Dear Violet,

This isn’t what you want from me, and we both **** well know that, so
I’m sorry.

For making you the true victim of unrequited love, because altruism comes at a high price, something we both know too well, and this kind of behavior simply won’t do. For once in my life, I must try and put these feelings behind me. Because I cannot express, what I cannot understand, especially towards you, Violet, considering your own sense of confusion. This was a world I never expected to find myself in with you. I’ve sat through dozens of your accounts of exactly what I’m becoming, and I’m well aware of what becomes of them. You’re a rare Violet rose weathering a storm, and all I can do is offer you shelter. But in no way shall I pick you, for if that were to ever happen, I’m afraid you’d instinctively wither away and die between my fingers, and I couldn’t stand to let that happen. I wouldn’t put you through that. But the heart is an animal solely restrained by the rib cage, unbound by the mind, and my bones are rather weak. My ribs would be worth breaking. My heart would, could be yours for the taking. But I need to make do, for this is the exact thing I just swore I simply wouldn’t do.

This shall be a love triangle fought with pens, paper, pencils and keyboards. A war of wordsmiths and poets, of lead and ink, of writings comparing everything besides the kitchen sink. These words will be our own, and may reside unknown, but we will all fight with our hearts at length, and we will show each other our true strength.

This is passion.

This is love.

This is precisely what I am capable of.

Humans are eighty percent water, we are

fluid.

Our thoughts and behaviors can only be expected to be equally so, we can’t be expected to know who we are if it changes in every heartbeat. And we can fight the current with all our might, and act like we always know wrong from right but we are fluid, and our virtues are like liquid, slipping through our firmly grasped handholds like the tears of an immoral god.

Boy, I know it ain’t easy, but you gotta be careful when you wear your heart like a wristwatch but your head’s so far in the clouds you can’t see what people do it. I know it’s scary. And I wish I could hold your hand into every day, if for nothing more than to keep the lovesick predators at bay, but we are separated by the most daunting of boundaries. However, even distance can be traversed.

And Boy, I always swore I could never love someone smarter than me, but something about the way the gears move behind your eyes, powered by nothing but good will and hope, is beautiful to me, almost as beautiful as the layers of flesh hiding that sad situation.

Almost.

Because Boy, I know you hate the way you were shaped, and every now and then you may feel the need to take a whole arsenal of sharp objects to your beautiful locks, and I don’t really mind because change is good. And I’ve always noticed how it grows back, stronger than ever.

And Boy, I know you love me. With all that you are. And maybe I’ll never quite understand that, because more often than not I forget to even give you the time of day, and you’re eternally patient about that. You threw all your faith into this broken, shattered, childish man.

Boy, you deserve better than the half-hearted love I’ve been able to give. Because half my heart is powered by my mind, and it knows better, and I know you do too, but why hasn’t that stopped us yet?

Why do we still fight through all the misery and loneliness, all the longing and hopelessness?

Why do I write this poem? Why did you write yours? What’s even to come of this?

Please, let me be the wrench in your gears
The bug in your system
I want to drive you crazy
I want to be the voice in the back of your mind
Let me be the catch in your breath
The skipped beat in your chest
Allow me to become the tingles in your back
I want to make your hair stand on end in the best possible way
Let me be the flaw in your perfection

How can you be so sympathetic
Watching me, a simple moth
Pinned down to a corkboard
Desperately trying to escape

I’d like to believe it’s because you see yourself in me
You were once a butterfly in the same position
But I saw you torn from the painful security of that board
And, still bleeding, I saw your gorgeous wings ripped from you

I thought they’d never grow back the same

So how can you be so sympathetic
Watching me simply pinned
So securely
While you fly so free, so deservingly

You’ve worked so hard to mend your wounds
While I’ve almost stop struggling, accepting a broken fate
So hopelessly inspired by your success
So proud of something I’ll never be
Purely because I won’t break free

I think you should know how broken I feel
How incomplete my life is.
And it seems no matter how hard I try
I never feel like I’m trying at all. I will never be good enough.

*

No! Not good enough. I wonder if I’ll ever find happiness in love. I think that I’ll never be handsome enough for the man of my dreams, I wonder just what it is everybody sees in me, I try my hardest to be how everybody pictures me in their dreams, but I feel like it will never be enough.

