the heart is located just below the sternum and i
would like you to exist in the space between them
curl into me and fall asleep to the pounding
of my heart that i feel whenever you look at me.
i think i could make you like me better if i
could make a soft bed for you inside of myself
but there’s only hardness and bone.
would you still love me after seeing that there’s
no depth to me at all? no flowers under my
nailbeds? there’s nothing poetic about the
desecration inside me. does that turn you off?
does it scare you? it scares me. it does.

Love me forever or not at all. You are either drought or
you are ocean. I am begging you to make up your mind.
Do not wrap your hand around my throat unless you intend
to finish the job. Tell me I’m pretty or spit on me before you go.
You say, you aren’t going to like this, babe, and I tell you to
hit me with your best shot. Burn me alive but make the flame
last, sweetheart. I am bored with this short term love and you
are either going to ruin me or **** my wounds forever. You
can leave if you want, but make it hurt before you do, give me
something that will last, give me a scar to remember you by or
do not touch me at all. See, I want this long term ache more than I
want your short term love. Touch me; leave your violence on me,
touch me hard or do not come near me at all. There’s a love some-
where that will stay, but you’ll find it on Jupiter, you’ll find it tucked
into a young star’s gut, you won’t find it here, you won’t love me
forever. Leave for Jupiter, sure, but take my heart with you. Bury
me in your love or let me dig my own grave. I am not a man of
many hearts and so if I give you this one, I won’t take it back. Hold
it forever or crush it under your foot. This is a dead end, and don’t
I know it? Love me forever or not at all, do not leave my clothes
on your lawn, do not let me in if you are going to push me out,
give me your heart or do not offer to hold mine.

Darling boy. I think you’re more of a dream than
I’d like to admit. You’ve existed in my mind for
so long. You go by many names: soulmate. The
One. Love of my life. Angel. True love. Mister
right. Beloved. Red.
Why would I call you anything but your name
when you go by so many? I can call you my
sweetheart and it doesn’t hold what I’d like it to.
My Red. Color boy. Have you ever considered
that the crime scene of my heart is now covered
in your fingerprints? Does it bother you to have
your name so close to a ******? I’d like to think
your hands will be the softest thing to ever touch
me. I’d like to think your lips are even softer. I
want to believe that you’ll always love me like
this, the way that I’ll always love you like a
whirlpool. I am just spinning in my feelings
for you. They can be overwhelming, but I wouldn’t
change it for the world. It’s almost like the universe
created me to love you. I was created to be yours
and you were created to be great. You’ve succeeded.
And I hope I’m succeeding, too. I love you, soulmate.

I will wash myself in light. I will scrape away my hands on sunlight
and leave myself drenched in stardust, the kind of light you could
see yourself loving and I'll share it with you if you want me to. I'll
let you scrape off the flecks of moon or I'll run my hands all over
you and leave them in your hair. I think you'd like that, wouldn't you?
you'd like for me to leave little pieces of myself on you and it's
understandable. it's not so bad to share your light when it's someone
you can see yourself being with in the dark. we could exist in the
sunlight and the complete darkness and I'd be fine with either or
both if it was with you. don't mind me, fist-in-mouth boy, a boy with
nothing but love for you. you don't have to listen to me when I
say you're my boy but I hope you know I say it because I want to
wrap myself in the crook of your elbow and live there for a while.
I want you to taste me on your tongue like copper shavings or
summer berries and I will look at you like the sunrise or falling snow
because I can only compare you to beautiful scenery. you can be
the ocean and I'll be the ocean floor. as long as you're surrounding me
no one else has to know how far I stretch myself to return the favor.
I mean that in the best way possible. I have to try harder than other
people to let you know how amazing you are and I'll admit, sometimes
I worry other people could tell you that in a voice softer than mine ever
will be or show you with a heart not covered in burn marks. and I'll
only ever always be secondhand smoke hoping to be fresh air in
your lungs. sorry about that. what a clingy line. there goes the fist
again; taking itself out and letting me embarrass myself. I know you
won't mind. so I guess I should stop being so afraid to tell you I love
you; stop skipping around the subject and painting you scenes where
you're the sun and I'm worshiping you but I'm not as good with words
as you think I am. I can stretch those three words into a hundred others
but I can't say them plain and simple. and you know what I mean, don't you?
it's a scary feeling and I can't make it go away but I hope you'll be patient
because eventually I'll say them without an abbreviation or a joke or some
other distraction from the main point. it's cliche to say but I've always been
afraid of heights and ferris wheels were my favorite ride, so it makes sense
that I could fall and fall and still be afraid. fist-in-mouth could ruin everything but
somehow I don't think it will.

