There were days when we would grasp our pencils
as if they were the cause of all our troubles,
when really they were the only things that were a constant.
There were moments when we looked too far forward,
and we missed things that were right in front of us,
when we pined for those we had not yet lost—
moments that made us question ourselves, our choices, our futures.

Maybe we do say the wrong things,
and maybe we think we know the answers,
but there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

For some of us,
there has been time to learn how to say sorry
or to tell someone that we love them.
Others have watched and waited to hear these very words.
There have been days when we look in the mirror and we don’t see ourselves,
but at least we recognize some variation of who we are.

It is there, in these
moments which feel like they should be more meaningful,
that the secrets we are too fearful
to speak are hiding:
                We’re afraid that we’ll miss each other,
                but we’re terrified of letting go.

Perhaps you were cold
or maybe broke and hungry
but know it was bold
to pilfer things from me

If it was unattended
I might understand
but it was ******* attended
very ******* close at hand

At least you were decent
and left me my keys
Oh, wait! No you're a ****
I hope your **** gets disease

If I ever find you
I'll rip out all your teeth
I wouldn't **** you, true
but you're a worthless, ******* thief.

Now I'm not quick to anger
and I've got a long fuse
you best accept the danger
with the targets you choose

So know that I'm ******
and I'm ready to attack
You're high on my ****-list
and I want my ******* coat back

wondering what to do:
he broke my focus like a bone.

I wonder who I am,
who I'm becoming,
and how I used to be.

I thought I was just like him
but some lovers don't know how to stop.

I'm learning:

beginnings:
your name [here]
your pen [in my pocket]

endings:
the word God melts like a spoon
in my hands,
my hands? hotter than the flames of hell.
Suicide:
not mine. I  swear [this time].
this time we're talking about you.
I know you got tired of listening to the other things,
but here's me stripping it all away.
I can only hope you can hear me,
because I'm screaming so loud you could be my mother.

My heart is beating faster than these keys and
you are the power behind the beatings. .

Saying things that are implied is only redundant if I am listening,
  but my ears have been filled with leaking thoughts
       and sounds reserved for when I flip the light switches down.
  loop after loop, it all becomes static
    his voice is a plant drooping from it's ***, melting down the sides
                    like lava I'm not afraid to touch.
   it is still nothing to yours:
Opening my eyes is harder than saying goodbye,
   harder than letting go for one cold, shivering moment
        even if all I need is enough breath to hold on tighter.
  the lines of your soft skin are muted whispers against mine,
              and the only visible movement dances colorfully inside of my eyelids.
     why is it so hard to
                    speak                when I am left
Alone, where thinking becomes almost excessively easy.
   it is too soon to mean it, or even let it float around
        while I cry, and wait for you to reach                        out
      and clasp it into the palm of your hand, where it will seep
   soak
           breathe in as part of your blood;
   but the feeling of not being able to convey how much I care
       is more taut than a balloon on the verge of eruption.
P**lease let me listen a little longer,
   breathe a little deeper,
   tell you things like thank you and ask you things like
                                            why?
           ­  because even I don't know sometimes.

The day my eyes opened to the true life that I live was not the day most call birth

My minds true birth into this world came through my realization of what God truly is

God is love, love is light, and light is me
And I will forever more be a small light of God on a huge spectrum of the magnificence that is this world

When you find the light and love of God in yourself, you then find the light and love in others

You can look at someone and see their light shining within their soul

And finding true love is just the realization that the person you are looking at is not only a wonderful and beautiful life in itself but also that their light is nothing more than the exact reflection of your light as well

Once you have come to that realization, then you will realize that your love and the light of your life was never in question, only that you had yet to see it for yourself

And the light that emits itself from the both of your souls combined is what keeps the world turning, and the wind blowing

It's the brightest light that you may ever come to see

The truest love, in the truest form to be witnesses by the hearts that have opened themselves up to such a light will bask in it's wonderful rays and praise it

...because that love is nothing more that God in his most beautiful form

the fridge, the boy inside it, he died there, and now, it's his home.
his ghost, is in your pants, and in your head.
HE IS SCREAMING!
why is he screaming?
what have you done?
butter fly, dont fly away!
remember when I kissed you as a baby little piller?
oh!!! ohh!!! my sweetest of darlings.
I hope this isn't awkward in the morning.

A weight has been lifted from my shoulders,
placed beside me
where I can see it and laugh at the things I felt
when my eyes were closed.

No matter how much clothing I remove
it is still too difficult to see what's
underneath my skin unless
I am using your eyes as a mirror.

The women dancing on the wall have not shown me anything
and my mother seems to think they have.
somewhere out there, you are lost in a moment
a bottle of pinot noir
and a pack of cigarettes you smoked when you were young.

The air is softer than it was before,
your skin is softer than it was before,
my mind tends to paint things more beautifully than they were before.
Though we're falling from the face of the earth,
I'm not afraid of where I'll land.
Somehow, I know there will be room for me to stand in between one line
and the next—
and within that space, enough room for my heart to
expand and contract
in the steady motion of breathing

with taffy wrapped across your scull for warmth,
you look at me in secret glances
—there, beneath your heavy eyelashes—that make my heart flutter so ironically
like the soft shake of my bed when snow drops from the sky in chunks.

you are still the same pile of bones
but flushed and grown,
still the same gentle glow, but now are close enough
for me to feel your warmth,
and for me to become wrapped inside of your exhale.

even if I am only using tears to hide from the wind,
they are better than bare-***** chill, or the helplessness
of true winter
, darkness
, space.

how full can one mug be of slowly climbing steam and the gentle loss of speech?
it rises until it is at the ceiling, and it sits there
taunting my empty lips with calm silence, embarrassed touches,
accidental movements
until we are only pretending to hide behind walls that we are only pretending exist.

I do not know how many times we will need to close our eyes
or how many times you will reach for my cold fingertips,
but these things are irrelevant
(immaterial)
(unrelated)
(extraneous)
(beside the point)
and the doors that come unlocked open to cliffs,
the steps we take cause us to fall eternally, spinning into blissful
"nothingness"/"somethingness."

there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.