One, I grip your shoulders and bite my lip.
Two, I hold you close with my mouth open,
breath upon breath.
Three, my head tilts back and I let out a sigh.
Four, I grip your shoulders and bite my lip.
Repetition repetition repetition.
"Don't fall too quickly."
I don't fall at all.
My head tilts back and I let out a sigh.
It is you that I want, I look for you in their eyes.

Three years with the palms of my hands still struggling to feel all of your skin-
but like when a microphone gets too close to speakers, the sound is unbearable.
Twelve days I went without trying to figure out how you are.
Your friend says you're a roller coaster but I find you to be more of a circle, the ring of a key chain.
I used to believe that there was a man who lived alone in a shack
by my grandparent's home, and that the man who drove the bus to take me there
has a pet alligator who lived in his bath.
The shack was for tools, the man had a house, and Tom didn't own an alligator.
I used to think my shivering in the middle of the night would be enough to shake those screws
from my head and wake you up from the lack of screeching.
We both fought to be the speaker. While I was growing weaker
I became the microphone.
And when I refused to accept  your words into the hallows of myself
you picked up your voice and headed west
without so much as a "check check check."

We're both tired, I'm sure.
So when I receive the message that says
so goodnight, seafarer, who lives
where the ocean meets the sky
forever
I'll respond with
goodnight, sleep well,
you're beautiful.

There are phrases spoken that sound a bit like "I no longer need you,"
but through the whistle of the words it comes out like an apology or,
depending on the direction the wind is blowing, a rhetorical question.
There are moments spent walking through snow drifts at noon with
heavy feet and a crackling at the bottom of my throat thinking
this is not your season for me. Your voice was never cold and damp
it was clear even when it broke, calming and clean. There are dreams
that you don't occupy anymore and when the great flood came
and the world was like a giant Roman pool in which the entire population bathed,
you were missing from the scenario. I swam from the steps of my dorm building
all the way to the ocean and when I realized I hadn't found you on the journey,
I turned back around to search. There are nights when bouys look more appealing
than constant breast back butterfly strokes through the sweat and salt
but then there are mornings that remind me
this will make me stronger. This will make me see.

Four letters, five. You're just like my child and I'll try my hardest to feed you wisdom
if you promise
not to spit it back up.
Kisses don't make the entire world better
but if it fixes your head, I'll kiss more.
I've never gotten stanzas quite
right
because sometimes I spend too long in one place and other times I
only spend the night.
You're unstable like the twin towers and I know that's harsh,
but your illnesses are tearing you apart
like planes, do you wonder who the people were and their
families? Their notebooks filled with words, little spots of blood from picking at their nails?
That's how mine are. Sometimes coffee stains, once in a while a tear
through the page from pressing down on my pen too hard. This is what a keyboard is for-
I don't need blood on my pages, but words mean more. Or do they?
I question that daily through texts and tea on my cell phone,
notebooks dusty under my feet with a leather strand braided to make it look neat
and spiritual. You're my baby.
I'll feed you love if you promise
not to spit it back up.

Sometimes I forget that people feel alive all the time.
When I am swishing the smoke of a black and mild
around my mouth til my tongue gets sore,
making rings with the smoke
that I wish could be circling
around your nose,
people feel alive.
This hollow in my chest is heavier than anything that once filled it.
And so I inhale
and take pleasure in the feeling of being punched in the lungs,
destroying the breath that was once used to say "I love you."
And I take pleasure in destroying my body
by the boy who is fully convinced he loves me because
I told him how my father hit me and how I always feel numb.
I take pleasure in destroying my mind
by sleeping all day and smoking all night,
because this is the only thing that allows me
to take pleasure in destruction.
I take pleasure in the thought
of building myself
all back up
for you.

In March, I'd like to call you
and calmly speak into the phone,
asking, "Have you been my rapids
while all this time
I have been a stick of gum?"
My flavor shocking your tongue
wrapper strewn
on the sidewalk.
Just an hour later, you stuck me
to a telephone pole,
and continued on with your day.

