I think he may be right,
the boy that calls once a year,
five years too late.
I think he's right.
About fighting to love
and be loved,
only to be remembered
by that unheard voicemail,
that “missed call” notification.
Those photographs we didn’t keep,
and the stories we stopped telling
long before it was their time to be forgotten.
It shouldn’t be fair,
the forcible forgetting of the nights
they spent asking me to try harder
begging me to love them just a little bit more..
It shouldn’t be fair,
that I was so quick to say no
so quick to shut down
so quick to refuse such simple requests.
It shouldn’t be fair..
But they should be honored,
all the boys that exist now,
only as black and white adjectives
in simplified prose.
Penned only during the loneliest hours
when the world is dark
and the nightmares are calling.
It should be an honor,
being buried in the worn pages of
these Moleskin graveyards..  
After all,
poems are where all great love stories go to die.

I thought I'd quit smoking
to be a better woman..
My mother always told me
it wasn't something pretty girls did..
until about three beers in
when she would ask to borrow a light
and say,
"It's great that you think that shirt is flattering,
but maybe a size up would be more.. comfortable."
And I thought I'd quit smoking
to be a better lover..
Because it "wasn't ****" to keep a lighter
in the back pocket of my jeans,
and it "gave off the wrong vibe about me"
and I always tasted like smoke..
Then, I thought I'd quit smoking
to be a better person, I guess..
Because I moved to the suburbs,
made friends with other moms,
who got wine drunk on Tuesdays,
and talked about nail salons,
playdates,
and brunch.
So I thought I'd quit smoking
to live longer, they said.
Because the warning was printed
and the science was in..
and the only thing,
they said for certain,
was that cigarettes killed.
But my mother found new criticisms,
and that boy left anyway,
The suburbs were terrible
and people I loved died regardless.
So, I realized,
**** that.
and opened a new pack.

"You can't always win, L."
he says.
He always says that,
the boy from Ohio with the lopsided grin,
"Sometimes, you just lose..
and that's okay."
Emphasis on the "okay".
Because he knows
that's the one word
I won't hear him say.
He knows this,
because he always says it.
When I tell him,
I don't feel right, where I am.
And it's worked before.
So it should work now,
he thinks to himself.
And perhaps if I were sitting next to him,
like I used to,
in that one room apartment,
in Victorian Village,
I would hear it.
I would hear it,
and it would resonate.
Before he punched me in the arm
and asked if I was done being dramatic,
so we could turn on the game,
because he just got a text that OSU is down by 7,
and he's pretty sure it's because he's not watching..
So I would laugh,
shove him off the couch I got at Goodwill,
and he would grab two more PBRs from my fridge
that only sometimes worked,
and it would be okay.
It would.
Because to the sound of him yelling at Braxton Miller
through the tv
like he could actually hear him,
and the hot summer breeze pouring through the open windows,
it made sense.
What he said,
made sense.
But we're not in that apartment,
and he can't hear how hard my is heart beating
from 700 miles away,
can't see the look on my face
when I tell him I think I'm losing my ******* mind.
Suddenly his voice sounds so far
and so foreign.
And he knows,
he knows it's not working this time
but that's the farthest he ever got
so that's as far as he goes.
And the long pause is deafening.
So in one final act of desperation
he simply says,
"Love you, kid."
And I just say,
"I know."

Tonight,
in the words of Neruda,
I can write the saddest lines.
Tonight I write the saddest lines,
all for you.
And it will be painful
and tear-stained,
but honest.
I will pour my heart into this page,
for you,
and you will take my innermost thoughts tonight.
But you must know,
darling boy,
that this will be the last words I spill for you,
the last drunken night I allow you into my creative soul.
This will be the end of this,
of us,
of you and me.
Never again will I write for you love stories, or sad words.

I used to think that if given the chance,
or given the time,
I could write a thousand lines on the way
your breath felt against my bare back.
I could write infinite lines on the way
your fingertips electrified my lips,
and still have more to say.
I could write forever on the way I loved you,
Loved you entirely and hopelessly,
how I ached for you.
And I used to see you everywhere,
in the faces I passed
and the lopsided smiles of strangers.
I used to drive past you in every beat up pick up truck
on the streets of Columbus,
behind every backwards hat.
But my darling,
it's been awhile since I've seen you,
and I can't remember what your fingertips felt like anymore.
I used to close my eyes and be able to trace your features,
for they had been etched into the walls of my mind.
And I used to feel this emptiness in my chest,
because I had placed my heart in your hands,
whether you had wanted it or not.
But lately,
I haven't felt very empty,
and I couldn't tell you what your dimples
looked like.
I used to know every speckle and fleck
that lived in your irises.
But now,
I couldn't even tell you the color of your eyes.

