stop loving me.

i feel like a selfish **** asking you to
but there is no love
in my bones
for you
stop breaking them open
to check

i can't be open with people
they feel sorry for the things that have happened to me
then they love me
more
but i can't do anything back

hatred i can deal with
i've dealt with it my whole life
but i don't know how to be careful with you
how to be something different
to make you not love me
moose, darling
don't love me,
please.

how much poetry is in a person?
and how much of it comes out?
enough to bring up the pimples in your personality?
the ugly bumps you can learn to hide
but can't stop people from feeling
when they touch you

how much poetry is in a person
and how much needs to come out
before i am better
how much before i get over this *******
that's calling my name

how much poetry is in a person
and how do i get rid of it
i either speak cynically
or with the malice
and blood
that seeps out of me

how much poetry is in a person
and is it ok to have it there
and when will these pimples go away
and when will i be
alright again

does the poetry have to be gone
for me to be ok?

If "settle" wasn't a bad
word I would tell you
all the time that it's what
I want to do with you.
Because your voice is the
only one I want to hear
humming in the kitchen
when the sun is barely
awake. You are the last
person whose quirks I
want to learn, whose
mouth I want to memorize
the taste of, whose body
I want to call my own.

I dreamed I was
on your couch
and you gave me
that white blanket
I love and you
played with my
fingers and kissed
me on my temple
just like always
and your eyes
did that little
crinkly thing I
look forward to
when you laugh
and you said,
"I've missed you
so much."
And I woke up
and reached out
to find you, but
I found I was
in my own bed
in my own room
in my lonely apartment.
I don't want to go
back to sleep.