I apologized to someone for dumping them three years ago
and thanked someone else for admitting their faults and thinning their pride.
Realized the faces I make during *** don't coincide with how I'm feeling
and noticed letting go doesn't always mean that love is fleeting.
Three people are tugging at my eardrums. Someone gave me a forehead kiss.
Two people told me today that I am their favourite person to laugh with.
One person told me that the ocean is in my eyes in response to the universe in hers.
I want to be more eloquent with words and the way I walk.
I want to put my top lip between someone else's before the bottom.
Have them look into me with a sword and proclaim,
"it's all there. Nothing was missing. Look, it's hiding in the corners."
Pull tweezers out of your pocket and reach all the way back to my spine,
pull out my DNA and everything else that's mine.
I never gave it away, I compressed it, kept it in shadow on a shelf.
I belong wholly to myself.

The sheets lay in a disarray as I attempt to make my writing real
"Like mountains," she told me, "Like the deer on those mountains gasping
for your body and his to blanket the trees during the first snow in November."
And the warmth faded over five months ago. Seven, if we're being precise.
I want my sentences to end sharply as I send you and the car over a cliff.
Put a stone on the pedal and give it a swift kick.
Stand there, wind in my hair, a smile on my lips.
Whisper while it's followed with the warmth of the breeze
singing "I'll burn it all down before everything leaves.
I'll set fire to the houses and the people and the trees."
And you. You are the flame that never burns dry,
the oxygen part of the air in the sky. You are
the water that refuses to drown me. Sung, you
are the earth under my feet.

It's like the kids on the white house lawn sticking flowers in guns.
Only this time, someone takes a swing for their friend
screams for their sister, brother, mother
and I can't bother to try to hold this back again without your arms keeping me in.
You want me to break through-
when it fades, it comes back stronger.
You hold every particle of oxygen between the gaps of your teeth
keeping me on the edge of my seat because I can't breathe until you speak.
Us verses the world or you against me,
something needs to break so we can rebuild it.
A rock isn't eternal, it erodes and the roads in every city
have heard someone cry at least once in their lonely lives.
Destroy the foundation, build up from the bottom.
Stick roses in guns and worship each other.
That's enough.

I once read a book that ended in the main character remembering incidents she had repressed,
so all throughout Sophomore year of high school, I wondered if the abuse stopped at bruised arms.
I wanted so badly to have a valid reason behind the stains on my skin and keeping people up at night
to keep me company. The truth of the matter is, if I write what I'm afraid of I'd be writing this:
I didn't cry when my cat of twelve years was put down and buried in the backyard.
I didn't even attend her funeral. There are about three dead pet fish in my freezer
that I haven't gotten around to burying and about twenty-seven lies I've told since my feet hit the floor
this morning. I do not regret any of it. My heart is too big to fit in my chest so I wear it on my sleeve,
I'm told. But that isn't true- I crave for people to look up to me. I've met at least two boys
who have had a tourniquet around their upper arm and a needle in their veins. I love them both.
If I had to choose the one who got away, it would be the boy I could never love as a lover and still
I wish I could. My scars have no profound reasoning behind them and yet I still care that I cut off bits of my hair that you've touched before.
I confuse hardened hearts with strength.
I move too quickly and tell the other to wait.
I've kissed two girls and one kissed me.
The furthest we got was hand holding.
I should write you more poetry.

There is nothing special about you and you expect me to write you a poem. Here:
You are waking up at 11 in the morning and still feeling groggy,
luke warm water left under my bed.
You are sea monkeys, a parasite, a slight sore throat.
You are what is created everyday, waste. Won't
you kiss me again, unbutton my jeans? Tell me to write for you
words that have meaning. But you're trying so hard to connect
while my hand has been on the plug and my mouth left your neck
months ago. That was months ago? Tell me again how you got that scar,
how anime is weird and I'm beautiful. You're nothing special to me.
Here is your poem. Stay in school. Fall in love, drink some more, buy a house,
I hope your father doesn't pass away.

