Turth hurts me.
I’m tangled in your golden hair as that scene I never watched is played beneath my eye lids
Careful camera angles, make it hard to breathe,
But I’m no where to be seen, in a jelous **** stars dream.
I hide behind the smiles, pretend Im over it, but if I was allowed to, I scream and throw a fit.
Hurl things at your battered skull till it burst
Force my mouth on your wound so I know how it hurts
I’m not even at the worst
Stop,
Breathe… It’s just a jealous dream.
He screams…. Like he can tell them from reality.

She’s not alive anymore
Something inside her broke
and it was the last string left
and the first time they spoke
They don’t talk because
no one cares
No one’s there
Then there are her friends
She doesn’t even like them
and you don’t get it
she’s bleeding
She’s numb
and if you weren’t so dumb
and maybe if you got off your ***
and sold the banana and grew a pair
she’d smile and sing
like she used to
but now every other word’s a sting
and she sits behind me in math class
but we’d never let her in
and she doesn’t tell me what she thinks
the national geographic
was being too graphic
when all she wanted to know was the traffic
in London, and somewhere in France
and the size of that ugly fat ladies pants
and the weather and whether or not she could cry
and if she would actually die
To be the size of the ladies on tv
As she reads her books
She gives her looked
She hurt herself
She hides her heart
She’s torn apart by you
And if you’d open your eyes
You’d see her tears
And tear
Yourself from the hurt and hate you
Harbor and see that

You never said you were scared, you never needed to.
You never thought I cared, but you and I adhere like super glue.
You have yellow teeth like a sunrise and you curse like caviar and I crave you like candy.
Can I be your desire? A drunken phone call on a Friday night,
You never said you carried the weight of the world on your shoulders.
Your eyes showed more truth than the circles we chased around the subject of who’s who.
And can I be with you? – I don’t need a train ride at midnight or a candle lit calling I just need your dry throat, coughing out last minute lies about not needing another hand in the darkest parts of the night.
Your soul has the shaping’s of something that sounds like heartache, beats like butchering romance and hurts like needles marking up my arms like foot-steps rushing away from what’s really going on in my mind.
You never spoke the words I wanted to hear, but here we are.
I never said I wanted to drench you in kisses.
Cover you with caresses.
I want to cater to your bad behavior and serve as a substitute for the sugar high
I never said that I kissed you in the rain, and again and again.
I never said we stood outside of that man’s house and held hands in my head.
I never said the space in my bed, could have been filled with you. – I didn’t think I needed to.
Maybe I do.

You drove me home in the rain.
The tension was driving me insane and i couldn’t withstand the strain of it upon my shoulders.
You should know i respect you way too much to let this go.
I just really need to let you know. That if you don’t i will. So just stop. Stop doing that thing with your mouth where you talk.
Because its hard to kiss you when your opinions getting in the way
Stop. Stop doing that thing with your mind where you lie. Next to me and whisper that I'm worth the risk
Stop, stop doing that thing you do with your eyes. When you see my smile but you know my mind wants to cry.
Stop, stop doing that thing with your hands where you demand attention because the suspension between us is too great and I hate that I'm writing you a poem because I only ever do this to people that I love
And I'm not in love with you. So stop.
Stop doing that thing with your smile. That makes me want to walk a mile just see it sprint across your face.
I don't want a happy ending I want fate
I want a nice smile and a bed mate
Not an intimate promise of tomorrow
I can't stand the distance between us
So I fall on my knees, take me please I'm yours to break and bond. I'm bound to the ground exactly where I was found. So stop.
Stop, stop doing that thing with your ears where you hear what I mean and not what I say.
You make my brain fuzzy, and I can't think
Can't cant. Can't. Can't think straight
I've never felt straighter in my life.
Which causes me no strife other than the fact that I can’t ******* talk to anyone without thinking about your taste and how fast I would surrender to you without haste so just Stop!
Stop that thing you did with your mouth when you talk.
Because its hard to kiss you when you're opinions are getting in the way.

Itsy bitsy spider
Crawled into rabbits brain
Then came the murders
They made bunny go insane
Out came his tiger
To take away the pain
But the itsy bitsy spider
Will take control again.

Itsy bitsy magpie
Pulled bunny down to see
Though the pills he took were great,
he’d never quite be free.
Bunny tried with all his might
to scare magpie away
but the magpie ushered him to the mirror
and whispered “ look, You’re me!”





itsy bitsy bunny
was tired of his game
he wrestled with the magpie night and day
but never felt okay.
Finally bunny had had enough
And threw his hope away
His tiger took him by the wrist and mumbled.
Just one more day.

You're in every memory.
You've crept into every crevice.
First question:
Did I ever not know you?
Were you ever not there?
Did you actually ever care?
Did you listen when I said no? Now that it's all too late
Do you debate whether her tender touch was worth it?
fingers lit with fire you once fanned now they publish words about you I can hardly stand. I cannot stand up to you anymore so I ran.
But you didn't chase me, you've given me space in a literal sense but you're still inside my mind and memories.
That night I can home from the bar the evening after we decided to end things. We held each other and you held in that desperate secret.
I shouldn't have heard about her from someone else.
I was always truthful to you, but you lied to me.
Third question: When did it become inconvenient to love me?
Was it when you saw the panic in my eyes when you asked her to stay the night? Did it begin when I told you about how I dream about hanging myself by my own insides? Was it when I told you I wanted to die? I have tried, to keep me grounded and the sound of self hatred at bay, but baby I guess that just wasn't enough for you was it?
Fourth and final question.
will you listen to me crying in the room next to yours?
With your doors locked and your guns loaded with loaded question, can you bear to bar yourself from my hands.
So soft.
from my heart, hardening with every passing day.

