Draw a map of the world.
Draw it straight onto the walls
of your bedroom
(or your cell, whichever you prefer)
into your favourite notebook
(so you always have it with you)
onto the palms of your hands
(so you never forget it's there)

Press a pushpin
into the capital cities.
The ones with names like
Most Beautiful View
Him
That Song
A Few Tears
and remember to translate their titles
to the local tongue.
Maybe
they'll read
You
Love
Feel
Him
or maybe not.

Trace the lines
of the coast on which
you faced your first ocean
or your second
or your twenty-ninth.

Doodle a hollow star
onto the hilltop where the two of you
made the same wish
on that strange streak of light burned into the sky.

Draw a map of your world.
Fill it with all of the beautiful things
that you have ever and never seen.

Us, just you and I.
This is our world.
But these aren’t tears.
Maybe they are, maybe they are our own.
But what does this matter? We have seen each other’s tears.
We’re washed, cleansed, and no longer you and I.
We are young.
We are free.
We are innocent.
We are happy. Happy.
Can you imagine?
Thunder rolls. But not thunder.
Music that used to be our sobs, washed clean by this rain that isn't rain at all.
We play, play like the children we never ceased to be.
We run, not racing like we usually do,
neither one of us wanting to win because to win means to leave the other behind.
We love each other, but we’re not in love.
How beautiful is that? How simple and perfect.
How sublime this thundering, rainy day can be.
It’s a wonder. Greater than the sun.
Sunlight doesn’t bring us together, darkness does.
We grow from the darkness.
We flourish in the sun.
But every so often, we retreat. Just to stay honest, you see?

loneliness preys
on those you would least expect
to fall prey
to loneliness.

he curls up
next to the people surrounded by people.

he sits down beside me
on the bus
the park bench
my kitchen table.

he murmurs soft reassurances
that are not at all
reassuring.

Don't Worry he says
No One Can Hurt You he says
As Long As You
Let No One In.

and
weak as I am
I listen.

guilt though
takes a different approach

I can feel him
when I'm alone.
At night,
face down on my pillows
he creeps.
soft fingers play piano
on my spine

the notes
reverberating through my ribcage
the metallic thud as they pound
my heart

You Did This
rings out
over and over

its rhythm
adhering itself
to the
unsteady
tattoo of my heart

until the guilt
is inseparable
from me.

The oppression of sadness
The absorption of madness
The stark contrast
of the black on white.

Few things are more defined
than the clear separation
the cutting edge of the "t"s
the loose curl of the "c"s

individually,
so clear
but page after page
the letterswordsstanzas
run together
to create a map
of the labyrinthine establishment
that just may be
my mind.

I miss how easy it was to smile
and not see myself
as a liar.
How easy it was to laugh
without a trace
of irony.
I miss how easily
sleep would come.
I miss how easily
I could trust.

I miss the time
before complications;
before broken families;
broken hearts.

The time when runaways
were the stuff of fiction
and sad news stories,
rather than fodder
for a poem.

The time for pitying others
for their absentee fathers
or overly dramatic siblings
has long past.

Yet another one of the side effects
of my newfound cynicism;
I have nothing
left
to give.

So hide behind your shield of smiles
and let false happiness mask
the depth
of your trials.

The truth hurts
so I lie.
My decisions are doomed
so I don't decide.
I'm not loved
so I love too much.
I'm scared of myself.
But solitude remains my crutch.