*

No! Not good enough. I try to escape my reality into a world of fiction and imaginary deadlines, I feel like I’m leading a limitless life but constantly stopped by the walls of reality which for some reason I just can’t seem to see, the consequences of undermanaged ADD, a fictional disease according to leading scientists in my family but out of my control, honestly. However, that excuse will never be good enough.

**

No! Not good enough. I dance and spin and toss and weave, I exert myself desperately, but these things require bones and muscles, concentration and hustle, these things take time and patience, and I’m trying my best to cover my bases but I’m working off my basic skills, refusing to build atop the talents I was born with, and I know it’s impressive but I’m too stubborn to discover my potential. I know in my heart that I’ll always be stuck at a headstart, and I know in my mind that physical exertion is a waste of time, and I tell myself it simply isn’t enough.

**

No! Not good enough. I stride through practiced steps of one, two, three-and-four, dance instructors always wanting something more, feet on the floor, girl in the air, handle with care, stay in line, always keep time, careful with your dips, and Jake, please don’t dance with your hips. But…my hips don’t lie. So I try and pry at this art, a release torn apart through structure which wasn’t part of the plan, see, I must be a man, though sometimes I stray THAT’S… strictly for play, see, I have to be strong, have to be leaned on, have to be a base, have to stay in place, and that’s something I will never be able to do good enough.

***

No! Not good enough. I tentatively go where no man has gone before, if that’s even what I am, for it simply seems it wasn’t adventurous enough for me to be gay, but I had to stray from what was just seeming normal and find a new definition from what I considered to be formal, but there’s something alluring to the concept of twirling in floor length dress, or the beautiful strain of a high heels caress, and sometimes make-up can be more than skin deep, because the feeling of seeing what I’ve always wanted to see is… incredibly heart meltingly fascinating. But society sneers, and leers, and jeers, and I’ll never really hear the cheers for the men who wear skirts and the boys who get hurt because of they’re choices in life, it all ends in strife when a man gets curious, because to society, those choices are never good enough.

****

No! Not goo-

It seems all anyone wants to do these days is save me.
Why am I so determined to refuse that hand?
Maybe I want to drown, maybe I want to forget the sounds, the pressure, let the water build up in my ears in the most painful, blissful silence. Maybe it’d be nice to forget how to breathe, to forget… everything.

But my daddy, in all his infinite fatherly wisdom, once told me, “Suicide is for the weak.”

He never expected the strongest of us all to fall victim to it.

And what if those are the only two things keeping me anchored to this world? My competitive spirit and my fear of disappointing my loved ones?

Violet, this is a poem about you. For once. And I know you’re sure I’ve written plenty, but in all honesty those were about me, and my vision of you. Though in all practicality that’s all this one is, too.

You’re irresistible, as I’m sure you know, though there’s a chance you don’t understand why. You look at yourself, and you wonder where we find the diamond in the rough that is your existence. As much as I’d love to clear that up for you, that wouldn’t be any fun, plus, this is a poem about you, so using my knowledge would be cheating. People love you, Violet. More than you understand. And you love them. But that’s when things take a turn for the worse, isn’t it?

"Don’t love someone like me, I only know how to leave."

You are an understanding person. You’ve walked upon eggshells for much of your life, suffered through the kind of hardships many don’t understand. You’ve questioned things that make up the very core of your existence. You experience these things and search for any kind of sympathy or empathy, and when you find it, you emulate it. You’ve received kindness from people who don’t understand, and it’s gifted you with the ability to deliver kindness to those whom you don’t understand.

"I do not condescend what I cannot comprehend"

You are a poet, a wordsmith, a fighter…Though I doubt you’d admit it. You’re an artist in every sense of the word, and you find true beauty in places where most people don’t bother to go past skin deep. You have a unique vision of the world, and you are fully capable of expressing it. You possess tools most only dream of, but you tend to refuse to believe in them.

"I am not a writer"
"But, you have a lot to say"

Listen, Violet, our story is a tragedy. I don’t see any other possible outcome. I don’t know…how self aware you are, though I’m scared to ask. We have much in common, however, we also have much to learn from each other, through whatever we become. I don’t plan on departing any time soon.

"I doubt it’s me you write about, yet I find myself in every word"

I just want to write poetry on your back while you sleep
For that’s the only way I can show my love
I want to lift you above the lies that society implies
And steal away the tears of ink you weep

Hundreds of times with thousands of words I have tried to pin down my love
For you
For her
For this
But the words wrap themselves around the needle and up my arm and back out my mouth again, a vomitous, recycled, insincere love.