What if a heart were made of chewing gum
and the leftover clippings from bird wings
tied together with frayed ****** seat belts
surrounding a core of fake diamond earrings.
There's a song out there written about me
and over fifty-seven poems written by me,
although not one of them encompasses the longing I have
to stare into the mirror and love myself from root to tip
like a tree that's grown on the side of a cliff.
You said extended metaphors seem to be "my thing."
I say home is a song my Vovo would sing,
"Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be."
It went on to talk about the future,
but I haven't gotten that far yet.
My discount heart
will keep pumping.

Flighty, exciting people do more for me than
coffee dates, 6 months together, here's a heart shaped necklace.
I want you to kick me when I'm down and do nothing to help
so that when I stand I have skinned knees and a scratched face
smiling up at you. Kiss me and tell me to pull myself together
because all the ribbon has been used to tie together boxes for me
that contain coal, cat litter, razor blades and ****.
All the tape in our house has been used to keep my mouth shut
forcing me to tear it off and scream
for you to kick me down again
and have me stand on my own.

I'm being pulled apart in two directions,
two people touching toes,
grasping hands with cracking winter skin
lean back
and yank with all your body weight and more.
Let the moon make you sway as if you're standing on the tides past the shore
leaning back further,
skin on the tops of your hands ripping apart ****** and dry.
I feel a furrowed brow with forehead muscles pressed together so tight
intensity in each other's eyes like there were forests that burned down
from a kitchen fire, a mother crying
begging them to save her family but they had already met at the mailbox
like they planned out years ago.
And the heels of the shoes are digging like crustaceans into the tile of the hallway,
little *****' sharpened legs endowed in seaweed and salt
hiding under rocks screaming so quietly
not a single fish in the sea heard them say
"stay."

If my heart were made of blown glass
and if someone were holding it and carelessly tripped up the stairs
I would collect all the shattered bits in a dust pan
and be sure that the ones that resembled you
stayed in the corner away from the others.
Then I would rebuild
and place all of your bits
right in the center.

There is classical music shaking dust from the ceiling tiles above
my bed warmed like a waffle iron, sheets lay in a disarray of the Rocky mountains
each crevice as hot as the bottom of my feet while standing on the sand of a beach
small summer shells tucked away in the top of my bikini
and you left to wait at your keyboard. Leave my head please.
I tried so desperately to write a poem without you hiding in each letter,
every word telling those hurting who hurt me before that it will get better.
I'm not lying to them, although I'd say it if I were. The music above me still plays
making colors swirl and bump together, standing side by side with my mother.
She called the other day, although I think I called her. Said thank you for
birthing me and raising me and feeding me and giving me a place to sleep
all in three words I haven't said before. Not in years.
I think I meant it. I wish I were sure.

There's always been something calming about January sweat with the window open
and bruises making home on every inch of my neck.
If anyone were to ask "What's the matter?" I'd like to reply with
"Nothing, it's all vibrations of energy slowed enough to be perceived,
and these marks on my throat haven't been in the shaped of fingers since seventh grade."
I learned how dung beetles use the Milky Way Galaxy to guide themselves
but I take direction from people who shine twice as bright.

Don't make me explain it because
I won't, I can't, I won't.
There is cooled down lava jumping from my throat,
leaping to your face,
climbing up your nose.
Feeding on your insides,
hotter, hotter now, it glows.
From fingertips to fire
from whimpering to words here
I've written down my sorrows
in much less than a year,
never mind three months or four or six
I'm done with being second pick.
I'm tired of sleeping next to him,
I'm shot and burnt, been stabbed with pins.
Been opened up by knives and cutting
words they're just as sharp. I'll play
classical music, hear the symphony, the harp.
I've loved you once, twice, three times too
and I'll love you more to'morrow.
If what ever happens in my head
you, yourself, have not caused me sorrow.

