through

So much so,
There's a knot so tight,
The only way out is to
Cut
Right
Through.

There is simply nowhere else to turn.
Oh, but I tried

I ran.
I hid.
I fought.
I cried.
Bled.
Froze.
Got burned.

And you can say it'll get easier.
It's easy for you.
But I lost my drive to please
Everyone around me.

And I hate lying here,
On the ground.
In it.
In this grave that I dug.

I'm scared,
But only of what I might become.

So, I'm gonna cut right through
the ties from the lies I've been living in.
No.
Not living.
More like spending time lost in the darkness
Of a dead, dead end.

But Death will be attending his own funeral.

Tonight,
I'm gonna restart.
Gonna be brand new.
No.
Better than brand new.
Better than the best, and yes,
That means leaving you behind.

You are the weight of the world on my shoulders.

If I can't get you off my mind,
Then how will I be set free?

I might be on a leash,
But you don't get
the choice to let go or not.

You don't get
To hide me behind a curtain
And, prop her up on a pedestal.

You shouldn't have knocked me off in the first place.

I'm gonna crawl away to a brand new place.
Where I'm loved
And live properly.

After what I went through,
You should have known.
Something had to give.

So,

I'm giving up on this life I planned with you.
I'm moving into cloud nine.

But I'm not leaving.
No.
I'll be weaving my way through
your conscience.
Leaving a trail of words so sharp,
They could cut
Clean
Through.

All the while,
I'll be moving on.

I am the rising sun
Here to **** the "me" I was
When I was, with you.
Your Envious Moon.

My heartstrings may be tangled,
And tearing,
Mangling my innards.
But I will not let myself be hanged.

Tonight,
I'm taking your picture off the shelf,
Waving good bye to my old self,
And praying I have the strength
To make it home.

"Writing?" you might ask.
"What's it about?"
Everything
I wanna say
Nothing
I wanna say
Misunderstanding
Like the look you give me while I try to explain the poems that spill from my lips
Before I've even got a grip
On what it is
I'm saying.

And no, I don't want you to read what I've got so far
When my head is busy dancing circles around my pen.

I wanna write.

It is my one selfish need I will never give up.
It is my freedom of speech that you will never corrupt
With your requests for ballads
As you **** inspiration from me like it's chocolate syrup
And you can't get enough of those
Semi sweet words.

But poetry
Is not fuel.

It's oxygen.

And you are ******* at the air from my lips as I recite these
So-called rants. These
"Depressing chants" of First World problems.

Well, welcome to my life,
Where First World problems rain down on my adolscence.

Because, my hands?
May never have to wipe blood from my loved ones.
But, my cheeks
still know the hot sting of tears.

We've all got First World problems
Hidden down dark corridors.
Or, sitting as eye-sores on street corners.

But poetry is a metamorphosis.
Where we lock away our ugly.

Its purpose?
To emerge from our throats like butterflies.

And with our pain set fluttering free,
There is nothing left stopping us from helping those far or near
In need.

And the world will make poets of them yet.
Whether they know it or not.

Whether our breath ever shutters in the same way or not is not important.

I surround myself
With artists of word who can sometimes tell me
What I want to say in ways more beautiful than my tongue could ever shape but

I
Will never
Stop
Writing.

Never stop
Fighting
For what I believe in

So,
Don't read.
Just listen.
And I will write you a duet.

I know that I can make a poet of you yet.

There are days I feel sorry for loving you.
Days when my guilt rises with the sun.
Days the sky is pink with my feelings for you,
When only I know this is warning of a storm to come.

I am Calypso.
No weathered sailor can deny that they care for me, even if they never wanted sea legs.
But now addicted to the unpredictable rise and falls of the water,
Its now the constant rocking that sends you asleep,
gives you reason to wake in the morning.

I am love.

And love is never clean.
Like the day of our first kiss
When I spilled my heart out all over your shoes, I stooped to pick it up but you said, you didn't mind getting your feet wet.

