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.

My body
ached for you. I ache for you. My shoulders pop
my knee caps too.
My spine is stuck in one position,
I need your fingertips on me.
My toes are constantly in movement,
feet unstable as the sea.
My skin is full of goosebumps,
teeth are clicking just like keys,
and finally my lips quiver
because they know where they should be.
I swear I hurt the most
with you right by my side,
my words striving to open up
the inside of your mind.
My body stretches every morn
and reaches towards the sky.
I'd rather reach for you, my dear.
Brittle bones, shaking heart, voice
dies.

My night was spent freezing the fat on my body
and listening to a boy, younger than I,
speak about shooting his mother and sister.
Twenty-five minutes, scrolling through pictures
as I listen to a voice devoid of feeling
thinking about how I do not feel.
When I hear a gunshot, I flinch.
When I hear your name, I flinch.
And I repeat repeat repeat
I love your name in my mouth,
the taste of your tongue in my mouth,
the smell of you when I push my lips
scrunched up to my nose.
The scents on my body have changed,
and I flinch when I hear your name.

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?

I like how this all started - history notes then a drunk hike.
I like that I believe you when you tell me it'll be alright.
I like how we can talk for hours and neither of us get bored,
and even when I ramble, I'm still not ignored.
I like how much we laugh and all the inside jokes we have
like "sea slug," "guacamol," and watching awkward dad.
I like that when we argue, we always talk it out
and how you know that something's wrong by just the slightest pout.
I like all of the silly things you do to make me laugh
so that when I'm sad or worrying, it never really lasts.
I have never liked anyone quite as much as I like you
and I like that I'm lucky enough that you like me that much, too.
I love your smile, the way you think, and everything you say.
I'm happy I can call you mine and that I find new things to love each day.

I'm going to the city on Friday
while I wish still that I could be holding your hand.
I realized a while ago that most of my poems
are directly addressed to you.
Take that as an honor, take a bow.
Take my hand and shout
you didn't want me every second of every day,
just when the weather was warm in the morning.
I want to tell you I'm done
falling against my dresser drawers
getting scratches on my back from anything
(except future lovers.)
I want to let you know I'm through
with scrolling down my contacts, clicking you
and giving up hope before it even rings once.
I want to inform you that I'm tired
of sleeping alone mentally with his arm around me physically
and the confusion that fills for when my heart quivers a bit when he-
let me stop there. I want to make sure you know,
I'm lying. That when
he looks into my eyes I feel nothing
but guilt.
That could very well be because I can't see clearly
through the tears blurring my vision,
when I try too hard to let go it leaves me scrambling
to my feet to catch my breath but it seems to have never lost me.
I'd still like to garden with you, wander New York City
you looking handsome and me looking pretty.
I'd still love you to be in my bed ev-er-y night
your breath on my neck
my eyes towards the ceiling tiles,
and they'll smile
because they already know your name.

Ten milligrams of adderall, bought from the girl across the hall.
Speaking in a British accent because I'm lovely at lying,
and even better at believing it myself.
I'm from London, Liverpool,
I'm from the deepness of the cut on your leg
from those flowers that looked harmless but they
scratched
at his truck, destroyed my luck while I was high
and you were too.
The tent is my place to be with you
with my thoughts being misconstrued.
I spoke with your name coming out of my mouth
staring at the ceiling and I didn't stop
giving up.
Stepping off a curb at the wrong velocity
can hurt your ears the way we
hurt me.

Cracks in glasses
             on a screen
             on a gravestone
Drops of sweat
                          on me.
And you
               are the salt in the water of the ocean,
               can change the tides of the sea
                                                             ­      in a single wrist motion
I could never
                      comprehend why I was pushed away
                      stop from being pulled back in by the waves
                      avoid being smoothed down like sea glass
                                                           ­                   empty clam shells
What I know
                      I cannot tell you
                        will not admit
You are
              the fire
              the knot in the pit
of my stomach.

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.

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 text on tectonic plates
that reads “This was the time when
constellations would guide
every living creature to
death after life
Before ashes to ashes shone
light through the cracks
and to love and be loved in return
was pushed further back
behind survival and ***
above god and all prayers
there sat rocks under earth
before the growth of our fear
for the devil and sin
and not living like Christ
to reap the rewards of following advice
When the breath leaves my lungs
when I’m merely a shell
I’ll go into the ground
and recycle my cells.