Last night there were buses in my head,
a plaque above the door that said
"This will go anywhere for
(insert names here.)"
And I woke up in bed next to
not you.
Whoever it was
was not you.
My eyes stayed glued shut
from sleep tears and make-up,
giving me time to think this through.
If I traveled the country, if,
will I travel it with you?
Because anyone is willing to help
if you allow them to.

Use a scalpel, all sorts of scans
my voice does not do justice to my plan
I will love everyday
and the reds won't fade
not yet.
While five minutes seems like eight hours
my brain uses up my body's power
I'd rather sleep
and keep you close to me
The things I say move towards destruction
and without your voice my head can't function
properly. I miss your feet, hands
tongue teeth elbows
I feel snow in my eyelashes as the wind blows
knock me down,
"sift through my ashes"
stay sober. Stay clean.
I can't rid myself of your energy.

I have whispered love into lonely quiet shoulders
and shouted from the bottom of a frozen hill.
I have tick-tick-ticked it into messages online
and kept it to myself to ensure the room stay still.
I have scrawled it endlessly onto pink paper,
it's been buried aside "but" and beneath salty tears.
I have hesitated in the Winter. By Spring it was eager.
I'll repeat it to you for years and years and years.

Scissors used to make paper snowflakes
sharp metal used to cut the strings,
let you fall out of my head but stay
pumping blood through my veins.
My fingertips are blue
from holding onto you,
I think it's time to thaw them out.
There's not another word that I can shout
at the tip top of my voice at the highest point.
Nothing else is loud, screeching breaks in my ears
After all my weakness, this is not my greatest fear.
Cutting the ties, breathing you away
locking up our memories inside a plastic cage.
Breathe my own scent in, stay in rhythm with my steps.
Ninety-nine percent of my cells will be kept
for myself. One percent for you.
You'll always have a section where my feelings  are warm and true.
Cut the strings, I'm letting you fall
down my scalp, my mouth, my throat
to my stomach, thighs and knees
letting you
escape me.

It was the tears in my eyes that kept my vision blurred
so I laid my face down on a pillow and let it go, breathed
in through my nose, through the clean cotton, leaving black stains.
Did not replace my eyeliner, replaced my energy
with laughter
open windows
chubby fingers kissed constantly
laughter. I can take myself seriously
to the edge, but he can bring me back
down to earth. He can bring me back
to bubble gum lollipops and corny jokes.
Let me cry to you again, look up and laugh.
I'm sitting on the entire globe,
soaking up the oceans with my sleeves
forest trees stabbing holes in me
all the mountains raising me high enough
to look up,
thinking my god it's beautiful
that I didn't need to believe in god
to be happy again.
I just needed to believe I could be happy.

I have romanticized my sadness
like slapping away the hand of a boy who reaches up my skirt
and half-smiling afterwards,
wishing he'd do it again.

Eighteen, recovering from a love that ripped through my spine
stole every goose bumped piece of flesh I thought I could call mine.
Swallowed my heart whole while it was still warm and beating,
cut my wrists with teeth so sharp and left me with constant bleeding.
Bruised my skull with questions, answers whispered soon after
broke my nose with a darkened mouth filled to the brim with laughter.
Snapped each fingertip and every bone that resides in my hands,
stared into my eyes and stole the light with every "can't."
Yanked apart my chest cavity and poked with rusty promise.
As for my faith, it's shriveled. Every cell in me is godless.
Poisoned my organs, shattered my hips,
chipped every tooth and put a **** in my lips.
Tore all my skin off from ear to ear
they pooled with blood til I could no longer hear.
Femurs both missing, knee caps displaced.
Shoulders and collarbones skinned both with haste.
Every inch of my body
broken and bruised.
Every thought in my brain
screams I have been used.
Every cell in my heart,
at the pit of your soul,
still sings for you, dear.
Our love it still knows.