Lola could laugh at his anger.
He could smile at her tears.
they could never be together
even after all these years
the policemen they came running
the officers had dogs
but Lola she was stunning.
even after the night time flogs
when the stars were high as drops outs
and the moon was wasted on air
the two of them imperfect
were perfect laying there.

Dear insert your name here.
I can hear you in his whispers; I feel your memory in his pulse when it beats against mine. Dear insert your name here; I have seen the private parts of your smile in his old photos and your heart break in the edges of his glare. I have felt your longing in his silent touch.
Dear, insert your name here, you may be nameless to me but I can see your tortured past whenever he refuses to tell another person his name. You have wrapped yourself so tightly next to his heart, in the cavities of his mouth I can still hear you screaming.
Dear. Clarice, please… I’d like to know.
Please tell me how you let up and let him go?

I get so high without you.
I have too.
I can't let my mind think of you.
of your body against mine.
against hers too.

You pinned yourself against me,
and I'm still trying to figure out why?
and I can't cry anymore.
and I can't stop shaking and getting
baked.

If I could tell you one more thing.
It would be a simple confession.
Something that I didn't realize.
Until after I had heard it again.
I missed the sound of your voice.
Like it's a melody that cannot be undone..
Like it's a song that cannot be unsung.
I won't get any notes for this one.
Because it's not a poem.
It's a confession.
I miss the sound of your voice.
Whispering my name,
S E
I'm sorry.

Caress me with the shell of your fingertips
Kiss me with your teeth.
Show me whats on the outside
I can’t afford to fall for whats underneath.

You with the long fingers and the longing gaze.
You with the green (hazel, brown, brilliant.) eyes and the wistful sighs,
come. (Sigh with me.)
make memories, leave marks.
ignite me, like sparks.
Stay up with the night until the right larks sing.
Sin, with me. Wondering, what the morning brings.
let the moonlight light us.
You look like stardust, (and hair like rust.)
and there must be something.
Worth discovering.
(discover me.)

You popped into my mind today
might have been the leaves,
the music, the mindset I was in.
Maybe you never really left,
just slept in my head, like a tumor of turmoil and disgust.
until a moment when I’d stop to think about the past
and your face would rediscover itself.
I’ve stopped writing poetry, maybe it’s because nothing ever happens to me.
I used to try so hard to write something that would make you fall in love with me.
He doesn’t make me impress him, although I always try.
I don’t know where I’m going with this.
his hands, are too far away tonight.
Your face, isn’t far away enough.
It’s been years, but you’re still here.
not nearly near enough to hear me scream.
set me free.
an undeveloped poetry moves between my lips
your smile glistening on the glass of my shattered past.
I can’t tell you how glad I am you’re gone.

you sank into my skin when I met you, placed your hand over my heart and dug deeper.
Now you're in my bones.
taking up space between my rusty joints
and splintered cartridge.
I could take a scalpel
and cut you out, bleed you out like bad
humors.
if you've rested between my porcelain femurs
does that make you part of me?
Or a tumor.

Someone screams
Rain falls softly
My cat purs
Rain falls softly
Pain shoots through my body
Rain falls softly
Two lines to do
Rain falls softly
I miss Jesus
Rain falls softly
Bio test, Monday
Rain falls softly
You and I need to talk more
Rain falls softly.
France is beautiful and I hated it there.
Rain hails mercilessly.

Bumble bees aren’t built to fly. But that doesn’t mean she won’t. It has been scientifically proven that the wing span of the average one is too small to hold up its body mass, but that doesn’t mean they don’t, I like to imagine that every time her little wings manage to miraculously pick herself off the ground just high enough to hover about the flowers, she smiles triumphantly because she is doing something that everyone has ever told her was completely impossible to do,
I like to think this because it’s how I feel whenever I open my mind to talk to you.
Whenever I do, my strong words come out in mumbles, they tumble forth like crashing waves and the saving grace that’s saving me is the fact that you’ve held on this long already.
When I lift my lips to caress your palms, lay them flat against my cheek so the heat keeps moving between us can catch me off guard. When you hold my hand and disband the negative thoughts clouding my better judgement. I like to think that the width of my hips has only ever been measured by milestone makers, that the bones in my spine are the rocks we will walk on, that the spaces between my fingers had only ever been held by placeholders, that the broken hearts that felt like boulders were never louder than your soft voice whispering how beautiful I am in my ear, just soft enough for my demons to hear, and whenever you draw me near I like to think that it’s more so because I’m another warm body than the idea that you could find solace in the shape of my thoughts.
There are insects living undetected in the un-dissected regions of the legions of my organs. Butterflies with razor blade wings and they sting the sides of my diaphragm spiders biting the inside of my cheeks turning them fusica, I can’t write this poem.
I thought I would be able to pen exactly what it is that I want to say to you when the light hits your eyes and turns their emerald light blue, I overestimated my vocabulary and it’s twisty turny ways, I thought I could think of all that I wanted to say but I can’t.
Not because I haven’t been trying, I’d be lying if I said that I don’t think of a new way to describe your beauty every day, a new metaphor there was no doubt a Greek word for, it’s true that every inch of my mind burns with curiosity when you’re close to me. It’s just that I can’t write this poem…
I can’t capture you with these hands, they’d shake and snap you, I can’t carry you with these arms they are too small and they’d break too. I can’t carve you out of marble and marvel at my masterpiece because honestly the piece of mastery is how and why out of all the women in the world you would have chosen me! I can’t write this poem. I can’t blame the color of my cheek on the spiders in my veins, I can’t conjugate a verb to make sure it’s not only heard but understood. To understand my feelings towards you I have to try and understand you.
I can’t write this poem, like bumble bees aren’t built to fly, I can’t form a structure around the constant beat of my heart when it palpitates whenever we’re apart.
I can kiss you.
I can’t write this poem and offer you the better parts of me. I cannot be the strong and lonely bumble bee. I can base my laughter on the crinkled corners of your eyes, I can surround my words around the good deeds you’ve done, I can become undone under your patient and practiced thumb. I cannot write this poem, but I can’t stay silent. I cannot simply shy from the way your eyes pierce my shield, I can muster up the strength to stretch out my tiny wings and sing, I cannot write this poem, but that doesn’t mean I won’t.