Love is so much more  now.

I called it love when I first heard you wrap my name in ocean waves, and promised me it'd stay afloat.
This is not love.
This is irresistibility
This is is verging on obsession
This is a passion I know you never knew existed before me.

I am love, '
You are but the love I gave to you
You are a victim of my disease.
I can bring any atheist to his knees once I have my sights set on him.
I warned you.

I am love.
You a flirting with danger,
Love, your feet are more than wet,
Love, you are in over your head,
I only hope you can swim.

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.

Once upon a time,
I was your hero.
I would come to your side,
Sword in hand and defend until I could no longer breath or stand and even then
I’d fight.
I’d wipe your eyes dry and tell you everything was alright.
Once upon a time,
I did my job too well.
I guess I built you up so high, you can see that I’m not so strong, that I can be wrong and so you take me and break me down.
I try to get through to you one day. I ask for you to come and play and remember the days we’d spend together.
But you don’t want to.
You don’t need me anymore.
You have better thoughts to think about and better friends to think thoughts to.
And I’ve become nothing in the eyes of you.
So, I want to climb up to where you think you stand and look you in the eye but you look down at your hands.
So, I keep climbing, higher and higher until I can look down on you. But that’s not fair.
So, instead, I tilt my head back to the sky and shout:
Who are you?!
And start to cry.
But you don’t hear me.
No, you have headphones in your ears, thoughts in the clouds, feet off the ground and a keyboard at your fingertips.
To you, everything’s fine. To you.
To me, I see us falling apart. I see ice slowly encaging your heart. And it hurts me.
But why? Isn’t this what I wanted you to be?
That’s not why I cry. You don’t need me and that’s just fine, but still, I hurt...
Because, once upon a time,
You were my hero.
My rock, my crutches, my voice of reason.
Now your voice just dissolves into noise and I see you as a stranger on the street. One who won’t help me on my feet but knock me down.
I watch you walk away. I sit on the ground, thinking “There’ goes my happy ending”.

Tonight,
I'm wrapped in three blankets,
Next to a memory that sits on the arm of the couch where I first told you I loved you.

Tonight,
I can see the moon outside amongst the shimmering stars
But shivering from the cold and the loneliness that hangs in every dark cloud that surrounds it.

Tonight,
We are one and the same,
The moon and me.

We hear no sound but our own and watch the world.

We take refuge in the night because there is no way we can put up a fight against the sun.

But tonight,
I know I've been alone in the dark too long.

I wait 'til I see something creep up over the horizon,
Let the warmth touch my pale skin,
Realise just how much I've missed having that sunkissed sweetness on my lips

Burn me, baby! Turn me into something that glows!

I know you do your best,
Which is better than good enough for me
But apparently not for you.

They day becomes too hot and you need to step outside for air.

And I feel...

Nothing.

I look down to find my heart has turned black.
I touch it, expecting it to turn to ash.
But instead,
It stays firm beneath my fingertips.

Something is wrong.

It's frozen,
And I've been alone all along.

Mary Jane

Seducer of young men and women.

Shaking hands at ten bucks a pop,
Then pulling them in to an embrace they cannot escape from.

Even if they'd wanted to.

You are the green outsides when
Their insides are blue.

You promise them solution,
relief.
But rarely follow through.

YOU are something I despise.

And I,
am not just some prep.

Some ***-head-hating *****
who knocks it before she's tried.

I tried,

to hang on, that is.

While you pulled them away from me.

I'll never forget the look in her too-red eyes
when she told me I couldn't stay.
That she'd made other plans that day.

That day and every other from then on.

I could smell your perfume tangled in her hair.
When she hugged me good bye.

That's twice now.

Twice now you stole my best friend
With promises of popularity and good humor.

That's twice you ripped out my heart.

Twice too many times.
I've written sobering rhymes against you.

And they were not the first.