I want to love you. I want you to love me. I know you shouldn’t. You don’t even want to.

You’ve never laid a hand on me.

Wouldn’t dream of it, in actuality. You’re far too kind for that. But you’ve left more bruises on this tarnished soul than an elementary student should ever be able to count, a mere child playing this game you’ve created where the rules are yours and the pieces are yours and the turn is yours and, ultimately, the victory will always be yours. A shattered facade I spend every one of your twelve-hour shifts trying to slowly piece back together before your put-off panic goes against it’s nature of setting in and explodes into an agonizing glare that sends the shrapnel of my heart into those I love, including you, my flesh and blood. And I pick the pieces out of your steel skin with a practiced precision while you sleep, and once you’re complete I assemble the puzzle of my old rusty smile and take my turn in the game you’ve already won. We’ve created a game of tortured smiles and hordes of denial, a game fought with words so sharp they catch in our teeth and destroy their very creators faster than a small town dream crumbles under the weight of reality. Not all games are a battle that has to be won. And we both know no one told us this was going to be fun, but you need a stiff upper lip, and to tighten your grip on reality, on the fact that we don’t have dream salaries, on the truth behind the false hope of dependency, because it seems you think we’ll never be here for you, even though we always are.

I can’t leave. There’s still to many words on this angelically anchored mind that are still chained to times long since set in sepia. Words carry too much weight for me to accept my fate at my own hand, when the warmth of a pen moving faster than my mind feels so much better than the cold steel of a trigger.
Ironic, how ink is heavier than sorrow.

Her footsteps send echos down a long, lonely path
A path well trodden, one better left forgotten
Just like she feels sometimes

Forgotten

Sometimes she feels as if she is just a sum of the things people believe she represents, but she is
So
Much
More

Her mind is full of the echos of the footsteps we’ve left there
Words that sting at the scars from her past,
Small acts that threaten to tear the threads that keep her mind intact, because she is

Intact.

Very together, very proper, always the mother and never the daughter
The hero of the beaten and self ****** because she sees herself in us

She is self ******.

Her footsteps send echos down a long, lonely path.

She says,

"Dance like no one’s watching"

But I can see into her mind, see the divine lines deep behind her eyes, and I can tell that she believes.

She believes there’s always someone watching. Someone for whom you must do your very best, for he’ll accept nothing less. And what stress. What pressure, how does she ever keep it together?

The longest strides are always one step short.

You were the only person who
could ever come close to
bringing me to tears.

Then, one day
You did.

I just want someone to write with.
No.
On.

I want someone who will stay up all night long, nothing but our souls and pens on display for the moonlight to catch off the small of his back, while the ink spills across our skin and forms itself into the lyrics to a song that doesn’t quite know how it goes. Not yet. I want a symphony of rhyme and reason and metaphors and anaphoras and allusions and oxymorons, I want poetry. In the form of a man.

This is a story about you.

The bottoms of my broken, blistered feet blazed a ballroom dance across dashed dreams and spiteful strings of words better left unsaid.

It’s strange, the things I let myself do.
While I, surrounded in filth, am thinking of you.
You twist my words behind my back
They write themselves into a poem
That lacks a steady rhyme scheme.
Sure.
My poetry has stopped being beautiful.
But it’s started to have meaning.
The man you are,
The man I want,
Should not want me.

My lungs are filled with more nicotine

than the average 90 year old pack a day smoker, you see

smoking runs in my family.

And if I’ve learned one thing, it’s that all it takes is a spark,

a spark that always has the best of intentions

a spark that always was meant to help

a spark that’s always to catch a glimpse of the unknown in the dark

and then there’s a flame and an ember and the soft, hollow wheeze of

smoke.

Entering my newborn lungs because of your newborn stress born out of your

newborn wedding dress.

You just wanted to make sure you looked good.

And you should.

But now my lungs are filled with the toxins of

broken hearts taped back together

tragic love stories, more than I can remember

of men, come and gone,

And more men come along,

one’s who like new kinds of smoke

the kind that involve words like

****.

stem.

****.

****.

***.

Or how about illegal?

How about enfeebling an infant to make sure you can pay rent

because you’ve spent every cent of his

child support from your

******

sticky

divorce on

***.

****.

****.

A habit that’s taken over for too long and it’s only a matter of time before I’m…

gone.

