Teach me to waltz,
Dance with me,
Take me to the ends of the earth,
Teach me to love.

Teach me the ballet,
Dance with me,
Show me the world,
Teach me to care.

Teach me to salsa,
Dance with me,
Set my passion alight,
Teach me to stay.

day 1: today i found out about the machines. sometimes i can feel your hand in mine. you used to grab it and pull, like you couldn't go as fast as you wanted to without taking me with you. war is never pretty, but you sure are. were. you were pretty. i still remember the last time i saw you.

day 2: do you remember when our names were joined together? people used to spit them out in one go, 'cause there wasn't a day either of us went somewhere without the other. they don't do that anymore. wish you were here.

day 3: i had a dream about you last night. i still can't feel my left arm. i miss you.

day 4: they're working on building machines that look and act like people. maybe i was a test drive. i still miss you.

day 5: i remembered something today (this is rare for me. if you were here i'd tell you why). you used to curve around your sketchpad, like it was a part of you. one night (june. i don't remember the year) i traced your spine and you shivered. i think about that a lot. i'm not sure why.

day 6: i miss you.

day 7: i love you.

day 8: remember our old bean plant we had growing in the windowsill? you used to fuss over it so much. (i used to fuss over you so much, too, but to be fair you're slightly more important than a bean plant. slightly.) you wasted a summer's worth of water on that **** thing, and never regretted it once.

day 9: we used to fold into each other during brooklyn winters, when the heat cut out and we had nothing but each other. now i just have nothing.

day 10: i can't get drunk now, either.

day 11: i saw my gravestone today. yours is right next to it, did you know that? they're both empty. they never found our bodies.

day 12: monochromia. that's what you had. i wonder if it went away after. you never saw colors and i saw too many.

day 13: i dreamt about you last night again. i've been remembering more. it's slow, but steady. fragments of memories every day. maybe one day i'll remember it all.

day 14: again. i think my subconscious is trying to punish me. i wish i could just forget again. maybe it would make everything easier.

day 15: again.

day 16: i haven't left my bed in twenty-one hours. this is the only way i can see you.

day 17: i wonder if you'd have married her if you hadn't died. a part of me (i'm sorry. all of me. every single ******* atom in my body) hopes you wouldn't have. it also knows that you would have. i miss you.

day 18: it's your birthday.

day 19: anachronism: a thing belonging or appropriate to a period other than that in which it exists, especially a thing that is conspicuously old-fashioned.

day 20: hello again. i missed you.

Bedrooms are intimate. Showing someone exactly where you breathe is special. To see it, they have to worship every breath that goes in and out, even if your exhale is poison.
The walls still smell like you
Last week, I pulled the sheets off the bed. I placed them in the burn pile.
I do not wish to see you.
This week, I painted everything a new color, a darker shade.
I pulled down the Christmas lights and let my stars burn out. I placed them in the burn pile.
I do not wish to see you.
I ripped stuffed animals off the shelves and letters off the dresser. Even the photo album went in the burn pile.
I do not wish to see you.
The flowers off the desk... They were dead anyway.
I do not wish to see you.
Everything in a bedroom is sacred. Not everyone belongs there; you sure didn't. You kissed everything with fiery lips and charcoal dust and I am still sweeping up. I continue to find your ashes in my bed.
I do not wish to see you.
You took everything. You took my air and gave me back poison. I couldn't tell the difference. But the worst thing you took from my room is me.
I do not wish to see you.
I do not wish to see you.
*I put you in the burn pile. I see you in the flames. I see you everywhere.
I start to tear at the drywall.