This is not about you. This is about the demon who lives inside your mind. The one who is starving alongside you, so he gobbles up the good thoughts, the positive reinforcements we try to tell you.
He poisons your food, which is why you won’t eat.
Its the only explanation I can fathom, unless there is another.
Then PLEASE, tell me. I am begging.
This is not about you “habit”. This is about being scared to complement you on your good days. And holding you on your bad ones.
This is about telling you, you can come to me if you need it.
But never knowing how to fix it when you do.
This is seeing a mold infested wound.
By not having the guts to sever it before it grows.
This is not about the food. It is about the ashes you inhale with every drag of the *** between your pale pink fingertips.
This is isn’t killing you, this is suicide.
This is not about the help offered, but the impossibility of accepting it.
This is not about how well you understand yourself.
Rather, how well you understand the world.
Every starving woman I have ever talked to have the kindest hearts.
They see the world with wide eyes and hungry minds, hungry bellies too, but they cannot see to that. So they feed their minds with the sore sights of their over sized bodies in the mirror. CAN’T YOU SEE THAT HE’S LYING.
I’m lying, I love you, more than you love yourself, and it’s hypocritically because you look so paper thin that I look up to you, not just because you’re taller than me.
I stopped.
This is not about me.
This is about you, and loosing you.
To him.
This is about you.
About helping you,
“you’re beautiful, my broken mess”

Make me forget his name
I’ll let you say her name
Killing won’t help us now
Ending this will just hurt you more in the end
Jewel, diamond in the ruff, you’ll pay for the pain you’ve put me through
Ask me if this is ok?
My hurt won’t help you stay sane
Is this worth the pain in the
End
**** the heart
Organized crime is what’s left to find
Dead men running through town
I’m gone for you, now.

Sometimes I wish I was uglier, like I wish I had pins and needles sticking out of my skin.
I wish my face was riddled with scares from pimples and my dimples had shiny silver rods in them that scraped against the inside of my mouth every time I smiled.
The first time I fell in the snow it was down the hill. My limbs slipped from under me like a rug being pulled up to be cleaned and I tumbled into the snow and the ice. I felt my body give up on me and surrender to the pain I imagined the jeering faces of the drivers passing me by, I felt broken and busted but I felt alive.
Sometimes I wish I had seven heads. One to tell you all the beautiful things I think about you, another to spit spirtitual lingos and recite bingo numbers, and another to remind me of world hunger and why I should eat more and that I shouldn’t shrivel my body like dried grapes, another to remind me that the word for dried grapes are raisins, another to give me a reason to keep it together another to help me take it all apart. And the last two would constantly bicker, bringing out the bitter in me and the philosophy major in my mind who can’t seem to find time to put pen to paper and think about life living and longing, I am longing to feel like I am meant to belong somewhere.
But on the other hand, or head rather – I want to be an outlier. I want to be a liar. I want to tell ugly people they are beautiful. I want to let the hopeless know that there will be another sunrise I want to tell her she’s going to live right before she dies because I am so desperate to make people smile I will twist myself into the prettiest sounding lies, don’t tell me this is selfish. Don’t harp on me for wanting to have people accept me when the unaccepted are getting murdered. Don’t put a gun to my head and then tell me to be true to myself because the trigger will go off.
Sometimes I wish I was bigger, never very loudly – I want to be a dragon. I want to breathe fire on the ones who have hurt me I want to fill my lungs with gasoline I want to line up the firing squad and survive them I want to believe I am worth more than the labels; more than the fables they tell about “my kind of people.” I want to rise above the bullies and the torture chambers I want to be able to write poetry without being on the brink of tears I want to spring forth new ideas.
I want my ears to grow to the size of tree trunks. I want to be able to hear the earth while she cries out for mercy I want to close my eyes and see the thousands of tiny lies we tell each other each day. I want to bleed, open and wounded. I want to hold rage and love in both hands I want to take a stand and
I want to be able to love again. I want to be able to cry when she moves me, I am not a mountain I am not a dragon I am just a man. I am brutally honest and I can’t caress away the cold truths this world will give you but I can grant you a million kisses. I can send you well wishes, I can call you caring and smart. I can remind you that things have been hard and they will likely get harder. I can be with you when they do and I promise, I can hold onto you.

Maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away.
Maybe if I spill my guts to a room of strangers I will no longer feel the danger
Maybe, just perhaps. If I **** in my stomach for long enough, it will leave me alone.
If you put a frog in boiling water they will jump out, if you put a girl in a corset she will shout that it’s too small! It won’t hold all of me and why would I want it to?
You see, cooking girls is a lot like cooking frogs, you’ve got to promise them cold water on a hot day, and you’ve got to promise that you’ll accept them even if they’re gay. If their legs are hairy, if their thighs are knee deep in celluloid you’ve got to insist that you can sit with them at the dinner table and while you’re slowly cranking up the hot water dial, you’ve got to let them believe that they’re not on trial, and when the water gets warmer so slowly that they can’t feel it until it’s too late.
You’ve got to create an atmosphere for deceit so when you hand them the revolver, it’s because they were the first ones to reach.
It’ll start with her friends, they’ll make comments about her plate size, or they’ll joke that they themselves have an “eating disorder” Only that they’ll, eat dis-order and dis-order and she’ll laugh and choke down another serving, while trying to order the thoughts in her mind, trying to find a way to respond to the obvious oddities of her social standings and trying not to be standing too close to the bomb when it drops, and when it goes off she’ll offer her baby fat as a portion of the poison that put her in this position in the first place.
So yeah, maybe if I write about it it’ll go away, maybe if I open my lungs like she opens her throat and purge the thoughts I’ve got squished into size two jeans that seem like they fit, I’ve got a bit of a chance that I can stand against the enemy. Which in the end is me, mind you, my mind fighting against the trails that I’ve hidden behind, maybe my self-esteem is lower than they would have it seem, and maybe I make the mistake of seeming like I’ve got it together when in reality I’m just living in the shadows of rehabilitation and I’ve been debating with the part of me which is still holding the revolver, that maybe I’m not over it and there’s a good chance I’ll never be, which might be okay but could also cost me my life.
Who knows though, maybe if I write about it, it’ll go away, maybe if I tell people what I’m going through it’ll be harder to relapse maybe I can just collapse on the notion that I’m notoriously negative and critically cynical about myself which means I deserve to skip desert, maybe it’s called EDNOS because my eating disorder knows which buttons to push when, and which messages to send, like you look like a whale when you sit down, your thighs don’t touch the hold onto each other in desperation, the amount you put into your stomach can feed a small nation, maybe if you write about it it’ll go away? Do you think dispelling words onto a blank is the only personification I crave? Do you think I’m small enough to be crushed? Can’t you see that I can’t be killed?
All I know is that I can’t keep this inside, I can’t hide from the demons in my mind anymore, I’ve let them fester there too long, I’ve got layers of lies making for a disguise with too many holes to hold anything but *******, I’ve got to let some of it out, I can’t keep living like this, I can’t keep lying to myself, I have to put this part of my life on the self. I don’t know if this will help. I just know I need to let it out.

Is this worth the pain in the end
Saying it’s over doesn’t mean it’ll end
Ask yourself the question,
I’ll burn the messages you’ll send
And all the rules we’ll bend
Ha, payback’s a *****.

Lie down
He’ll encourage
let me
He’ll say
how was your day?
He’ll ask me
Fine,
I’ll say
She wants more and so do I
Let me go
I’ll shout
Calm down
he’ll soothe
condescendingly
All I want is to be able to fly
without having to let go
or say goodbye
he doesn’t get that I’m screaming
he doesn’t get I’m not worth it
He doesn’t want better if better isn’t
me.

Watch him work.
legs swinging,
head bumping to the music floating between his ears.
look to his hands hold pens, pencils, stylus.
awkward stance, laying.
look up,
there's the rub.
You cannot see the finished piece, but the work in progress is progressive enough.

Blank Verse.
I only ever write poems about people I want to ****.
Fingeratively speaking anyway.
(Jesus my puns are bad.)
I’ve had some semblance of balance in my life.
Up to this point.
There’s a joint in her hand and she looks like the sea.
Her eyes glazed over like sunsets.
I’ve got a beer in my fist.
First of many, and I mainly want to kiss her.
Caress her, I hardly even want to **** her.
Creep down her spine with my lips and cradle her neck with my fingertips.
She’s got that hair that holds itself up.
Like it’s keeping her up.
Like her hair’s a hot air
Balloon, is that rude?