When I've flown twenty-five minutes away from here, it is safe to thaw.
To chip off every icicle and let the glassy bits fall.
I'll warm from within and be as a nest
a place for those to strengthen their wings before they return to the world
but I think I'd prefer to stay here with a sign that says
"I will give you one dollar to tell me a secret;
pay you two for you to listen to mine."
Sit at the front of a church to proclaim that
"I listen more closely than god ever will and my answers come more swiftly,
as they do not need to travel all the way from heaven,
due to the fact that they have originated on Earth."
My mother tells me to stick to my faith and then yells
about my grades. I don't love god but god she loves success.
I want to ask her, on a sticky note, and leave it in her lunch bag
saying, "Mommy, what does god love more: money, or someone with worth?"
She'd answer in an email three days later
saying, "Be happy. Be yourself. But believe in god and get a well-paying job.
That is who you are
and that is what it means
to be happy."

I've been gone for a while now
though still waiting for your fingers to leave my body
as you hold to the shape, you
put words together to explain my taste
run your hands from my ribs
down to my waist, remark of the beauty
ask what it'd take to steal me away
from the place where my eyes go dim
but train has taken the light within my being
I'm just doing, now, going through the motions
with your mouth on my mouth
indents on myself.

To this day I picture you by my dresser standing pale without a stitch of clothing;
when things get tough I want you there. When things are simple, I only want myself.
Just a few months ago, I imagined I was leaning down to reach into the mini fridge
to grab you a snack while you sat on my bed and told stories of how my hair fell behind my back,
wrote poetry on my pillow case with every crease caused by your restless head.
Over summer I drew for you even though I hadn't held your hand in years and years.
On some of those pages was blood from nervous picking at my fingernails and tears
from being home sick for a home I hadn't known since before tenth grade, when we met.
The halloween before last, I'd imagine you calling me to tell me you thought I was beautiful.
Say, come outside, sweetheart, I've got a surprise. Immediately there'd be life growing in my eyes-
but you wouldn't call and I wouldn't open the door. I'd stay in bed awake and hurt my heart with more
or less words from your messages and silent text.
We yearned for each other but we agreed to not make a mess of this.
We have potential, but not just yet.
Last summer I saw you, spent the night in a tent.
You told me I was your best friend and two months later, left.
Last summer I told you, this would be more than a lesson.
Your voice made my knees weak and your words kept me sane.
You're a blessing without god; and I love you all the same.

Stop thinking it's romantic
to **** the girl who cries
writes poetry at 3 am
has scars cascading down her thighs.
It simply isn't beautiful
when she chews on her insides
through alcohol and cigarettes
beneath artificial light.
Don't place your hand on her lower back
pretending like it's fair.
Stop telling her it's beautiful
as she tears out her hair
bites down her every fingernail
til they're just ****** stumps.
You think you'll help by listening
with artificial love.
A knock at your door at 4 am
will surely change your mind.
"I want to **** myself tonight,
please let me in, I want to die."

When did you feel the most beautiful you've ever felt?
When it sent a lightning bolt through your bones and hit
every pore, caused your hair to stand on end
and your heart to pump more blood,
like you couldn't fit all that living into one breath
you needed the whole. When the sheets on the floor looked like the entire ocean
stretched out before you, your body is a boat, a vessel for another person's life
not a stitch of clothing on and not a single speck of dust
in the air of the bedroom. Lights wrapped around your ankles like
you're above the sun rather than underneath it,
but there are no boils on your skin and your scars have smoothed.
There are no hands on you
but your own and the ones of every person you've been before.
Shedding skin cells with every brush of a finger on your wrist
and this is it.
You promised yourself, I love you now.
I love all of you, somehow I always have. Not a stitch
of clothing
not a hand
held to your body warmth
and you're beautiful alone
you're the ocean and the boat.
I'm trying to write until I can't anymore
and it's words that flow out and it's sentences that pour
no longer about those lost, but those living,
and the ones that I strive to keep close, to keep giving
every bit of me away and I'll gain each part back
from other breathing and split ends and cells,
I don't need others to feel well.

