I'm mad.
Angry.
Why wont you
Respond to me?
All I've done is support you;
All you do is ignore me.
Is my anger justified?
Probably...

not.

He feels like sharing memes and finishing burritos; like snuggling on a bench when I'm shivering and letting me wear his jacket the wrong way. He feels like long phone calls and sarcastic remarks; like feeding ducks, and helping kids, and going kart racing, and being terrible at Mario kart. He feels like silly puns and bad humor, all the while still putting butterflies in my stomach. He feels like the heat in my cheeks when my classmates ask me about where my bracelets came from, and the pride in my heart when they say that he's cute. He feels like kissing in a park, holding hands next to fireworks,  and giggling at the movies. He feels like sunshine and Rex Orange County. He feels like home, like someone who will always be able to make me smile, like someone who will endure a hug even if its awkward.

But he also feels like crying at 10pm in my room on Thanksgiving and clutching my chest because I can hardly breathe.  He is in every sad song I've ever heard, and every depressingly artful photo I see. He is the bittersweet memory of a lost young love, and the fractured, splintery aftermath of trying to recover. He is sitting in a park alone for an hour, crying because you dont know if he's even going to come.  He is the anxiety of being ignored for three weeks, then showing up to a party I'm at. He is the tear stained pillowcase from every time he has asked, "are you a waste of my time?" -- each one a separate fist to the stomach. He is the fear of never knowing what is going on in his mind and the constant worry of not being enough. He is the sadness and frustration of every Sunday morning with an empty chair. He is the moments I lie on the cold wood of my bedroom floor in the greying sunlight, salt mixing with my hair, and feeling empty. He is like the ache between my ribs everytime I'm left on read.

But he still feels like home, and he still feels like the only love I've ever known. And it's all about how it feels, right?  And it's okay as long as he doesn't hurt those feelings...

Right?

Little typing fingers
That should be tucked in bed
Are wide awake and nervous
Picking apart their head

Little twitching fingers
That should be staying still
Claw at all hair and clothing
Against an act of will

Little tapping fingers
That should be calm and cool
**** frantically across
Every desk at school

Little skipping fingers
That should control themselves
Find different ways to torment
Both the soul and shell

Little dancing fingers
That should pay their respects
Jump from their gloves and pockets
Tearing sequins from their dress

Little frozen fingers
That were never still before
Have found the cure to keep them
From freaking anymore

Broken pencil tips, scattered shavings peppering the floor.
Colored pencils with chewed ends and waxy bits fill my briefcase.
All business here, hard at work on the daily.
Would you like a portrait drawn of your personality lately?
Cracked skulls and broken bones, with hints of red paint splattered in the background.
Neon lights and smoke signals, deep green lakes shrouded in fog in the distance.
All of these things, piecing together a picture of your likeness.
And I sit with the tools of my trade, blades to sharpen my wooden spears as they tear across the canvas
The rubber bricks that scrape across the angry mistakes
But with innocence, sitting idly, doodling into oblivion.
The yellow plastic crayola briefcase holds 47 different stems used to brighten the darkness I paint of you.
Pipe cleaners and fake daisies litter the serious work with a simple joy, in unison with the sparkles and glitter.
Criss cross apple sauce on the floor, little pink screwdrivers and cerulean hammers spread about,
The aura of this portrait is coming out in the expressions carved into the palate you have given me.
Angry lines and foreboding greys and blood hues, and cool creeping colors that seep into your skin,
Crawl in juxtaposition to the bubbly universe outside the box.
Keep the anger and fear and sadness on the paper, keep the ugly and the bitter and the unsavory away.
In my briefcase, I only keep the tools.
The happy little helpers of art and beauty.
Please keep all the bad away.
Please keep all your mad away.
Please take your portrait and leave.
Thank you for your business.

I don't want your pretty words,
I don't want your charming eyes,
I don't want your smooth approach,
I don't want your blatant lies.
The truth is that I want it all,
Every single bit.
But the truth is that it's all a front,
And nothing ever fits.
I want to hear your small talk
I want to see your tears
I want to sit close at your side
I want to stay for years.
But the truth is that you're killing me,
Every single bit.
The truth is that I come running back,
Even after every hit.
I don't want to be hurt by you
I don't want to have to cry
I don't like the way you're treating me
But I'll love you until I die.
The truth is soon, I'll have to go,
And make the end of it.
But in truth, I still love your soul,
Every single bit.

Glossy lips, strawberry hued
Waiting for the car to come,
Waiting for a ride.

Maroon stripes, burgundy shoes
Waiting for the rain to come,
Waiting, cold, inside.

Warm hands, uncomfortable feet
Sitting in the liar's chair
Sitting all alone

Teary eyes, emblazoned cheeks
Sitting on the convict's chair
Sitting with my bones

The ringing in my ears hasn't left
And schrapnel and shards stick out from the rubble.
Rummaging, scrounging for a useful miracle
As my emotions have been wrenched into purposeless scraps
Heaped on the floor, like overworn rags.
I'm looking for pieces of him.
If I'm lucky, I'll dig up a fragment from the dust
And brush it off; rid it of soil and rust.
And I'll gaze... and stare... and wonder...
Then remember he doesn't care.
And the snippet of him I'd found in the dirt
Will crumble between my hands
And I'll try to scrape up what's left I can find,
But it's already swallowed by land.