Thoughts I have while writing poems.
I can’t write poems with the lights on, like having *** after a meal.
I can’t write poems in silence, like ******* when my roommates are home.
Like putting your hand over my mouth and over my ***. Like planting kisses on my neck and letting me melt into your lap.
I can’t write love poems, like making love with a ***** playing in the back ground.
Like looking into your eyes while you hold your callused fingers inside of me, like looking into your souls and being blinded by your hair.
I can’t write poems unless the muse grabs me by my neck, all my best poems came after he did.
And after he left, and he left, and she left, and he left, and he left.
I try not to write poems about you, I wish I had written more before I realized how stupid you are. Like I should have written about how you drunkenly serenaded me with Sinatra.
How you taught my tongue to tolerate the taste of gin. I should have written more kind words before they started huddling around me in masses and causing me to create something with malice.
I can only write poems about people I hate, like spitting in your open mouth.
Like letting you **** me. Like letting you fight me. Like letting your tiny fingers find every piece of me and try to preserve them in jars.
I can’t write poems with the lights on, like making love to your memory.
I can’t write poems in silence, like looking at my naked body in the mirror.
I can’t look at myself the same way since you touched me.
Like I am a piece on contraband, like my skin is stale.
I can’t write poems alone. Like kissing her in the snow.
I can’t keep building fortresses like this, like keeping her at arms-length.

When I tried to write you into a poem, I found that I already had, you snuck into the crevices of my smile, you spent your spare time mining your way into my heart and now that the bomb we planted there has gone off I’m no closer to finding closure than I was three weeks ago and I guess that just goes to show that when push comes to shove I’d rather pull then become a push over, I’m not even close to being over you, and the next morning once I had a sober view on things I realized you had done the right thing in letting me go, so now I’m letting you know. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Because I let you win, Because I let you in, Because I let my sin control my actions.
I’m sorry
Because of the impact of my folly
Because of the way you tried to stop me
Because of the choices I made
And the decision to stay
I’m sorry
Because I want to be your friend because I rendered myself weaker than I am because I tried to be someone I’m not because I’m too frightened to let this end because I’m bitter without a soul to defend because I lied and tried to get closer to you because I put my needs above yours, I’m making batman references to my friend I said you’re the boyfriend I deserve but not the one I need right now, so I’ll let you go because I can take it but I’m not sure I can make it up to you
I’m sorry.
Because you sank into my skin when I met you, placed your hand over my heart and dug deeper.
Now you're in my bones.
taking up space between my rusty joints
and splintered cartridge.
I could take a scalpel
and cut you out, bleed you out like bad
humors.
if you've rested between my porcelain femurs
does that make you part of me?
Or a tumor.    
I’m sorry
Because I had to have my way
I mean what else can I say?
I’m sorry.
Now this is the part of the poem where you interject, where you tell me that maybe we were each other’s biggest mistakes but at least we were living and together and at least the beast inside of us were shared by each other and at least things never got as bad as they could have.
Here is where you tell me that the key is hidden under the mat, and that if the doors are ever locked all I need to do is knock, here is where you chase the nervous anxiety I have away with a reassuring hug, but you won’t do that will you? You’re done with my chapter in your life, you’ve switched the stitching and you’ve stopped mixing business with pleasure and I’m not needed anymore, so let me change the title of this poem to something with a little bit more of a ring to it, so I can sing it to you until you can’t block it out.
I’m sorry, sorry that I trusted you, sorry that I thought you were different, that I thought you were a bigger person, I’m sorry that I assumed you respected me while you degraded my state of mind, I’m sorry that I thought that you were actually kind. That you wanted a piece of my mind and not just my body. I’m sorry I thought we could be friends.

The poems I wrote for you have scribbled out your name, the cracks in my heart a mortared so I can continue beating this point home, and I’m not alone. So don’t feel sorry for me, don’t be that guy who made my cry and then tries to get back inside. It’s not happening.
I’ve burnt the bridges between us, and in the end. The crevices of my smile hide only my own happiness, I am focusing on myself and the strength within my own mind, so go find someone else to tidy your mess. You can keep your fox hole, I’m happy being faithless.

If only my heart beat in syncopation with my mind.
I wish to make the words collide, but separation is all I can find.
Still I force my hand to tell a tale a soul would plead to hear.
I pray to some cigarette and wine stained God that tomorrow will draw me near.
Yes, tomorrow I would fly high and caress the sky with such a tender touch.
But tonight I am buried, beneath emotion uncontrolled and contorted.
Tonight I cannot so much as separate a single strand of hair from my eyes without the flood of passion.
Pass the salt, pour it onto my self-inflicted wound we so often refer to as love.
But my love has been bruised burnt and destroyed.
I have cursed, killed and polluted my own mind with thoughts of sickness, and now I crave it.
Had I only believed the goodness in myself?
Not let the demons creep up and **** all hope of a new beginning.
Had I so simply as smiled and thanked the lady when she spoke, the gentle kisses of her soft words had pulled my mind from where it had been.
too where I am now.
There are no words. No motions, no belief.
I am Godless and covered in the spit of my immortal demons.
Would it be better if I simply let them win…
their knives are as sharp and their whip is warm.
Their sick pretend grace causes my hands to reach for them. But they’re not there.
Not here, I am without my demons, my lover, my God, my destroyer.
I am alone.

Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I know that that’s a really messed up thing to say because I’ve been spending all of my time trying to convince myself that I’m completely gay and, okay that’s kind of ******* because it’s not like there’s anything wrong with thinking about having *** with you…
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today and I know that’s a really ****** up thing to say because as the hot water was running down my spine I realized how good our fingers feel intertwined. Dear Thomas, I thought about you while- I thought. I think about you a lot.
I think that I am a gypse in your body and in your head, like I’ve hibernated in your mind all winter but I’ve crept out of your aorta valve to find myself at your centre and beating at your ribcage, sleeping with the spirits you’ve swallowed, nestled into your lymphoid, dreaming about the expanse of your stance like it’s the void.
I think about the way your skin tastes with the water after another shared shower.
I think about your gentle hold and your half-hearted snickers.
I think about the advice you’ve given me, and how I’d reply with it times twice: Breathe.
Dear Thomas: I thought that you and I make a pretty good pair, and I know that’s just kind of out of the blue but you know that old saying “I am rubber and you are glue, all that you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” but to be honest I think that we’ve got more things in common than anyone knew so how about I just stick myself against you?
Dear Thomas: I must admit though, lately you’ve been kind of distant and I’m afraid of something that might be growing in my chest, I detest the beating but I can’t stop it enough to rest, I know most of it is  because we’re both so completely stressed, but I think it would be best if we found common ground it would ground us both in this large aray of static sound, but before I get a head of myself let my mind wander out in the open where I can focus on your body and how it moves between my thighs. I think, I think I like this wild ride.
Dear Thomas: You challenged me to write something that tasted like mahogany, and wouldn’t you know that I’m searching for the metaphors that capture our hearts in syncopation, but the trepidation beneath my feet and the heat coming from your tired eyes lie to me about your circumstance. Just by chance I might find a way to make you laugh, it might be just once, I’ll cherish every second that it fleets across your face, undoubtly like mace my awkward words will trip you into cruelty once again, send me to your room again Thomas, let us be there together. I can’t promise you forever, no I can’t even promise today, but I don’t think you want anything more than this moment of mutual laughter on your bedroom floor.
Dear Thomas: can you smell the old books in the imagery I’ve conjured? Can you conduct a survey about the respectable spans of time it takes for me to take my mind off you and find an alternative subject, when I’d rather be subjected to your passion than anything else, Thomas, can you hear the cracking of my spine when I finally let myself relax. Dear Thomas, this isn’t supposed to be anything but the musings of your mistress, but I did miss this, Thomas, being stuck in the hit and miss that is... this, whatever this… is.
I think about the way your voice sounded when you said “I’m running out of time and gin.” And I can’t begin to mention how it felt to watch you melt beneath me non the less, the stress that washes from your face, and Thomas the point of this is that life is ultimately pointless, so let’s get undressed and share in the sweetness of each-others sweat.
Dear Thomas: I thought about you while I was in the shower today, and I’ve got to say, your kisses only taste bitter if the bite marks don’t linger.

Stop
thinking
about
him.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m really alive, maybe this is just all a sick joke.
Then the pain in the core of my existence pounds against my rib cage
I realize that a pain that strong can’t be faked.

Sometimes I place my hands on my neck and squeeze just to make sure my pulse is real.
Because it seems I live in this parallel life of pain and numb happiness.
I’d give anything to be happy all the time.
But I’m bleeding inside.

Sometimes I feel like I’m completely alone and abandoned
like the stray on the side of the road
I push through today one step at a time.
I’m not real, is all I hear.

You know I’d forfeit it all,
for another night with you.

I've run miles,
upon miles,
trying to forget how you smiled
and for every time I called you mine,
I'm trying to bleed you from my spine.

This house is as old as dust.
It creaks and sighs with ever once of pressure.
My room
Is dark and smells ever so slightly of someone who is not me.
The young girl who waited for snow days, the boy: his
Midnight eyes and, broken memories, intact.
(His heart and his head in a field somewhere)
She holds a place here, with the dust and the creaking floors.
There are moments held in captivity within these walls.
(Suspended in disbelief, for they cannot imagine who has replaced them.)
My heart still rests on the bed, my eyes weary.
A day of traveling behind me, a lifetime of moments ahead.
(the blunt assumption there is more to life than this.)
She is not me, the crossed legged one.
Computer screen, light pollution beside the old lamp,
(cascading the room with warm and comforting shadows)
What once frightened me, now I greet like an old friend.
I am here for a moment, as is the light.
Ignited with a spark and snuffed again by a whim,
Of something I cannot control.
This house is as old as dust, and I will return to it
Time and again, although it will never truly
Be mine
(ever again.)

Procrastination is evil.
2. Heartbreak is not the same thing as death.
3. Food is good for you, starving is bad
4. People think you’re beautiful, but that doesn’t mean they like you
5. Loving someone is about giving them all and knowing they give all as well.
6. Poetry makes the world around.
7. Success is measured by you, not them.
8. I don’t think I know anyone who hates me as much as I hate myself, which is probably a good thing because most days I don’t really hate myself that much.
9. Pressure is something you apply to an open cut, not your life.
10. People will always change, nothing is permanent.

The world was cold this evening, hard as fresh rocks on the beach. There was no rain to lull us to sleep.
My love you and are floating.
There is no space more vast than the piece between our fingers.
millenniums pulled into the inches between your naked feet; and mine
bathed in the moonlight, the frozen grass.
We slept here, was it the pills which numbed our senses,
or did we only now feel the putrid sadness which emancipates all lovers.
lengthy discussions between my teeth and your lips, strong cheap tea.
and ***** toes.
millions of miles resting between who we were,
and where we were going.

