“Write about ***” I whisper to myself
“No. No, that’s disgusting” I respond with vigor
“Write about love.” I suggest in the condescending tone adults often take with me
But I do not want to write about love,
I have never been in love
I have never felt anything like love
I hate writing about love
I hate the pronouns
I always want to write about hers
About the smell of perfume on her dress
And the way her hair curls and twists like the plotline of an Oscar Wilde novel
I always want to write about she’s
And the way she never makes fun of my silence
And the way she laughs
And the way she cheats off of me in geometry,
Even though we both know my answers are always wrong
She’s like a triangle
A cute
But if I were a shape
I’d be obtuse
Because when  we walk to together in the hallway I always get the urge to grab her hand
But I never have
And  I want to tell her to take off her makeup because she’s just so perfect
And you know she cried last week and I didn't know what to say
I never know what to say around her
But she never minds, she can have a conversation with me and I never have to say anything
And some days it takes all my restraint
Not to write about her
And I want to write about how I love her
I want to write about the way I love her
But hatred always hits me in the gut
And pain in the face
And shame cripples my fingers
So that I can never write she
And when he comes out of my pen
I rip the pages of my failed poem out of my notebook
And cry
Because I can’t stand writing lies

One day, they'll wake up next to you and look toward you. You'll roll over, all bleary-eyed and drowsy. With your raspy, honey thick voice, you'll mumble good morning into their neck, tell them you love them. You'll run your fingers over their jaw line, lean in to kiss them, and see the hesitation in their eyes. Suddenly, you are wide awake and you question, and your heart races in the most awful way, because somewhere, deep in you, you already know. They can't even meet your eye when they say "We need to talk". And they tell you things that you hadn't even been aware were problems and they say they're sorry, but you know, in your heart of hearts, they're not, really. That's when you realize that everything you thought 'This' was between you was Real for you but Not for them. You realize that they were pretending. You realize you've been used. And then they are getting out of bed and putting on their pants and leaving. The sound of the door clicking shut with everything you thought you had on the wrong side of the door; The sound of the lock finding itself and clicking into place is the exact sound your heart made when it broke.

she was a tiny little thing
soft thin lips
pale eyes that cut through
my ******* facades
recognizing me inside
because I looked just like her.
the baby with brewing thoughts
mothered everyone else
because she didn't know
how to take care of herself.

In a way, you, my dear friends, are in the company of a ghost.
Why is this, you ask? Or perhaps you don’t ask,
perhaps you do not care at all.
If you are expecting dripping ghostly green ectoplasm
or a white bed sheet with holes cut out for the eyes,
then you, my dear friends, have the wrong expectations.
You are wrong, yet
are still in the company of a ghost. A ghost
holds on long after his time, longing
for more time here with his dear friends to feel
loving arms around his neck, arms that are slipping, arms that shouldn’t let go, mustn’t let go,
arms that continue
slipping, those arms are gliding off too quickly, too soon, those arms.

Those arms are gone.
Those arms are no longer holding
our dear friend. He cannot let go
because those once loving arms
have let me go.

This is why you, my dear friends,
are in the company of a ghost.

There was something about her
That made memories linger
But I remember her in bits
How she fuddled with her fingers
And how a glance from her
Was like recieving a hug in an envelope
There was a sparkle in her eyes
Just a bit hope

She had a sly smirk
Whenever she schemed
She found happiness where ever it lurked
Even in the saddest dreams
She saw how every detail is perfect
Or so it seemed

She was a complete mess
And justified it
When she confessed
That chaos is beauty
But lacked to see her own loveliness

Her image was disproportionate
She couldn't even fathom
That the way her way of life
Had so much value and passion
It created an effect of inspiration
To any one she spoke

And she couldn't believe
How much she meant to me
I guess she just didn't know
That there was something about her
That made her glow.

I am flawed,
An inner fault, though I appear whole.
I can feel it grind with each breath,
Glass on glass.

One look and I am young again.
A thousand doubts to build a girl
Who refused to cry
And ran through fields

One word and I am crushed
Beneath half a life of memories.
Layers of varnish, too many to dry
Too many to breathe.

One touch and I spiral,
The fragments descend.
A rain shower reflected in your eyes,
Hot with desire.
A hitched breath that rounds the edges,
A balm of boiling water
On ice.

The shard between us shatters
With your fingers on my skin,
Tracing constellations in my freckles.
It's as if the years never existed,
But the splinters harden,
Crystallised with lies
And growing milky with
things unsaid.

Despite the night,
I grow colder with secrets
That choke me.