At first,
I tried so hard to keep missing you,
thought I was supposed to miss you,
thought I wasn't supposed to let you go.
I used to think that I would love you forever,
that you would live in my heart,
occupy my soul.
I used to be okay with that.
I used to miss you every second that I was breathing.
But now,
well now sweet boy,
I go days without you here,
and some mornings I wake up unable to remember the last time
I actually missed you.
So I try,
try to miss you.
But it's far too hard to miss you by myself
and I'm so tired of missing us enough for the both of us.
So this is the end,
the end of all of this,
the end of everything.
Thank you for allowing me to love you,
for never asking me to be more than I was,
for never being more than you were,
for being ordinarily
Spectacular.

Looking back,
maybe most of it wasn't as beautiful
as I thought it was.
Maybe most of it was
in fact,
afternoons I spent trying to guess what you were thinking.
Maybe most of it
was me asking too much,
you telling me that you didn't want to fight.
Not here.
"Not like this..."
You said.
Looking back,
maybe you were trying to let me down
easily
over and over again.
While all the while,
I fought you until you conceded
for another day,
until you just couldn't anymore...
I think now,
that most of it was me loving you,
thinking that I wasn't asking anything of you.
When really,
I was asking everything of you.
That was never fair.
I focused so ******* the magic,
the single fleeting moments,
that I used them to fill in the gaps.
I created this story where everything was beautiful...
when all we really were,
were shards of shattered glass being hit by the sunlight.
See,
those moments glittered in my mind so brightly,
I forgot that they were sharp.
I forgot that things weren't supposed to start that way,
jagged and broken.
You blinded me.
And when you finally did leave,
I walked across those memories
over and over again
until it began to rain,
until there was no more sunlight.
And when they stopped glittering,
I looked down to see my feet,
covered in the open wounds you left behind...
And my feet bled,
and my heart ached,
and I cried.

I cried so badly for the loss of you.

I cried over all the things that I had never seen coming,
because I had been so worried
about never expecting anything from you,
that I had forgotten to protect myself.
I had never prepared myself for the moment
when you wouldn't be there anymore.
I never had a plan for how I would handle
the way you had looked at me
would inevitably haunt me.
And it did.
You did.
For weeks I cried for you,
in the quiet moments between doing other things.
You broke my heart.
And then you came back...
Came back as if I would still be here.
And I was,
for a while.
But I can't be here anymore.
I can't love us enough anymore,
can't pick up the slack another moment,
because my heart is tired,
and my feet are bloodied,
and my hands are broken from trying
to hold the pieces of this together,
while all the while you were pulling us apart.
You can't come back here.

I'll admit,
I thought I wanted you to.
I waited for you.
I wanted this.
I WANTED this.
I ******* wanted this...
didn't I?
But now you're here.
You're here and I realize,
how few good moments there really were.
So many of our days,
weren't good days at all,
were they?
So many days you left me devastated.
Left me questioning who I was,
what I'd said,
what you were thinking.
I spent so much time waiting for you to leave.
So,
I think it really is time now.

I think it's time for us to really just...
Let us go.
Because I could spend forever wishing
that I'd known our last kiss would be so,
so that I could kiss you just another moment longer.
I could wish for one more drink,
one more iron table,
smile at me one more time,
look at me that way,
brush your hand across mine,
smile at me,
make me laugh,
ask me what I'm thinking,
hold me in a parking lot,
tell me that you thought of me today,
tell me that you thought of me in general,
miss me.
For the sake of ******* everything,
miss me just more ******* time.

Please...

But the reality is,
none of that would change any of this.
You'll still be you.
I'll still be me.
And I'll still love you.
And you still won't know what to say.
You'll never let me inside of you,
and I'll forever be at the mercy of you.
I can't live like that.
I don't want to know you,
if it means that we have to pretend that none of
this was real.
That isn't fair to what this was.
This was broken and dangerous from the beginning,
but when the sunlight hit it,

Baby, this was magic.

So leave me here,
like this.
Let me heal.
Let me miss you when it rains,
but let me get over you.
Let it be enough,
because it has to be enough now.
Walk away,
because I'm not strong enough to do it on my own.

So if you ever loved me,
in any way,
set me free.