Less is more.
Blood and gore.
Mount Rushmore.
Rush away from me.
Like ****** water, (what are you doing to me?)
Traveling sales men sell me his body and his bruises.
On the weekdays, when the son says he wants the world to go away.
We lock ourselves on hide away shelves and built – in beds. (washer and dryer sets)
We play house,
Less is more.

The science of missing you is the distance between the roughness of your tongue and the softness of your lips.
The exact moment we connected I've been separated from my mind since then, because you roam inside of it. Held my momentum down with a single claw.
the mathematics behind how it feels to touch you is a million to one, I have come undone under the pressure of your memory.
The exact science of missing you is an equation I can't keep myself from memorizing, your scent is still thrilling, your memory is killing me but I would rather die than never have myself
entwined with you.

The artist sits with one leg crossing over the other.
she doesn't look at him, draped over the sofa, eyes softly closed.
she wishes his lips were as soft as they appeared when he spoke to her.

The historian studies until it's too late to think straight.
The artist will be sleeping and dreaming in
technicolor.
He hurts her from the inside, moving but somehow keeping his body motionless.
making her wish, his whispers were as soft as his lips looked
in the sunlight.
but he only holds history, and she would hurl his head at a canvas
if it would make the memories mute.

My mother’s hands are soft as sand. She says something about where I'm supposed to be in my life and I'm nervous she thinks I should be standing closer the closure, she knows I'm not who I thought I'd turn out to be.
My mother’s mother made her the worrier she is today, and the warrior she had to be to get by.
The day my mother’s mother passed we mourned the progression of the woman we thought of as freedom.
Family has always had a huge part of my heart.
Now it's tattered and torn apart, everyone is aging and graying.
I'm only gaining so much knowledge on the subject.
I could write for hours - there is so much rage drumming against my rib cage.
I've saved enough sanity to grapple with the thought of losing you.
Looking at her now I see that she's been on the same road as me.
The mother of my mother made her promise I'd be better.
My mother's hands are as soft as sand - her sun burnt country betrayed her and now she huddles in the frozen north.
There's nothing here but our snow stung crowd.
My mother makes me smile, suggests it as fall back if my straight face falls.
I've never been able to keep anything straight - least of all me.
My mother made me, and I'm molded by her strength branded hands.
Soft as sand.

there's a lot in me that wants you closer
but more in me that doesn't care
there's a lot in me that wants you far away
more that wants my blood in your hair.
most of me
while we're being honest
claws at my own chest
and is broken at best.

There is a homeless man sitting on the step where we first kissed
and I missed the mark by about a mile, and all I wanted to do was make you smile
with my mouth around your soul, you've got a tight enough hold on me as it is and I'm still wondering about giving in.
I wanted part of the sin, and I wanted us to begin.
now look at the trouble we're in.

forcing her knuckles
working them to the bone
she writes poetry
in verse and in rhyme
she keeps to the beat
she keeps to the time
her hands will never stop shaking
her mouth will be sewn shut
but as long as her poems are truthful.
she feels good enough.

my skin still smells
you linger
longer than I could have thought
perhaps, I think you thought I was something special.
"You really are beautiful."
Darling, there are demons in my spine, leaking fluids into my brain.
and I'm insane.
So don't stand so close to my flame.

This much I know is true.
It’s 10 am on April the 13th 2014.
Despite the ruckus caused by me packaging my books up my roommate is still fast asleep.
I woke up this morning with a sore throat and a rage that boiled like the water I use to make my coffee.
I pretended to talk to you this morning, like I’ve done before, on mornings when the sun didn’t quite rise fast enough, and my eternal clock is stuck on the look on your face when you told me to leave.
“It’ll be hard for you to come back”
I heaved a slow breath from my lungs and told you that I was angry at your inability to talk about the elephant in the room.
“When the doors are locked, and you don’t have a key”
The way I see it, the locks we rusted and you didn’t really want to keep me away.
That being said:
I’m not in love with you.
This much I know is true,
It’s 10:15 am on April the 13th 2014.
I’m wondering if I’m actually going to send this to you, or just let you slide out of my life.
Like I had wanted her to do the first time you kissed me. But I wanted you to miss me, not the physical closeness, of course that was also nice, but just the way my smile widens my eyes, or the bashful way I play around the diabolical sin were in the middle of committing.  
Not my soul, but the sound of my voice, not my heart, but the way it beats.
My roommate just woke up, it’s weird because I’ve started to put my life back into boxes, I still feel like I live in a fox hole, faithless. There is no god, I re-realize this fact when a book of poetry slips from my hand and lands on my foot, and I curse myself and continue taking things of the shelf.
I missed you, maybe the bitterness is just that I wanted you to miss me too.
Not because I’m your lover, but because I’m your friend.
Also, the *** was really good and I’d be kind of sad if that had to end.
This much I know is true.
Please believe me, I’m not in love with you.
It’s 10:30 am on April 13th 2014
I’m hungry and I want to get something to eat, this is the last verse and I can’t beat myself up about the things I wrote, I choked on my on imagination and when it finally passed and I could breathe I assumed it was best for me to let it be, and because it’s exam week and the stress has made me weak, I didn’t fight it, I thought that you had gotten bored with me and moved on, I thought it  was kind of ironic that it had taken this long. That was a joke, self-deprecation, when I reread the poem I realized it was a lie.
Like all my poems are, stretching truths over spools of thread to weave around the language I’ve been given. Stumbling across synonyms and subjects, pulling inspirations from different interpretations and sometimes that comes off too strong, but know all along I meant it when I said.
If I get to close I’ll leave, I need you to trust that that is
as much as I know to be true.