Mom, I am an alcoholic and
I've been doing drugs.
I've had *** with over twenty men,
I haven't prayed to God in months.
Dad, I can't remember when
I went to classes last.
I stay in bed all day
avoiding my future and my past.
All my friends from home,
I need to say this once and for all:
eventually, at 3 am, please expect a call.
Mom, I can't stop hurting myself.
Dad, I'm really scared.
The both of you should listen
if you ever really cared.
This is depression getting a hold
of my innocence and smile.
I'll stay in bed a few more days
and won't talk for a while.
*******, once more, just listen, please,
I'm trying to get help.
This is the last time, I'm done, I swear.
I can't avoid the pills and razors glaring from the shelf.

Welcome home, we're proud of you
soft hands caressed my hair.
You're ghostly white and beautiful,
we'll care for you, my dear.
Lay you down on blankets
and sheets as pure as doves.
Kiss you on the temple
promise you our love.
You've returned to whence you came
please do not leave again.
From dust to life to ashes
your body you will shed.
Your soul has been marked black
we'll wash it clean with prayer.
In your heart you've always known
you didn't belong there.
So jump, my child, into our arms
we'll keep you safe forever.
Come back to the sky, it's simple now
you just have to pull the trigger.
Press down a littler harder on that blade,
swallow a few more.
Welcome home, we're proud of you.
With angels you will soar.

Their heads are filled with stories.
Hope for life after death.
The questions asked to many times,
what'd happen if I lept?
Would I still get into heaven if I took my own life,
would my father from above see my struggle and my strife,
would I be forgiven for giving up so soon
to be pulled back into angels arms
white clouds and perfect harp-played tunes.
If I quit this now, the fighting,
I'd be on the other side.
And we fill the heads of children
tell them that the pain subsides
when the kiss of deaths upon you,
the dead move into the sky.
And everything's eternal
when the last breath escapes
as a sigh.

Here's a half-naked picture of me
because your father is an alcoholic
and mine used to beat me until I left.
Another **** rip for my straight-A sister,
a hole through the wall for my mom,
scratches on my hips from secrets I should have kept.
Here's mascara on every pillow case I've ever owned
blood on my jeans from biting my nails
and pressing them face down to smother
the redness and keep it from my hands.
Another stab wound through my papers
because these words, they don't scream, they scratch
ever-so-slightly at the inside of my skull.
But I yank out the wrong wires and so it goes.

The top of my head is warmer than my hands,
gloves and boots are getting quite damp
from the snow. I've never known
how much people thought of me
reading it in words forces my eyes open
to see bare feet wading into a pool
deep into the autumn, months past high school
graduation. Hot metal seats never had me smile,
Christmas trees past Christmas and broken ceiling tiles
are what I've lived for the past few years,
my laugh genuine bringing up tears
penguin underwear
everything I thought I'd never share
and my head is always hot and heavy
with my boots firmly on the ground.
There's sunshine in the coldest days
if you open your ears to the sounds.

Let's take a recording of your heart beat
incorporate the cardiac sounds
into a song,
send them on their way with nothing missing
something left behind.
Quiver and shake for nineteen days
stop short.
The world asked for a recording of your heart beat
to feel something alive and true.
Pass the green beans, tie your shoe
but it will never be that a head is laid on someone's chest
stillness in the room and a simple beat
something rhythmic to tap your feet
to. Quiet in the house, let's remember
there are people in need,
and people right here
who need us.
There are enough empty houses to give every homeless person four,
enough empty words to take them all back.
We're concerned with the cancerous children,
worried about the stray dogs and cry over
those without enough to eat. Food for the soul
is more rare than carrots these days. Take my hand and listen,
I'm right here and always have been.
Stop trying to find the missing girl three states over
and begin to search for yourself.