How have you been?
I think I'm forgetting the touch of your skin
on mine and it's similar to the feeling of an ocean in my ears
water blocked my hearing and nothing is as near
as it should be. I might be hit by a train
because my senses are telling me it's far away.
I have time
to let you go like the monkey bar handles
don't want to fall beneath so I'll cling to the candle
lit bedroom I once had with my first lover ever
wanted incense and kissing and hands moving slower than heaven.
With you it was quick
like a pin to my chest
and you pulled away too early
so I bled and I bled.
It's healed over but I'm so tempted to pick
that little hole back and let the blood run thick.
At least then I'd know that I bled in the first place
instead of wondering if it was a stomach flutter
and not the lightning bolt
I wasn't looking for.

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."

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.

You have the body of Jesus
strung up on the cross for everyone to see,
but it's only me you've sacrificed for.
Pale and thin, rib bones begin
right above the indent in your stomach.
I've cut you down from your cross,
no longer an example of imperfection.
I'll kiss the wounds left on your side by soldiers,
I'll kiss the wounds left on your hands by myself.
Lay you onto stone, your skin stays smooth
the cold no longer will effect you.
Remove all the light, wash off the dried blood
clean the dirt from your knees, that tears have turned to mud
put you to rest, bare and mute.
I'm sweating like I've walked for miles
in your boots.
I'd walk more
if it meant relieving the pressure of the cross you once bore.

I'd like to place a cigarette between your lips, cup my small hands around it
and proclaim that you are a writer living in a small apartment in the city.
You wear trench coats and I follow on your tails, doing my best to appear pretty.
But your words are soggy like the suede of your clearance shoes
that have stepped in the puddles between blocks striving
to get you through to the next privately owned book store
where you leave half-written poetry on notecards
and slip them into J.D. Salingar's fingertips
without having had read a single book he has written. (Neither have I.)

Come to think of it,
I'm not so sure
if I ever did
get the water out of my ears
that found its way in there
during a pool party
four years ago.

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.

My nose hurts so badly it will be difficult to kiss,
my mouth tasting of Portugal,
socks smelling of smoke.
Did we gain an hour today, or yesterday?
Whichever, I know where I spent it,
in a room
filled with ash
and truthful "no judgment."
Where a pregnancy scare started in a closet.
Where that same scare ended on the couch.
And if I had an extra hour every week,
I know exactly where I'd spend it.
Next to you, in that room.

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.

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.

You make my mouth dry,
palms all sweaty and cold
my brain works quickly and I feel
quite old
when I was up in the morning
with just edges of a dream
I don't understand
can you
stitch up the seams
my blood is clear like a ghost
whispy and thin
I don't want to forget but then again
what happens if I do and you cannot
adderall, alcohol, caffeine and ***.
smoke in my room, sweat on the sheets
you are everything I was meaning to meet.

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.

Don't be a stereotype, don't be afraid of blood - I want you
to hit me in the mouth and promise me the moon.
Pledge to a different flag every lunch break around noon.
Kneel on rice and claim to the world that you've been praying
to end the hunger of the masses,
to keep the evil ones from staying,
to stay awake in all your classes.
Laso the moon and yank it down
one pull for every year
if you forgot the ropes at home
I'll lend you thread to bring it nearer.
If that thread snaps before eighteen pulls
I'll check my pulse and declare myself dead and gone.
Don't kiss me on the mouth, don't let your eyelids hide the life -
the scratches up and up your arm are symbols of your constant strife.
Not subtle like the rest, you take pride in every switch
that recoils faster than your mind can see the glitch.
The rhyme scheme is poor and getting dull
like the needle in your arm.
Don't be a stereotype, please,
don't be afraid of flesh.
Don't be hollowed out and full of air
what's inside you is the best.
Don't cause yourself harm.

All your art?
Your father threw it away,
sculptures of music that my
hands had helped
create.
It has molded in the yard,
cloth I had tied around my head
as I danced and we drank
malt soda. You've always
always always always
always been beautiful.
It doesn't take me to show
you that. You know.
The need of man's hand on the small of my back,
the shallow of my spine and the shallow of
myself is not art.
Your father threw your music in the yard,
your writing stays right on my desk.
Your words cannot be rotting in the woods,
they'll be safe here with me.