You should just get out.
I’ve changed too much; the pretty lady you looked through that night isn’t the same space being filled by the broken body in your bed. So just get out, you don’t find my frightening or mysterious anymore. My ****** thoughts aren’t spoken words but ravaged thoughts, repressed and undressed for no one anymore. I keep it in, I cannot communicate the bastardizing ******* that’s in my head, I am not brilliantly broken, I am ashamed and busted.
I am not the princess you paid for. I am the thing you’ve worked so hard for, but have failed at none the less. I am the mess you let slip into your heart when you thought no one was looking.
I am not the wind, or the ice water down your throat on a hot day, I am unforgiven and easily forgotten. I am bitten but not chewed, I have bite marks the shape of my own mouth down the gaps in my spine and I am nothing, I am not my own mind.
So just leave, let this be a warning and just get out. I am not deserving of your serving or your love. I am pathetic and weak and baby I am not the sunrise you thought you were chasing I am the fire that burnt down your house.
I have done nothing for you but bend your will, I am not fortifying and I am not forcing you to stay anymore. So say what you but just get out.

If his eyes were stars she would wish upon them.
Perhaps then, he would look to her the same way.
If his breath were a poet she would hang upon it’s every expression.
Wishing for a day where her remarks would take his breath away.
She drinks in his breath, as if it would give life to her dull bones.
If he could tell her how she made his life light up like a Christmas candle.
She would blush at every line.
Her lips puckered with ****** request.
It was the most innocent of caresses. She held onto ignorance
with no wish of letting go.
Because when she’s with him, the voices don’t cry so loudly
she could write ten thousand poems about his gentle eyes.
Describing every part of it she would sweep with her damp burnt, licked lips.
Drawn into a line to stop the flow of words she wishes to whisper.
So she doesn’t open her dark bat filled mouth to his spring filled questions.
In the obscurity, she imagines his soft hand next to hers.
She sings a lullaby into his ears, and he wishes he could kiss her.
And she wishes he could too.
As of now, she’ll cry out to the voices to hush themselves.
And the dusk to enlighten her,
She cannot see the light at the end of tunnel; this façade is blocking the way.
All she knows is that she needs him closer.
If he could tell her a thousand times that the sun shone down from the heavens and through her expression.
She would glance down at the floor and hear.
He’s lying. ҉

a relapse washed over me like the break of day
a firm and gentle wave caressing my every movement
this was only ever as far away as the edge of my finger tips
now I glide across the ice, and the blood flows red as your lips.

I've lived so long with you there.
Just sitting and waiting
it’s almost become calming, the way you press yourself against my skin
until you finally found a place.
Inside, I am reminded of you every time
I open my hand, to hold something more.

I live in a small room, overlooking the sea.
You are silent, breathing.
heaving my chest up and down, like the sound of solemn waves.
There is fear in me, that you’ve been in my lungs for so long
If I were to remove you, I wouldn’t be able to breathe.

I’ve lived so silent while you were there.
almost anxious of the sound of my own voice, rising up to
puncture the air, send sounds to bring you tumbling down
like the walls around my heart you crashed into,

I live in a big house, every window
Every door, is open.
People flood in
But so does the cold.
Trapping you inside of me, stinging my eyes
My throat is freezing, flooded with salt.
I can't speak so much to scream.

they think we die loudly, screaming and in protest,
in fact we die with our eyes ******* shut, so close to freedom
but afraid to see it.

If only my heart beat in syncopation with my mind.
I wish to make the words collide, but separation is all I can find.
Still I force my hand to tell a tale a soul would plead to hear.
I pray to some cigarette and wine stained God that tomorrow will draw me near.
Yes, tomorrow I would fly high and caress the sky with such a tender touch.
But tonight I am buried, beneath emotion uncontrolled and contorted.
Tonight I cannot so much as separate a single strand of hair from my eyes without the flood of passion.
Pass the salt, pour it onto my self-inflicted wound we so often refer to as love.
But my love has been bruised burnt and destroyed.
I have cursed, killed and polluted my own mind with thoughts of sickness, and now I crave it.
Had I only believed the goodness in myself?
Not let the demons creep up and **** all hope of a new beginning.
Had I so simply as smiled and thanked the lady when she spoke, the gentle kisses of her soft words had pulled my mind from where it had been.
too where I am now.
There are no words. No motions, no belief.
I am Godless and covered in the spit of my immortal demons.
Would it be better if I simply let them win…
their knives are as sharp and their whip is warm.
Their sick pretend grace causes my hands to reach for them. But they’re not there.
Not here, I am without my demons, my lover, my God, my destroyer.
I am alone.

I can’t feel beautiful because I can’t feel anything at all
and the lines I’m typing aren’t mine
and you’re just reaching to see your own spine
the lies you’ve spun can be told by the light shining through the dirt filled blinds.
I’ve got nothing left so make me fall.
Because I can’t feel beautiful if I don’t feel anything at all.