years ago
when I ****** my boyfriend
I'd sometimes pretend to pay for him.

how much?
I'd say,
so he'd make believe he was turning away,

you can't afford me.

he'd stand there
obnoxiously
and I'd fling wads of money.

six hundred
seven hundred
eight hundred
nine

a grand, baby
a grand and you're mine

Fireworks never frightened me
When I was younger, I used to reach up to the sky
Hoping that I could somehow catch them
I guess it worked somehow
The sparks made their way into my veins
Igniting everything they touched
I soon embodied fire
It spewed out of me during arguments
Burned down all my bridges
It was my armor, my protection
Until it engulfed the people I loved
In flames not even I could extinguish
One by one they left
And for the first time in history
Fire transformed into water
Now, instead of an inferno
There is a flood
Instead of sparks
There is rain
Instead of burns
Everyone is drowning
I will never be the person they want me to be
I am either too much
Or never enough

sometimes she would stand in my doorway
bright blue lace ******* that she knew were my favourite
and a little white shirt that was just a bit too small.

she'd enter my room ever so gently, after brushing her teeth in the morning
and pass me a stick of gum
to sweeten the taste of red wine and beer from the night before.

she would stand there in the doorway, with the cutest smirk on her dimpled cheek
and give her ***** a shake

as if to say
"yeah I'm cute, but how do you like me now?"

(she was always watching in the mirror anyway)

i would lay there and smile, and extend my reach
as she lightly pounced into my arms, and my bed

as if to say
"welcome home, sweetheart."
even though we'd just spent the night drunkenly dreaming

and warming each other's souls.

she would rest there smiling as i looked down from above
and tucked her hair behind her ears

i would kiss her 3 times;  on her third-eye and on her crown.

once because i loved her.
and twice more in case she didn't feel it the first time.

some days there was a look of wonder
an unknown amazement shining from her eyes

a look so indescribable, i can't help but think she wasn't real

couldn't have been real

but here she was beneath me.

staring up at me, as if i had the power to magically whisk us away, to a far away place

and here i am, convincing myself she wasn't real.

this is why i can't have nice things.

i never have liked uppercase i's
i know it's absolutely stupid
but they always make me feel more important than others
like i'm always saying I, I, I.

see even that was weird
way too many eyes
so i spend half my days, proofreading my lines
to make sure that i'm exactly the same size
as everyone else

when i first met you it absolutely blew me away
to find someone else who lowers their eyes
i'm serious, it's amazing to find someone who wastes as much time as yourself
hitting backspace, and
cursing auto-correct for not allowing this behavior

but after a while i noticed you stopped with the i's
maybe it was around the time **** got weird
maybe it was a fad; or i have some absurd superstition
but it's cool
You always were the bigger person, anyway.

It feels weird. Friendship.
Picking up where you left off with someone you didn’t think you could.
I wish I could be genuine, tell this person “hey, I missed you.”
I can’t.

Not because it would be a lie,
but because I miss me more.

I miss who I was a year ago
when I used to consider this person a friend for life.
Envision them by my side 10 years down the line,
with frequent visits to each others homes.
Scatter outings when our schedules allowed.

But now...
I can’t even tell if I’ll be around them tomorrow.

I used to pride myself in being a good friend.
Trustworthy,
Reliable.
Now I am as unpredictable as ever.
Fickle, even.

I make no promises,
so that I won’t break them.

I make no plans,
so that I won’t cancel them.

Being with myself is hard enough as it is
and I’d hate to ruin someone as pure,
genuinely happy,
generous,
and kind as you.

Forgive me if I’m distant.
I apologize for the lack
of comfort I provide.

The only thing I can say is that
I'll be staying a while,
and I hope that's okay.

It’s all loves fault.

I didn't want to be happy *anyway,
why the **** did it have to come strolling along
to show me how asleep I've been.

Why did I give it the right to parade around me
and then keep marching off
with its drums and dancers,
leaving only confetti behind
and a wide-eyed person relentless
of letting go of the procession but
FORCED to clean up the massive mess on the street that
no one else seems to notice.

It’s in that same moment that we all realize,
we should never throw parties that big,
that festivities that grand shouldn't even be legal.

They’re messy and exhausting and the confetti is
too scattered
to rest assured that we’ll ever
clean every last bit up to toss away.

It’s in that moment that people assure us that
paper is biodegradable and that it just needs
time for the earth to make it natural.
But every bright piece of glitter that gleams on the street,
persistent and as present as ever, is simply
a reminder of that parade with its cheers and
the faint beats of the drums and the moment you had

to stand idly by and

watch it

go.

“Love,” am I right?
Either you handle the concept with a fifty-foot pole,
or you lick your lips, and
sink your teeth right into it without question.
You choose to be safe
or you choose to be satisfied.

But there’s a small collection of us
who hang back in the shadows.
Those of us who choose neither.
Those of us who think.

We’re hesitant to even speak the word.
[Rightfully so.]
You're a naive if you use it too much.
You're a heartless ******* if you don’t say it at all.
But it's only a word.
We shouldn't give it the authority
to paint us into a corner.

Yet, here I sit
where my favorite two walls meet—
plenty of moments for thinking—
a thick, fresh coat dripping down
on either side of me.

There you stand,
arms crossed and smiling—
all come-hither and inviting—
saturated paintbrush in hand.

The only thought I can manage?
*****. I really like this color.

I heard somewhere that
public schools are going to stop
teaching kids how to write
in cursive.

Guess that means we the dying breed of fancy, huh?

But seriously, America, let's get real.
Cursive is the unspoken *** of penmanship.
Its stops and starts are infrequent;
one neverending pleasure stroke of
ups and downs,
comely curves,
delectable edges,
all made in one fluid motion.
It's always somewhat satisfying to pen...
                   ...no matter how sloppy the technique.

See, children need to learn
how to make love on paper
before they grow up
and slip between the sheets.

It's important to teach them
that it's not a crime to take the time
to practice a little patience and appreciation.

After all, that's how love is maintained, right?

Forget e-signatures.
Forget convenience.
But don't forget the simple fact that
everyone needs a little John Hancock.

I catch myself thinking about your lips, again.
And one particular smile; I find it mesmerising.
Wryness and sadness and resolute strength,
That gentle smile, that almost smile, that 'shall I...?' smile.
There's a no-surrender steel to your stare, a hardness
In the set of your shoulders, the tension in your neck,
But your lips are all softness and so, so sweet
I imagine them to be; a piquant sweetness,
Mixed spice, vanilla and burnt sugar.
I catch myself thinking about your lips, again,
And wishing I could taste them.
My fingers to my own, I gently ****,
And lose myself in a cinnamon dream.