if souls were made of things like:
compassion, anger and bliss
ours would be of the same.

the way we find presence
is enough substance to withhold a friendship.
the use of playful impiety  
is a reflection of deep affection.
in which we take all these and use
them in the same doses.

and although science says nothing
of souls but of cells and pedigree
it was always about how
differences brought things together
and our similarities drove us apart.

our bodies cave to the commands of science-
it's no surprise that the rules of attraction
bow down to it as well.

they say:
age is but a number,
distance is but a scale,
and time is of an essence -
yet i find their concept to be suffocating.
confining as it bends me to it's whims.

age is the number that decides who our friends are.
splitting us apart by birth dates into
elementary, middle, junior, high and college -
sending us away to embark on different paths
while others are left behind.

distance is the scale that determines how often.
when can our presences linger with one another
and at what lengths must we cross?
cities, state lines, rivers, countries, oceans -
at what point is the distance too wide to close.

time is the essence that destines if at all.
where schedules collide and overlap,
timezones over riding the possibilities.
seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months -
they all pass with one of us always a head of the other.

and as we move on with our lives, i see that
i use these as excuses of why we have drifted
instead of facing the facts;
perhaps we were never that close to begin with
as our memories turn to grey.

let me be original

let me show the world what i am made of.
I was told living
was all about not becoming
some print out that came out
of the copy machine
but some limited adittion
with a copywrite stamp
on the backside.

my brain is not some archetype
for you to fill the spaces of.
i'm not some idea bank you can
go to and pick out of when you're feeling
ų̠̈̔ n͍̈̇͜ i̘̺̐̅ n̗̜̽̓ s̼̜͠͠ p͎̱͂͆ ĭ̼̠̋ ȓ̺͕̕ e̢͙͐̎ d͎̯̀͐
i do not crave for fads but indivduality
that you destroy within the hours of release;
not even letting the *** simmer before
you douse it in flames.
my innovation nothing but a trend
no one knows the origins of.

i am not some carbon copy
so stop making me into one

they say i'm a hard girl;
hard to please,
hard to talk to,
hard to handle-
because they don't know
where easy got me.
he fed me lies upon lies,
vomiting my secrets across
the floor leaving only
a  bitter aftertaste of
betrayal hanging in the air;
the weight on my shoulders
dragging me down into the depths
as the traitor takes his leave.
they said i was a hard girl;
hard to understand-
because i washed
my backstory in a river and let
the letters bleed into each other,
because no one acknowledges
damage that only leaves a bruise.

i feel him crawling under my skin like a spider
( and i should probably tell him i have arachnophobia )
the constant attempts to make it stop turns my skin raw
but of course it only takes me f  o   r   e    v    e    rr
to find the courage to tell him:

i am not a drug addict
i do not enjoy the hallucination of his touch on my skin
the way he slithers under through an open wound
like some toxic bacteria looking for a place to grow
with this need to keep my attention pointed straight at him
as if he were polar north and i were a mere compass
just trying to find home.

but he'll do it all for love -
as if love were his reason to cover me in tar
and tell me if i listen to him, he wouldn't have to hurt me
i do it because i love you

love is not an excuse, it is not a motive
it is something to be felt, not some twisted blade you use
to throw into someone's back.
they told me it was okay that he was the reason my wrist
turned red every night when i was finally alone
in the corner on the bathroom floor, laughing
because i didn't know how to handle the emotion

love was the drug you slipped into my drink when
i was turned the other way
and by the time i already noticed
you already got me addicted to it

you once asked me why I was so
infatuated with a boy that tried to write me off
in forty eight hours I found some reasons why

he’s sweet and he’s bitter in all my favorite doses-
the words he told me were kind yet at times held a sarcastic playfulness I find in myself.
we’d tease each other with little resistance and
laugh at each others misfortunes with kindness.
his actions were soft no matter how aggressive they may have looked
because not once has he ever come at me
with the motive to damage;
letting him easily flesh my soul out for show.
the walls I put up nothing but tainted window panes
I once let him hold my raw emotions bare in his hands
then found myself cold from the lack of his embrace when he pulled away from the hug

and I can go on with these reasons-
these glimmers of hope that sound more like excuses
to why I refuse to let go and hoard his memories within my ribcage.