I had a dream you were a fountain
                         filled with cancerous cells
multiplying to numbers I can't count
                                           cried to you in a cab,
but  you wouldn't accept me.
You've repressed me
             blocked me out.
I don't reside on the surface of your skin,
I am the slight tickle in your bones within
the marrow.
Do you ever wonder what piece of clothing has touched me,
if the hair you haven't cut remembers my scent
and I want to ask if you meant
you loved me straight through to my bones,
every beauty mark and mole,
all my fingers and toes
every word I spoke
with your head on my chest listening to my heart beat.
Do you strive to see bits of me in every person you meet
or do you think they're too good for me,
                           I'm too good for them?
Did you love my lows that go so far as the Mariana Trench,
straight shot right up to Mars, higher than sitting atop the globe.
Did you know
you are my "it" and I can't let
that go.

Did you laugh?
I want to know, when you read what I wrote.
Did your teeth show?
Did your nose blow
out more air than usual?
Did you smile real big and think
of how much I think of
you?
How badly I want you to be proud,
even if it wasn't about me in your words,
I'd believe you if you told me so.
Did you laugh, did your teeth show?
Did your body dream of falling
without your head in the same thought?
Be happy for no reason.
                       every reason.
I like the summer but I like the spring,
          orange leaves and aspirin
                                         showers
holding your hand. Fried chicken,
balloons, a football field
and you.

I let my hands slip
from your shoulder blades
only a few seconds after your
arms had dropped to your sides.
Feel better, have a good night
but you can't cry to me anymore
you said it with your bloodshot eyes
the forcefulness of your voice proclaiming
that you've loved her for longer than anyone else.
I stood there, biting my lip thinking
does it really matter how long
you've loved someone for
or is it all based on how
hard you fight, the
passion in your
words and the
taste of your lover
printed all over your skin.
Two years of dim comfort cannot
combat two months of struggle, constant
kicking down of walls and kisses with smoke
in between. Letters miles long with the word "never"
attached to "stop" connected with "loving you."
Mattresses with sheets and easy sleep won't
compare to uncertainty of where to rest
my head, being more concerned with
the state of yours and your self
worth. Two months of loving
passionately does not even
need to fight against
two years of rest.
It always wins.

Heavy breathing
lighters bought too often from a walk right down the street
and for once I don't care what this boy thinks of me.
Our bodies mesh so nicely and my mind only puts out
whatever's said in whispers I cannot bear to think about.
Squeaking bed
and sleeping has now become the norm
rather than staying up til past six in the morn-ing to hear the other's voice.
Don't care if it's my lovers voice
knowing I hadn't made the choice to
stop
let me be on top.
I've never had a lover before that one,
not once had I stayed up until the dawn
waiting for the alarm to sound
to hear a voice that could make my heart pound.
Now it's a rhythmic beat
beat
beat
and I don't feel any true warmth underneath my sheets.

It's really very lovely
how my heart aches for you so terribly
there are fisures in my rib bones.
How I crave to know the pieces frozen underneath
in hibernation as you use up your energy
hidden to heave your chest
up and down.
I've bitten you til your skin was purple,
said I felt like I was part of the universe
and you were a part of me. Human nature
is just that,
nature.
With all the chemical reactions and nerves firing
inside my brain, I don't mind if there isn't something greater.
This is more than good enough,
it's everything I could muster from my deflated lungs
to say to you, we are a part of the world and you
are a part of me. Should I wrap it up with ribbon,
char the edges with a match? Write it down in blue pen
sign my name in cursive. Say, you are a part of me
I am a part of you. We share this energy,
but it's past tense. I need to start anew.
I bit you til your skin was purple, yellow, green
colors swirled around the center
giving a meaning
to life.

I have an unending need for people,
to feel flesh against flesh against sheets.
My blood pumps so forcibly, shaking my bones,
I have an unceasing need to find those I must meet.