jesus *******--
breathe me
inhale me fit my heart in the space between your lungs and your ribcage like it's the apocalypse
(seven hours to live at the end of the world)
press your hand against my neck,metal digging into your skin like knives
i'm sorry about the way i push my fingernails into your wrist
i just want to feel something
break the skin(seven layers and a martyr complex)and tell me what you find
i'm nobody's hero
you can only bear to look at me at night,when darkness covers my face like a shroud
i'm everybody's funeral pyre
you're an ashtray waiting to be dusted off(you never told me you wanted to be cremated)
you inhale and take a step back.choke out a weak i don't wanna die and wait for my fist to connect with your cheek,****** knuckles and a hint of desperation you won't try to stop me--
IT MAY BE DIFFICULT FOR THOSE SUFFERING FROM POST TRAUMATIC STRESS DISORDER TO VOCALIZE THEIR STRUGGLES IN A WAY THAT MAKES SENSE--
my mouth is one big bruise,sweat and tears spilling from it like blood from a wound
(the **** on my cheek;you put it there.i helped,or rather,i didn't do anything to stop you.)
THOSE WITH PTSD WILL FREQUENTLY HAVE EPISODES WHERE THEY FEEL THEY ARE RELIVING THE TRAUMATIC EVENT OR EVENTS. THEY MAY NOT RECOGNIZE YOU, BUT IT IS IMPORTANT TO TRY AND HELP THEM THROUGH IT.
you pretend it doesn't break you when i ask who you are(when i tell you through a haze of remembrance that i should've died too)
you don't see the bruises snaking up my arm like tattoos,like they were always meant to be there
i guess someone should have told me that carving *i love you and i'm sorry into a bullet doesn't stop the bleeding
but i love you and i'm sorry
the human heart beats on average 2.5 billion times in a lifetime
mine was only supposed to beat 7.3 million times and i guess that's why i feel so cold all the time
take me out,a lightning bolt to the heart
(a momentary feeling of loss and then silence)
they say you can feel someone in your head after they've died
i guess it's a good thing that we were never connected, wires pretending to be veins
this is a love letter disguised as a suicide note
i know i'm not supposed to say anything but god,i love you
jesus *******--
breathe me.

a wishlist ten feet long that says 'make me feel love
make me kiss someone and like it'
but its a bit of a catastrophe and its not gonna just right itself
stars dont care if i shine the same way-
do they?
but no ones got the answer
or they do, a thousand
just have to find myself in the sea of intricate possibilities
(or the river of one- they never say)
yet im not there anymore-
am i?
reborn as a storm id say
there is nothing wrong with the way i dont feel
(they wont believe me; the weatherman says the storm was yesterday)
cut open my heart and youll find
a thousand swirling stars evading constellations
a galaxy of planets revolving around themselves
im a larger than life,
im an immortal-
are you?

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

its been

about two months

since i cut my heart,
since i summoned my mind

since i kneeled before thee,
and bled my heart out for you
as if you were some sort of oppressive ******* god

in which i kept my thoughts so dear
as i was forced to read your virtues,
before i was playing your little games

its been so long, my child
since i held dear to your scriptures,
since i curled you up against me
as i whispered my sins to pass unto you

i have been subjected to secrets,
to new lies,
to the unfamiliar,
to those in which i hate

scumbags, all of them
sometimes im unsure whether or not i should reflect
and take down them
or myself

im a wretched being
and so are you, pig ****

not really,
i couldnt **** for my life


it's been while since i posted on here
hello - poetry

they trained me to move elegantly before i could even move
so i'm resorting to being a ******* misfit
(maybe if i try hard enough their work
will reverse)
my teenage hipbones are a geometry problem
acute angles jutting from beneath my shirt
my jeans have always hung too low and i'm too poor to buy a good belt.
you tell me, softness in your eyes, softness in your fingertips,
that you love how they sit on my hips.
i was born on a full moon,
howling before i had learned how to speak
your humanity matches my humility
my futility
you were born with the stars in your eyes
and when you touched my shoulder i felt them
a thousand and one galaxies
******* in you
my first word was hatred and yours was adoration
and maybe that's why i can't help
but wish on you.
that which a man does not have attracts him;;
i wonder what attracted you to me