I know I can't blame you, completely.

You didn't take their names.
You didn't make them make the choice,
You didn't force their voice to strip me down to tears.

And you didn't tell me to say no, when I had the chance
To dance with you.

But you gave them the option to,
All the while,
Whispering sweet nothings into their ears.

Pulling at their fingertips.

Promising gifts you could not guarantee.

And last night,
I could taste you on his lips.

I could see your shadow forming in his lungs
As he spoke.

So, Mary Jane.
I am begging you.

Please.

Don't.

Don't show him that their is no other lover better than the company of you.

Don't show him the side of you that only
One who'd tried it could know
And let him love it.

I don't think I could take another blow
of your breath in my face,

If,
...when...
With diffident intentions,
He turns away.

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.

To answer your question,
Yes.

It never left me.

It sits patiently at the sidelines on sunny days.
It doesn't fight formy attention.
It doesn't book off days in my calender.

It smiles when I smile.
It laughs when I laugh.
It knows that all It has to do
Is wait for the overcast.

A ceiling of clouds closing in on me.
Day after day, the raindrops won't come.
Each grey morning looks a little darker than the last.

Until, atlast:
The first tear hits the ground.

And It is there, immediately.
Offering escape.

At first, I'll refuse.
"Never again."
I meant what I said.
I will not break my promise.

But as the hours go by,
It becomes more obvious.
The rain does not want to let up.

And there It is,
Reminding me of Its offer of solution.
It promises that Its affections are just as strong as always.

I want to pull away,
But I can't deny the safeness that calls to me,
Awaiting beneath the umbrella.

The calmness I feel spreading from the burn where It grips my skin.

The storm passes,
Leaving nothing but a colourful mess to clean up.

I don't expect you to understand.
But then again,
I don't expect you to find out.

"Never again."
I'd meant what I said.

But it's so easy to think that It will never hurt you.
Not the way It hurts me when all I have is loneliness for company.

So, to answer your question,
Yes.

And if you ever bothered to check, you'd see.
It forever waits on my company.

It laughs when I laugh.
It cries when I cry.
But maybe It would give up and leave,
If you too never left my side.

If I were to write a poem for you,
I would start off by telling you I'm sorry.
I would vaguely hint towards the things I know I must have done wrong,
I would try to take back the reasons I told you to leave,
I would love you.

Next, I'd use a metaphor to explain how you were my support beam and I was a flowering cactus.
Explain that the very way you tended to my roots and seduced my thorns was beautiful.
I would romanticize our nights together, rare but so precious.

If I were to were to write a poem for you, as I so often have,
I would do so to let the world know what was coming.
A star, that's light has yet to reach Earth but when it does it will be so bright it will shine for millennia after you're gone.
I would say, "Baby, you are not a flickering flame on a candle burning low. And this world, is not a child with ADD; you will be appreciated for your wonder, even when you have nothing more to give."

I'd also add a sprinkle of humour.
I would laugh at how our story began,
How I hated you before I met you, and the time you thought you might love me (which you still don't know I know).
I'd mention the time our friends went for each others throats, or perhaps the way we felt we could shame other poets, strip them of their title if they wrote for insults and familiar ears.

If I really were to write a poem for you,
I would want the main idea to be based on how you were the reason I write. Not just this poem but all poetry. I'd talk about how sometimes, even now, I can hear the way you dictated a phrase mimicked in my own mouth.
I would claim that we would always have words.

If I were to write a poem to you,
I would say, I forgive you.
But I will never write a poem about you.
I think, I would want too badly for you to hear it.

Someday.
Somewhere.
Somebody
will write my biography.
I will never read it.
It won’t be about me.
It’ll be called, '1001 Days That Shaped the World'.
(Volume II)
There will be a bright eyed,
bushy tailed girl
mentioned on every page,

Because they told me I could do anything,
Someday.

But back then,
My hands were too small.
My plans were too big.
My climbing trees were too tall.