Though the look in my eyes has grown weary,
and the feelings I have are short-lived.
Though I've never seen anything clearly,
and I've hardly felt more than a kid.
Though I've lived many lives before this one,
and none of them have reached their goal.
Not one of these facts can discourage
my constant search for shelter from the cold.

When a luke warm shower is more comforting
than memories of your hands pressed to my hips:
this is me loving myself.
Poking at bruises on my thighs, forearm, neck
(none of which were caused by you):
this is me loving myself.
Words aren't running off of my fingertips anymore
and the muscles in my hands don't twitch.
You were my muse
and I will carry you in my words.
Un purposefully reserving a place for you in myself:
This is me loving you,
this is me letting go.

Is that what you're into,
saving girls from themselves?
So you could watch the bubbled flesh
show up less and less
often?
Well I have a roar now,
my whimper has ceased.
No need for working to try and save me.
I've been through worse bleeding
through other peoples' wounds,
my lover's wounds,
like an addiction.
Yours is to use a girl at her weakest
teach her to be strong, all the while
tearing her up due to friction
in your words.
I've learned some thing new:
You are not the sky. Not the earth, nor the sea,
you are not a canyon or anything grand to me.
You are not a drawing on a napkin made at lunch,
you are not a beetle, not the feeling in my gut.
You will not be the one she or I are searching for.
You're a user, an abuser, and you can never be much more.
I am not sorry, cannot be
if you want truth, please ask me.
I'd leave the bear on your doorstep
if I had gasoline
and with fingers crossed I'd wish so hard
it'd burn your heart down.

I have discovered
the difference between
you and him;
I cannot write poetry about him
that includes bones and bruises,
breath and breaking,
fingertips and fire,
struggle and shouts.
All I can say is
he snores
when he sleeps next to me
while I lay awake
and his body is a heater.
He is comfortable.
I prefer the rapids.

I want to write this for a future lover
if there ever is one:
You have the universe in your eyes, dear,
and the ocean is in mine.
They'll collide miles above us
so the explosion doesn't blind.
When you're introduced to my parents,
shake my father's hand and say
I know your hands caused harm
but I'll love your daughter all the same.
Her bruises are a ticking clock
until they fade away,
her voice is now my life's alarm
to keep sadness at bay.

My feet are swollen when I wake up,
place souls on the ground and the blood rush is enough
to keep me going.
Before I choose to quit walking in the weather all together
I'll walk backwards.
Bare hands against deep purple mittens,
like the story book in my room.
If anyone ever visits my house again
I must love them or I will not let them in.
How can I love them, if I do not let them in
and read childrens' books to them?

There are people I've seen on the train from the coast to my home
whom I've made eye contact with and loved
                                                                           the confused, weary look
and I wonder if they know which stop to get off
or if they've considered
                                       waiting til the last one and seeing where that will take them.
There was a man in a dark blue cardigan and a beige plaid scarf
sleeping the whole way through and I thought
I'm happy for you, you're content. But I could never love you
the way I loved the man
                                         who spent the ride staring at a paper in his hand
only glancing up once to catch my gaze
and smile.

I want you to know I didn't mind the cold
of the tiles, sliding under the bathroom stall door,
holding your hair back and you laughed
when I did. Thank you, for listening
and talking even more. For raising your voice
but not slamming doors. Thank you for being
exactly who you are. We're lost, that's okay,
let's go downtown to a bar. No, thank you,
for being there when I threw up, too.
Regurgitate my feelings for every person new
and thank you for not dying, for crying to your mom.
I wish I had the courage to stop singing the psalms
at church earlier than this. I should have believed in myself,
the way you believe in me. I want you to know I see
the bits of you that you dislike, I'll love them all the same.
And thank you, too, for making sure I don't hold all the blame,
for taking some of the weight
off my shoulders. For being there
when I do things to build myself back up.
Thank you, thank you, thank you,
It will never be said enough.