Because every time I open my lips to breath. To dispell the smoke, the poison, to exhale, to express, my lips are sown shut with your tapping cigarrete

and gossipping nicotine

and looping heart-broken scene I’ve seen more time’s than I can count

And if this is what you’re about,

Always needing a spark

A flame

A ****

A ****.

Or any other addiction that will never last quite long

Enough, I’ve had enough.

There’s a window to fresh air that I now know you’ll never help me reach

but once I get there my lungs will sing gospels of

Love that stays.

Of drug free days.

Of a mother’s loving embrace that doesn’t involve a wheezing spark.

She has a tattoo on her left forearm. She gave it to herself when she was fifteen, with a pen and a needle in the back of her room…

                And I’d always thought that was pretty cool. It was just a little line, like a “z” or the trail of a honey bee, something from deep within a mind flowing with twisted fantasy, but I could never see that it was a “two”. Because we, the children of Ignorance and Bliss, are number two. And you, my dear friend, are number one, in both our minds and yours. So we lock ourselves behind closed doors and waste away doing chores that were yours, and lore of cut wrists or an air-tight noose for the gender I kiss is so cliché that you, in all your self-love and knowing when and how to turn push into shove, somehow missed that my wrists are scar free, and I love my sexuality, and my sole insecurity is that I am number two. To both me and you. And it doesn’t matter if you lead with your left or your right, if you flee or you fight, if you’re gay, straight, or bi, you’re a butterfly in my eyes, the thousand-mirrored eyes of a simple housefly that can’t even see the sky in which you preside through this opaquely glass ceiling…

                And that window of opportunity looks rather appealing, but I have this feeling it’s only reserved for those with pretty, powerful, or popular wings… and I am none of those things.

                And for once, I see that my story may never be quite as uplifting as I’d like to make it seem, because I’m quite keen to the fact that Act III will always end in tragedy. And those aren’t things I like to say, but to this day I pray that this grotesque display of shimmering wings and beautiful things would simply go away so I could say that a tattoo of the number two is something I will never do, but until that happens the concept rings true. Yet I’m told my wrists aren’t fit for a single number or slit.

                I have a long fuse, but it’s already been lit, so the next time you see fit to shoot ***** of spit or permit your self-love to turn push into shove, it may be my blood and ink that pools in the sink, mixing with my salty tears I’ve held through literally years of no self-love and knowing that the dove is you.

                And I am number two.

I miss you. I can’t read a single poem without thinking about you. I hate how we weren’t closer, how the distance grew toward the end. I hate that I’ll have to live with that regret. I hate how you never wrote me a love poem, simply because our love wasn’t timed with your poetry phase. I hate that I call it love, I hate that that’s what it was. I hate that I still kind of love you. I love you, I guess. I’m pretty sure I love you. Maybe I love you…

I love you.

I love the way you’ve put pen to paper from the day you were born, and I love that you’ll never stop. I love that you’re a worrisome, careful person, I love how hard you try to be mature but at the same time refuse to ****** the child inside you, something most of society views as an unavoidable rite of passage. I love that you’re free. I love that you dream, that you believe, I love that you don’t quite realize how your potential is more beautiful and has more breadth than the entirety of those cosmos you admire oh so much. I love how you fear you’re stuck in the past when you’ve evolved more in one teenage lifetime than most do in one adult lifetime. I love that you’re just a little bit crazy. I love how you drive me just a little bit crazy. I love how everything you are, your passions, your personality, every little trivial trait, desirable or otherwise, rubbed off on me in the most subtle ways.

I'm sorry.

Maybe I need some divine intervention
Maybe I need god to descend from the heavens
And stop the stress and fix the rest and
save me.
Maybe faith is something I’d use daily
Maybe there’s a chance it would take me
down the path of the righteous and make me into someone
I’m not.

But how nice it must be, to feel free of this
ungodly weight on my back, to breathe a
wholesome, clean chest full of air into this
infected, shell of a man.

Oh, the simply joy of feeling born again in a world where your life’s all a part of some holy man’s plan, and your problems are dismissed under the guise of pure bliss.

Holy light sears the skin of all impurities. It alleviates the mind right out of the skull.

But the heart wants what the heart wants. And it wants the darkest, sweetest of sins.