me and all my ghosts;
taking the stage! chewing through scenery like
the very hungry caterpillar; obsessed with
accepting half-eaten garbage until i can’t feel that
void. anxiety propelling every clandestine
interaction. . . waiting for the day someone
bakes me a cake with my name on it.

it’s ******* horrid.

we’re in your room – a place i’ve never been
but manages to smell exactly like home.
the carpet’s ******–  but to me, it feels like
beach waves. i cried all the way home,
not because i missed you.

i missed the waves.

i threw myself off every emotional cliff
in attempt to replicate that safety;
my bathroom floor heard more
prayers when the sun went down
than sunday mass ever did.

don’t worry, sunshine.
you did everything right; scouring macy’s for
cupcake pans, mixing the batter with
every offerable ounce of my blood.

but it wasn’t a cake.
you didn’t taste like one either.

i plunge into the water again,
it's cold against my skin
thrashing against my throat
alone
quiet
something all too familiar
something i deny missing

your nails dragged themselves down my back
now i reminisce of serrated metal against my skin
that's how it feels
that's how you felt
back when old habits died hard
and i hated my name

you said you loved me
and i believed it
you were making changes
for the good
for the better

you left so many things
i just didn't think i'd be one of them

Patience
is limitless when I speak with you
no matter how long of a pause we take between words
whether hours, weeks, or months.
I've trained myself
far too well
in the months we've known each other
(48)
to never expect anything more
than your presence.
I view it as a gift,
that each one worded reply, every good morning and goodbye,
a simple sentence that you give me
is doing me a favor.
(I don't even get that anymore!)

Fear
is prominent when you speak to me.
You,
with a voice sweet enough to lure a confused traveler close,
but firm enough to tame the savage beast
have lassoed my emotions
and pulled them into a choke hold;
restricting airways
and turning them a sickly shade of blue.
I am scared,
scared to tell you anything.
I over-think every word I'm about to say,
and dissect each one you've already spoken
without the slightest hint of hesitation.
(God, am I envious!)

Guilt
is ever-present
when I think about myself
instead of you
and contemplate leaving you
only in my memories,
when you never had to think twice about leaving me.
(Why did you go again?)

a few months ago,
you asked me: "What is love?"
As you can see,
it had taken me a long time to understand the question myself,
but I think I've finally come up with an answer.
Unfortunately,
the English language
has only one word to describe something that has limitless interpretations.
In Greek,
there are three words for the three basic types of love.
Eros;
lust.
This type of love
is when you find yourself doodling their name
on the inside of your history textbook,
dotting the I's with hearts
as if you are 13 again and you were just asked on your first date.
You chose that textbook
because it will be the only place no one would ever think to look.
You think about everything you would be far too shy to say or act in person,
making out in the back of a movie theatre
not caring who would walk past,
sneaking off away from your friends just to have two measly moments of what you both call "peace."
Most often,
this type of love is encased in "I love you"
only to obtain a certain goal.
Virginty,
a picture,
or even just one more night
of having them in your arms.
Eros is not authentic,
it is emphemeral.
Phileo;
Brotherly Love.
The friend you would drop anything for in a heartbeat to make sure of their wellbeing,
but also the neighbor you see from time to time watering their garden.
They ask you
to tend to their garden while they are away,
and you do it
even though you've never spoken more than a paragraph to the man
because it is what you believe is right.
This type of love is the devotion of time and energy without any promise of compensation in return,
purely out of the good of heart.
Phileo lasts as long as the people do.
The final type of love
is Agape;
unconditional love.
In religion,
we are guided
or pushed
towards showing this type of love towards the diety.
Yet, very rarely
it is shown towards a human being.
Unconditional love
is the ability to say so much with only uttering a single word.
I have experienced this love,
it is great pain
and great sadness
but the feelings of pain will never leave my lips
in case they are transferred to the person i wish to have the least pain.
This kind of love
is when it is not only enough that you think about them every waking moment but every slumber-filled one as well. You have hung up your needs at the front door along with the key to your heart and devoted yourself entirely to them,
even if they don't reciprocate.
They have been adopted by your body and taken the form of a vital *****.
If you do not
pay absolute attention
to them at all times
you will run into many problems.
You need to keep them running smoothly in order to stay alive and healthy,
because without them you are nothing.
You are a sorry sack of bones with a beating heart with no purpose.
Unconditional love is taking all the lessons you have ever learned
all the rights and wrongs you have finally learned the difference between and throwing them out the window.
It is the thin line between sanity and insanity,
heaven and hell,
and safety and danger.
You walk the rope
from building to building
without the promise of a net.
Unconditional love
is authentic,
but not emphemeral.
((Love *****, don't do it.))