what you need to understand about me is that i am nothing more than misplaced passion and a pair of blindly swinging fists that tremble with unrighteous anger. so allow me to apologize in advance for the fires my subconscious starts. i am a clumsy compilation of ill-suited lines that will never see life in your poetry. at least, not like they used to. you are a book filled with with pictures i never got to take, and every day i am forced to sit idly by while she starts a new roll of film. the missile crisis reincarnate is inside my chest, so forgive me for not being able to control when i shake. forgive me for fumbling with syntax so crassly. i know better than to spew hate and call it poetry. please understand that the endless series of sinking ships in my head makes it difficult to form coherent thought. my thoughts, will **** me, if your absence doesn't first. i think about your hands more than i am proud to admit, and when i picture them reaching for her i feel so sick. i'm sorry. i am so sorry that i haven't yet learned how to moderate the volcano in my throat. i'm so sorry for spitting fire with my eyes closed. forgive me for confusing anger with bravery and burning down too many houses to count. in my misguided thirst for blood i weaponized memories and threw them like daggers in every direction, but the only one being hit is me. i am so tired of bleeding, i am tired of this one-sided war, i am tired of being a war. i tried so hard to be catharsis personified but i have to face the reality that my arms would only hold you like a grave. i loved you like rainwater, and lost you like time. you were never mine. you were never mine. you were never mine. i have to say that to myself every day because it eases the pain of watching you belong to anyone else. but i can't ignore the surplus of "what if's" wreaking havoc in my consciousness. i think that's why i get so angry when i picture you laughing with her instead of me. i am blocking out the memory of the night you told me my laughter could cure your sadness. ******* it. i am trapped in a nightmare where the walls of the home we built are lined with photographs of her. this is why i can't breathe at the thought of her smiling when the flash goes off. they say that nothing good stays; i have never been good at leaving, so i guess that makes sense. you once referred to me as an anxious mess you would spend the rest of your life cleaning up, and i can't get that out of my head. i hope you know, that after everything, i would still sit and collect dust on a shelf in your house forever, if that's what you wanted me to do. but i know it's not, so i'll go back to apologizing. i'm sorry that my rage doesn't have an off switch. i'm sorry for being a literal spitfire. i'm sorry for being an earthquake under her glass slippers. i'm sorry that my mouth is a loaded gun and that i have ****** aim. i swear to god i'm trying not to shoot so often but this is one of the hardest things i have ever done. so until i learn control i will burn in silence with the safety on.  

- m.f.

i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember when we talked about going to seattle?
you said you liked the rain
and the fact that no one there would know you,
i just wanted to be wherever you were.
i was never afraid of the dark
when you talked about yours.
i still don't have words for what i felt
when you told me the only other number
you had saved in your phone apart from your mother's was mine.
i keep telling myself you're not allowed
to just exit and re-enter my life as you please,
but i leave the door unlocked,
so what does that make me?
the last "i love you" from the last time we spoke,
is still stuck to the roof of my mouth.
other lovers have tried to pry it out of me,
but the memory of you is like lockjaw.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember the lizard you caught last summer?
you let me name him forrest.
if life is a box of chocolates,
there are pieces missing,
and whatever is left has gone stale.
i can't smoke cigarettes in my backyard anymore
without wondering where you are
or if you're smoking too.
i hope you're not drinking,
i know you hate what it does to you.
your secrets are still tucked between my ribs,
i will hold them safe and repeat them back to you
if you ever lose your way home.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember when you told me
about the person you were afraid of becoming,
i said i wasn't scared,
and i told you i was proud of you?
i'm still proud of you.
i hope you're in school or at least keeping busy.
i hope you still make yourself laugh.
i miss you so much it hurts my whole body.
do you remember what movie we were watching
the night you got arrested?
i still can't finish it.
i am holding the place.
can we pick up where we left off?
can we stand up and wipe the dust off?
i never got to tell you why i only write in pen,
or why i can't sleep with socks on,
or about the day i caught god with his hands in a public fountain
fishing for change.
i'm not mad at you for disappearing, but i'm lonely.
the only reason i haven't called
is because i'm afraid of being sent straight to voicemail,
but if i ever find myself in indiana again,
you'll be the first to know.

- m.f.

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

I am a liar.
I have written all too often
Of the feel of lips against lips
Of the taste of your tongue
And the space that you left there
When you left.

But the truth is our lips
Are strangers passing in the street
Meeting with only a quick glance
Never even accidentally brushing hands
Though I've longed for just one touch.

So I leave for a week on a mission
To finally learn what connection feels like
But I gave away what was supposed to be yours
To a boy on a beach who did not know me

I was hoping my first kiss would be perfect
I was hoping my first kiss would be movie worthy
I was hoping my first kiss would be you

But now there's an empty space between my lips
And a broken hole in my heart

I still haven't found someone who can fill in either

It felt so good
I disregarded the taste
It was worth the try
To have it as my first
The disgust was gone
The pleasure took part
Be with me and I'll bear it
To have it forever
Locking with mine

Dating a writer seems to be some kind of relationship goal. It seems so heavenly when you read a piece they wrote about you, but what happens when everything they ever wrote ends up in a box in the highest point of your closet because you couldn't dare to take it down. I promise you the words of loss will impact you more than the words of "love" that they promised were oh-so deep.

Never date a writer
Those ******* will remember everything
Like the way your eyes looked on your first date
Or how you wore your hair
They will store every bit of you in their memory
Like how you like your coffee
Or what kind of soup to buy when you're sick
And when something happens, you know you will become their next piece of writing
They will recall every word said
They will talk about how you lit up in the beginning only resulting in a burnt out match
Your story will become fuel
Your time spent will become hours of trying to capture every ounce of your beauty
Trying to hit every mark of how your face looked when you first heard that she loved you
Never date a writer
Because they will take everything in like vital knowledge
Collecting parts of you like old coins
Putting together the puzzle that will result in their most painful poem
Your story will last forever
You will see the shifts and turning points
From when love was so brand new and shiny
All leading up to the blowout
And there is nothing you can do to stop it
Because you decided to date a writer
So prepare yourself to become their most prized work

You can't date a writer.
For lack of a better term, or phrase,
or whatever the writer will have you
believe. He will introduce you to
many artists, some like him, others not,
and that will ultimately build intrigue.
By his side, you will feel as if you're
the apple of his eye, but when alone together
his eye will be fixated on blank pages
or ones filled with the right words.
Don't fret, by the second
month you will know which
words are right and which ones
are wrong. He will tell you to
mind the binding on the books you borrow.
And you will, until the first fight happens.
You'll think that the fight is over,
but don't think that the words shouted at each other
weren't written down.
The day you find these words, the oh-so-familiar
words will start the next fight.
And be prepared to tighten up once more,
because this next fight will be just as embellished as the first.
Before the third fight he will buy you a journal,
possibly lend you a pen,
lend being the keyword,
because he will expect it back.

He will ask to read what you've written,
as he saves his work on his laptop and closes
the top, because it locks right away.
If and when you open his laptop it will bring
you to a home screen.
If you're lucky your name will appear under his,
if not you have his permission to log on as a guest.
This will eventually become the pebble
that rolls down the mountain,
albeit those pebbles don't necessarily
mean that an avalanche is on its way.
Only time will tell.
Or breaking into his laptop might.
But right now his eyes are on you,
because he would like to read...you.

And isn't that the reason you wanted
him to begin with?
To read you like one of his books?
Or maybe it's your fascination with artists,
because who doesn't want to be
drawn like a French girl.

dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.