One day you'll meet a guy
Who'll tell you you're beautiful
And you will believe him
More than you did me.

I packed my past-lovers
into a box and
put it on the
top shelf of
things been and gone,
leaving it to
gather dust
like a heart
gathers apathy.

Hollow chests and shattered hearts are the equivalent
of birthing babies who cannot breathe,
aching for something that will not be there.

Angry tears and snapping jaws
were born in the same moment
disappointment crawled into your womb
and made a home of your soul.

Loving in hate longs for clarity,
clings to sound with deaf ears,
singing songs about heaven and hell.

Vacant eyes and unstable thoughts
make for nice conversation
with a man that teaches you
how to tie a noose with your words.

I thought poetry was a series of
notes and rhythms;
had to sing myself to sleep
with a voice too raspy from the tears.

I didn't know poetry was the coma
you wake up from
when you find the right words
to express your thoughts.

I didn't know it was
the lonely you feel
on the nights surrounded by humans
but no people.

So I waited and prayed for the words,
didn't let poetry bring me to my knees.
Praise God,
praise God we can express ourselves.

And I would've never believed
that poetry would make you
feel alive in the pain,
proud in the shame,
forever changed.

Back when I thought poetry rhymed.

She kissed me
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

We fell in
love.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

We made
mistakes.
Not because
we wanted to
but because
we could.

We thought
we were
perfect.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

I vomited in
the bathroom
of a
Baltimore
7-11
because
sometimes
you cannot
hold it in
much
longer.

Her hands shook
as she held her
mirror
because
sometimes
your reflection
can only
tell you
so much.

My body shook.
Her body stiff.
And when
the bodies
move
the hearts
stop.

She lied some.
I drank words.
The veins
in hands
are maps
to imagined
consciousness.

Really,
it's just
a
*******
*****.

Music to
my ears.
Nervousness
between
blinks.
Noise to
my brain.

She said,
"I love you"
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

I said,
"I love you, too,"
not because
I could
but because
I wanted to.

I knew this girl.
A beautiful girl.
Prettier than any other girl I had met.
She  was a one in a million kind of girl.
Not many were like her.
And she swore they all wanted to be her.
But I loved her nonetheless.

She took these photos, beautiful, magnificent photos.
I would look forward to them.
They provided a certain service for her.
They filled a void.
They were personal.
Artistic.
Special.
But they were not simply of her.
They were of her mind.
Her soul, her heart.

That girl.
One day she stopped taking those photos.
She lost her mind,
She lost her soul,
She lost her spirit,
She lost her will.
Her spark was gone.


To this day, I still miss those photos.