Sometimes, Saturdays are too quiet
silence swallows thoughts
about papers and parties
woes and worries
about exams and events
and leaves too much room for your words
that reverberate in my skull

small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

Let me make this very clear.
I am not your arm candy.
I do not exist to be spoiled by you,
and just because I write a poem about some guy I know,
does not mean I'm hopelessly in love with him,
waiting for him to return my affections,
and utterly heartbroken all the while.
In summary:
forget all of the assumptions you've made,
*I don't play by your rules.

I want to tell you not to make my mistake.
I want to tell you not to build walls. You pick up brick by brick, hiding yourself in the structure you've created. You feel safe until you realize you are left alone, trapped in the cage you built to be a home, standing in darkness and suffocating among walls that won't reach out to help you.
I want to tell you I understand.
I want to tell you that I often draw up blueprints for my home. When the world gets too close to me, I sketch tall ceilings above strong walls. I plan elaborate architecture. I sketch large windows that allow for sun-drenched rooms and put details on tall towers until I have a magnificent mansion, knowing all along that it's just a clever disguise for the cage I must never let myself enter. Once you go in, it's very hard to break down the walls.
I want to tell you to give up your bricks.
I want to tell you that you will feel better when you let them go. When things are hard, your hands will twitch until you grab your drafting pen, you'll still set out sheets of paper and start thinking about your walls, but you'll feel better knowing you're only making plans. I know the bricks are heavy, but you don't have to move them alone. I want to tell you to ask for help.
I want to tell you to let Him carry them away.
I want to tell you to let them go.
I want to tell you to stop pretending.
I want to tell you everything will be okay.
I hope you can hear me through your walls.
I don't think you can.

god you look so good.
it's taking every shard of
Decency I have
(and they are shards; I dropped
Decency a long time ago)
not to shove you up against a wall
and press my mouth oh-so-insistently
against yours,
hands rough, partitioned from your skin
by that ******* dress
(god, how I hate that dress)
(god, how I love that dress)
your nails clawing at my back
in feline fury, gasping for breath
as my thigh nestles between yours.
(we're just getting started)

your image fades from mind
as the sun sets to a black sky and
I wonder if you meant what you said,
I wonder if I really want you to mean it,
I wonder if, sitting here in the dark,
I think I am in reach of something
that is no longer there

I am trying too hard to be a deadly fire
or an unspeakable storm,
I am trying too hard to be angry
and unlovable
though I know I am neither
I am trying too hard
to be chaotic and indestructible
trying to create coldness and bitterness
even though I know that flaws are human
and unconditional love exists.
There is artful beauty in the aftermath of mistakes,
you just have to find it.