I can't stand myself. I'm scared that if I let myself think, I'll spiral so far down that I'll never come back up for air. I don't want to be crazy. I don't. I don't want visions from God. I don't want to see the cameras, check the locked door six more times, shake when the tires veer too close to the curb. I don't want to scream every time I see my reflection blink. I don't want to see my reflection blink. How do I convince myself that I still have time to build a life worth living when I lose myself every day in my delusions? Will I one day stop returning to reality? Will I still have time to build a life worth living if I don't? Do I live in the rot, let it consume me and wait to forget, or do I make something of myself, just to lose it the next time I have an episode? I lose hours talking to myself. I lose myself in the hours in between. And I'm terrified to lose everything. I religiously keep receipts and old packaging, mementos of every average Tuesday evening, because what if what if what if? What if I reach thirty and do not remember being twenty two? What if this is all I have to remember that I had a life before I lost it? What if I don't reach thirty and this collection of memories is the only thing left of me? Does a person's potential die when their mind begins to lie, or when they begin to believe it? I don't know if I have psychotic episodes anymore. It's more like episodes of lucidity to break up my average day of hiding from the NSA or my landlord or my neighbor or the ghosts or the devil or God or my mother or myself. Will I ever be a real person? If I build a life worth living, will I have my mind long enough to settle into it? I look to the future and there's a fog I can't quite see through. I'm afraid when I get there, that the past will look the same.

i want to exist in a place where the softness i feel for you isn't
something that terrifies me. or a place where the fear of that softness
don't exist at all. i mean that in the best way possible-- a place where
the light in your eyes isn't quite so blinding. because it's love but it's
not earth-shattering and it's love but i keep falling sleep and dreaming
about you leaving or i wake up and think about you loving me. it's love
but it's terrifying. maybe it wouldn't be if we existed in a place where
i don't get my heart broken every time. but people make the same choices
over and over and the only thing i can do is hope it turns out alright this
time around. you make my heart a place of sunlight and i can't help but
think that was your intention this whole time. angels always come to
earth with a purpose. and i always do this, i say things i mean and i
have to explain them. and don't we give out our hearts over and over
every time someone asks us to? and you didn't even have to ask me.
like i said, every time. i give and give and it's always too much and i
don't mind being told i'm overwhelming. so it's 3am and i'm thinking of
you again and i'm me but i'm not me and the world feels so small when
i consider all the other planets out there. and i wonder if the moon
understands how hard it is to feel something that's love but not love and
never be able to describe it properly and i wonder if she ever feels
like a handful, too. i don't think i'm qualified enough to say i love you and
even if i was i don't know if i would but the sun rises every day and it
reminds me that i'm not supposed to be able to put these feelings into
words. and then it's 6am and i'm still thinking of you and i'm starting to
realize i always will be and yeah, i'm ****** but so are you, sweetheart.
i can curse my exes time after time but i can't pretend like they didn't
leave me for a reason but i can tell you i still haven't quite figured out why
but maybe you can explain it to me. i won't be surprised if it's something
you can figure out before i do. it's a sad night and there's always going
to be a boy that can't be good and he stays that way his whole life. boy
can't keep his mouth shut, boy can't help but start to love you, can't help
but panic at the thought. and that's all there is to it. the soft place only
exists in the universe where i can pretend the way i feel about you isn't
a gut-wrenching panic attack waiting to happen because the fear really
won't ever go away. but maybe you can prove the fear wrong instead
of me trying to convince myself it won't cause an earthquake.

I don’t have to be ****** to tell you about the night
with the bed. I can be elegant; tell you about seed
and rag, the kind of heartbeat you can hear from
across the room, or the rise and fall of the chest
that you watch to make sure you’re alone. To make
sure you’re safe, now, that the only person awake
is you and the moon. I don’t have to tell you about
the night with the bed at all. I can tell you about the
day before, or the day after, with the car and the bus
and the sunglasses. I can tell you about Pepsi and
Target and Christmas and the way a hand you love
can sting so much. I don’t have to be ****** to tell
you about that night, but I know you want me to be.
You want to hear about the knife that split me open
and what leaked out after, who cleaned the sheets,
if they ever got cleaned. You want to know about
the plane. It departed at 3:14. I’m not sure I ever
got off, but you’re welcome to take the seat next
to me. I’ll tell you about the knife. The night with
the bed. The seed, the rag, the moon. I’ll be as
****** as you want if you promise to hold my hand.
At least until the plane lands.