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."

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.

There are some silent decisions made at two in the morning
unshaven legs poking out from under the covers and sweaty palms reaching towards fresh air.
This is the time for missing and this is the time to breathe
but everyone whose face I've ever studied for the sole reason of having a better chance of dreaming of them,
they all know that this can't be a time for both.
Balance seems to be the word of the day although I've never quite learned the definition.
Getting by on synonyms like "harmony" and "symmetry" do the trick.

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.

I thought I'd miss your mouth the most,
worn down teeth all uniform
from grinding them in your sleep,
chapped lips, refusal to use chap stick.
I thought I'd miss your laugh the most,
uncomfortable and weary
unless you were with me,
and I thought I'd miss your body
hip bones making bruises on my inner thighs,
pull me closer closer when you hold me and my hands
never stopped.
This morning I miss the way you smell,
and I can't describe it.
Scent is most closely tied with memories.
I want to smell you on my shirt the next morning
before I even roll over onto my side and kiss those chapped lips,
see those worn teeth smile
feel your arms around me pulling me closer.
I want to wear your shirt to bed,
but it means nothing now that the scent has left.

Wake up, it's 3:07
and I don't think I'm at all what I used to be.
I think in times and have music playing inside me
while I kiss,
trace skin with my fingertips.
Whistling while you snore disrupts the chorus,
stop. I want to wake you up
and say I'm sad now, let's talk.
Dig deep to my core, but the dirt is damp
and it's easy. I haven't even given you a shovel.
I'll unearth myself on my own,
give your thoughts a place to call home
bury it back up again and
send you back to sleep.

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.

There are pins and needles in my feet made of guilt and cheap *****,
bits of me are missing left in kisses and paint
                                            everything else I put my heart into
too early and yanked it right back out
too quickly. I'd make promises like icicles pressed hard to my tongue
as if it wouldn't melt. The tissues in my dorm were used up
before forget-me-not's toppled  to the floor,
the dirt strewn on my slippers that I just threw out
and left the mess there for weeks
stayed in bed above it all,
acupuncture can't cure this ache. Pumping my stomach can't empty
what is already empty. It's like a quarter on a string placed in a vending machine.
I get what I want and leave
with exactly what I came with
and more. But on rare occasions the coin is left on the floor.
I don't bother to pick it up because maybe it belongs there,
dancing among dust bunnies and clumps of hair.
There are needles underneath the first layer of skin on my fingertips
and they don't hurt. It's a feeling of uneasiness like a knot
in the chain of my necklace. I'll work it out later.
Pro-cras-tin-ation. You are the crab on an aluminum can, a moon lit with moths
a ninety year old man who burnt down his house from lighting too many candles.
Take it all in
                      for yourself.
It's not selfish, it's right. Because the sun burns the top of my head
even when my body is cold. Without you in my presence, my own hand I will hold
to cross the street.
Don't count your blessings until your hand is around their necks
so they have no way to escape without suffocation.

On February twenty-fifth
exactly twelve days from today
I'd like to show up
outside your window
with a ukulele and a cake
with frosting that reads "congratulations
baby sweetheart darling lover
you are on in a million
not one in the three-hundred-fifty-something people
in Connecticut who gave up
on themselves and on their lover
darling sweetheart honey
I'll be outside your window always
if only you'd call me.

Several times, I spoke to you and said that your arms are my home.
The eviction notice came shortly after, coffee stained and stapled to my forehead.
My house still stands and I have a warm bed to sleep in,
so isn't it lovely how I can build a new home in my head?
I tried this summer to find the meaning of what that should be
and happened across your outstretched arms
only seeing in hindsight that I had pried them open.
You were meant to be a kind word, never soft skin.
Sitting at the bottom of a snowy hill,
yelling to the top
I realized home is where I've been heading.

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.

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.

You are a ferris wheel operator because
you keep guessing why.
I'd like to tell you
that you've taken me higher than ever before,
made me see what I couldn't
don't know if I can anymore.
Because I swallow too many pills that are sweet on my tongue
listen to the same songs he showed me the summer before love
making it to the middle is absolutely good enough for me
if you can use me like a ladder and get higher than the lows of the sea
we are polar opposites.
Balance each other out,
we're the flat planes of Kansas and we're going down.
It's been said that a person is only an atheist until they're dying
I say everyone keeps loving until they're told they're lying.
Only the truest keep fighting to hold onto the middle
and never let their love weep like the tree of willow
said every single person deserves a second chance
until they use that one to pull a gun
and blame it on their parents.