Anything, seemed so unlikely.
So overwhelming.
Sobriety told me to hide under my covers.
To stargaze at the impossible but only from the safest places,

Last night I discovered that if you keep your eyes open through the dark,
you could watch your dreams come alive while the sun rises.
You can leave your mark in history when they least expect it.
You can protect your memory long after the last person you knew is gone.

And today,
For the first time in too long,
anything finally feels
Real.
And present.
And possible.

You stand tall
On a ledge
Way up high

Staring down at
Glimmering water below.

The scene around you
Is beautiful.

Perfect like a painting

In a museum.

It feels like
There should be silence.
But there isn’t.

Tauntings are ringing
in your ears.

And a slight whimpering is present.

You only vaguely realize
That this noise comes from
You.

Most likely caused by the
Faltering steam
Of tears running
Down your face.

To shut all this out,
You close your eyes
And take a deep breath,

Lifting one of your feet
That had been planted
So firmly where you stand.

And leap.

For a moment,
There is no

Falling. No
Flying. No
Floating.

You are just there.

You decide you will
take a last breath but
Before you get
The chance you
hit the water.

A sting engulfs your
Bent leg while you
slide
into oblivion.

Under the surface,
The sense of nothing
Returns. Only this time it’s

Colder.

And the silence that
Was missing has revealed
Itself. Like it was
Hiding here
All along.

But the ache in your lungs reminds you that
There are places to be.

People to see.

So you kick up, disturbing
The previous perfection.

Your head breaks the
Surface

You are almost surprised
That the embarrassment you had
Been feeling has transformed
Into a source
Of pride
For you.

The presence of this
Only possible because you
Had done something.

One thing.
One very small, yet
Somehow,
Quite large
Thing.

You were finally able
To summon your courage
and

Jump.

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.

What do you think of me?
Really?

When you see me standing in front of you,
Is there an underlying feeling
Of knowing?

Do you know about the the butterflies
That fester in me
when I talk to you?
Or about you?
And I do,
talk about you.

Do you know that when I'm near you,
I lose myself
In the atmosphere?

Can you hear my heart
Beating right out of my chest?
I do my best to hide it.
But I can never tell.

Do you think I'm funny?
Like a clown,
Can I make you laugh?

Can I make you cry,
And feel the pain that wells up inside me
Before I pour my heart out
Onto this page?

Do I seem sagely enough to you?
Or wise?
That is what I'm trying for,
Approval.

Because,
When you stare at me
With those bright,
Bright eyes,
Let me feed from your energy and light,
I am (not quite) invincible.
But I am fearless.

That is close enough.

But that's not to say I'm not scared.
You terrify me.

If only you were aware
That when I write,
I write to you.
In hopes that each and every morning,
You'll ask for something new to hear.

That when you hear it,
Your mind soars to whole new worlds.
And you feel inspiration

Coarse through your veins
Like a hurricane, trapped.
Looking for a way out
Through your own fingertips.

Sprouting like grass in the spring time.

The way it does for me
when I hear the ringing of your voice.

You, leave my knees weak.
And I, am almost unable to speak in return.
But I do.
Because I want you to yearn for my lines.
Pine for my love.
Before you learn that you've always had it.

I want you to know that,
Although I seem shy right now
(If anything at all),
I want you.

Someday,
I will capture your attention
And keep you enthralled.
I will never take you for granted.

And when the time comes
When my time in your limelight is through,
I will bow out gracefully.
And never
Ever
Forget you.

There are still days when I think of you.  
When the air smells like afternoon walks,
and the blue sky looks over me with kindness.  
When the wind wraps an arm around my shoulder and walks me to class.  
  
There are still times that I see you,
wearing your heart on your sleeve, and concern in your eyes because love is just your style.  
When you open your chest but close your eyes, to hide the vulnerability in your tenderness.  

And you laugh the loudest just to catch my eye.    