There was a lemon tree that never bore lemons
still growing in the backyard of my grandparents' home.
Years passed climbing every tree around it
but never did my sister or I dare to yank on its branches.
"It's weak. Rotting from the inside out,"
but still standing.
The cherry blossom tree towers over it
sneakers often scuffed from the bark and knots.
Climb higher, so I did. I was the smallest.
Gaze down at the lemon tree from the highest branch I'd dare rest my weight on.
I have faith in you.
"Grow," but it didn't.
I spent all my years climbing every tree around it,
and the lemon tree stayed weak.
Stayed growing.
I stay faithful.

My mother's not an alcoholic but she's plenty of things I'd like to sing
Thanks for criticizing my skinny jeans and ****** up child hood teeth.
Here's to making my first girlfriend cry and squashing my beliefs,
a toast for being paranoid and obsessed with what you lack.
Better swallow all the car keys, mom, cause I may not come back.

And dad, thanks for slowing down the car so I could stick my head up
for knowing my mom is unstable and when I should just shut up.
Here's to holding me down and bruising my wrists and daring me to leave
because what I found and loved and lost is more than I could ever begin to believe.

So here's to my brother who got the short end of the stick
cause I was born so ******* intelligent
And here's to the buddies who left me on my own
Because we're all too lazy to pick up the ******* phone

Said I'll splatter my brains across your bedroom mirror and serial killers don't have motive,
not everyone knows enough to know what they don't,
but if this isn't the so-called "real world" I don't know what is.

So here's to death, Mr. Portuguese, zodiac signs, poor stitching and the trees (and their leaves.)
So here's to now, Mrs. Angel face, you've finally got your perfect family (and you see)
SO HERE'S TO THIS, my dear bestest friend, to laying in the tub at 2 am (til 4 am)
And here's to wrinkled toes and kissing, to grass stained jeans and living where you are (you've gotten far)

And you can try to end it all but they'll probably just hit you,
And when you go to therapy I'd like to be there with you
Because I don't think they know what they've got
No they don't know, they don't know
they don't know.

So here is you, living on the streets. I'd give it all away so we could be (why not happy.)
So here's to you, open heaven gates. Jesus knew that death awaits us all (well all fall down.)

Everyone I love is dying, everyone I love is dying (screaming) x how ever many times you feel
And I
am
dyyyyyying too.

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.

My list for this year:
No boxes or sparkles,
no red ribbons tied.
I won't ask for much-
1. Stay by my side.

She's sick of synthetic happiness,
smoke that makes her smile.
She'll kiss you in the moment,
thinking wow it's been a while
since she has felt alive,
or anything really.
She still didn't feel it with lips against hers,
***** and coffee (that's a thing, she learned.)
French toast at 3 am, let's drive around
scream at the tops of our lungs
"Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights are faded?"
the colors are faded,
I'll watch her blood fade as it mixes with hot water
swirls around the drain.
She's done telling me that the red won't change a thing
because our breath won't change a thing,
and the drinks won't change our heads
and the lips won't fix my missing you
I don't want to be here,
but where.
Run around the car three times at a red light,
try out listening to that new band.
Go to a club, wear something tight.
Drink more, stumble, laugh,
kiss someone you don't have feelings for.
Thank someone for saying you're pretty,
smoke another cigar. Inhale through your nose,
smile big in pictures,
smile big at people who smile big at you.
Slow dance drunk in the common room,
crack your back, love, call him up,
throw things. This isn't a poem.
It's a list.
Of what
has not
once
made me feel okay again.
Here is a list of
what makes me feel
at all:
you.

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.

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.

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.

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.

As you were sleeping
and possibly dead
I stripped the skin cell
and sweat soaked sheets
from my bed.
Scrawled two quotes
on the whiteboard that read
"Wait,
they don't love
you like I love you."and
"What you think
you become."
Poured milk into every bowl that we own.
Fed the fish and my pen
and the fire-bellied toads.
Kicked down the garbage pail,
rolled on the floor.
"They don't love you like I do. No,
they love you more."

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.

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.