And there are nights when I no longer hear you
howling to the waning moon,
because you’re scared that she’s leaving too.

And because you were never a wolf in sheep’s clothing,
just a pup who’s bark should have been worse than his bite.  
Nights when you hide in the caves that I dug for you in the sides of mountains when they refused to move.

And there are still days when I think of you.
And I think of how you built me castles out of sand.
How my tears brought down walls like the ocean around me and exposed me to a cold I never knew.
And how you were gone, a bandit in the night, with the broken pieces of my trust.

These are the days that I wish I could sleep through,
but I can’t sleep forever.
Some nights, I can’t sleep at all.
So those nights I wish, in the biting cold, on the stars that shine over my fallen castle.
And I howl at the moon and I hug the breeze and I hope you ******* feel it.

I hope there are days you want to call me.
Like the night she finally kisses you hello,
so you can tell me how she fills your days with laughter and your nights with warmth,
Or the morning you wake up and finally find the courage to tell the world your truth.

And when you do, I hope you realize how long its been since you had my number.
I hope you can’t remember what my voice sounds like, howling to the moon together until the sun chased us down.
I hope that it hurts a little
when you taste the venom on your tongue.

I hope you wish you’d swallowed it,
because I can’t bare sting.

And because I’d like to think you think of me some days,
when the wind is at your back and by your side
keeping you company on your walk home.

I am lost.

I am floating adrift on a boat.
      On a lake.
            With fog all around

I go in circles,
      Never quite reaching dry ground.
             And I am tiring.

I tire of waiting for the clouds to part
      and the moon to rise,
            To be guided home by starlit skies.

So, I sleep.

And I dream.

And as I dream, I remember a time
      When I ran wild through the trees.
            I find myself smiling. I have never felt so free.

Then I hear a snap.
      Followed by a whistle.
            And I remember the rest.

I remember why I am running.

You are chasing me.

I run from you and yet,
      You canot seem to grasp the idea
             That I do not want to be your neglected pet.

You are gaining on me.

I try to flee but suddenly,
      The forest is like a maze
              And I am runing in circles all over again.

I trip up and fall to the forest floor,
      But just before I reach it,
            You catch me.

You play hero and beg me never to stray.
      You were so afraid.
            Well, I'm afraid you were right to be.

Let me go, or hold me close
      But please stop spinning me around.
             These circles make me sick as I fall to the ground.

And just as I open my mouth to say this,
      You kiss my lips.

I wake, a cool breeze tickling my face,
       To find the moon has cleared the fog in all her grace.

My eyes widen as I finally see.

I comprehend.

I stand,
      Rock my boat
            And then, dive in.

It never looks like the movies:
Neptune rising from the depths in a terrible rage,
waves tossing the ship back and forth until it shatters into piercing rock,
Drowning devout sailors who never meant to offend.  
No.

When the Gods betray you,
It will be a slow march to a quiet end,
Sweet smiles and sunlight.
When the Gods betray you, it will not look like a boy, although you will think it does.
It will not look like bruises or name calling, it will not look like ****.

It will not feel like drowning at all.

It will look like an albatross necklace,
like blood on your own hands,
like you drank it.

It will look like a woman. It will look like her hands are tied. It will look like she cares.
Do not be mistaken.
When the Gods betray you they will make it look like they care.
You are their favorite sailor,

So long as loving you stays easy.
And fun.
And suitable.

When the Gods betray you,
It will be when the wind stops and the very ship that made a sailor of you becomes your prison.
The gales that once pushed you onward soften, this life support will rock you like a taunting lullaby,
More malice than comfort.

When the Gods betray you,
It will not look like desertian,
It will be desertian.
And when it finally happens,
Your goodness will not save you.
Your devotion will not save you.
Your prayers never really reached them.

When you cry to the Heavens asking why and how,
They will give you two choices.
You can try to swim to shore,
or you can stay aboard, and hope the wind returns soon.

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.