Set me free, for the last time.

I love you,
L.

I don’t miss you as much as I should.
Or maybe I still miss you too much.
I never understood grief very well.
I was always told I grieve too long,
the “stages are too long and you get stuck”.
Ten years in October
and I never reached acceptance.
I guess I did get stuck.
I blew right past bargaining,
I wasn’t wasting time.
Straight through to anger,
before settling down into pure, unadulterated grief.

I miss you.

And when I don’t miss you enough,
I force myself to miss you harder.
Because no one speaks about you anymore.
And I can’t tell your story,
Because I got stuck in the stages,
lost swirling in the catacombs,
a pan’s labyrinth of nostalgia.

Sometimes,
I wonder what you would think of me.
In the world you said you couldn’t fit into anymore,
because there was no space
because you loved me in all the ways that I couldn’t love you,
all the ways I learned to love you, too late.

I wonder if you would be proud of me for walking away,
or staying so long…
I wonder what you’d say to me when I told you stories of how I never quite got it right.

I think you’d tell me to write more.
I think you’d tell me to love less,
because you never thought anyone was worthy.

I hope we would still yell at the top of our lungs when we were angry,
but never forget an “I love you.”

I can’t hear your voice as clearly as I used to.
But when I close my eyes tightly,
I can still make out how you looked at me,
All those nights on your front steps,
under the stars,
When we truly believed we’d never have to miss each other at all.

Our story was written
in the empty cracks of our broken home.
Scribbled
in a million strokes,
symbols and signs.
Thousands of languages flew
from our wasted pen tips
and we could feel the ink drip from the ceiling like acid rain.
Soaked in the blood
from our pointless thoughts,
we attempted to feel.
We attempted to understand.

But our home had become Babble
and the bible burned our fingertips.

And they waited.
Waited for me to become more sane,
more acceptable.
They waited for me to decipher the sins
I had carved into my bedroom walls
for the last seventeen years.
But even they had no real shape or form.
Simply black marks
left from the paint on my bitten nails..

And so our tower crumbled beneath us.
And our pens kept pouring down.
And our story continued to write itself.

If only we had learned to read.

Listening to you twirling in the kitchen
singing songs in made-up languages
laughing at jokes you haven't made yet
and I wonder,
my sweet little girl,
with the fire in your soul,
and the freedom in your eyes...

What will break you first?

When will you stop dancing with abandon?
When will you stop singing in the hallways?
When will the house grow quiet,
because the first boy broke your spirit,
when he broke your heart.

What will be the first thing you don't tell me?
Will it be the boy you couldn't say no to?
Or the one you thought you shouldn't have to say it to.
Will you be too afraid to tell me?
Will you worry that I'll think terrible things
Will I?

I wonder,
who will be the first boy you change everything for?
Will you know it's happening?
Will you try to stop it,
but follow through,
because the love feels real,
and the love has to be worth it.
And when he breaks you, again
will you believe him when he says it's your fault?
When he tells you that you broke this,
when he tells you that you should've
been better,
been prettier,
been smarter,
talked less,
talked more,
been less emotional,
tried harder,
****** better...

Will you believe him,
when he tries to tell you
that you existed for him and failed?
Or will you know that he can't be right,
because you existed without him,
and you'll exist again.

Will you exist again,
without him?
Will you know who you are with him,
and without him...
Will there be a day where you stop knowing the difference?

How many men will break you,
before you settle for the one who is safe?
The one who convinces you that you can be a better person,
takes whatever you had left,
strips you of who you could've been,
before letting you down, all the same.
How long will it take for the inspiration he sparked in you to fade?
Will you know to walk away?
Will you be braver than I was?
Will you be brave.
Will you.

Be brave.

This morning I had coffee with God,
or the divine being, or the top dog..
Whatever you want to call her.
Sometimes I call her a *****.
But that’s the thing about Gods, right?
They are what you need them to be.
So she strolled in around 6:45,
blasting Jay Z’s “Encore” through my Alexa and asked me what the **** I was doing.

It went a little something like this:

“Get your *** up, we need to have a chat.”

“I don’t remember calling you..” I groan as I put my hand over my eyes.

“Yeah well, you never call me anymore.”

“Yeah well, I prefer to think you wouldn’t answer anyway.”

“Been a long time since I’ve heard you say that one… I think you were a kid, still.”

“I dunno.. probably”

“What’s the matter? You look a little hungover?” She asks as she begins to bang the back of a frying pan with a wooden spoon.

“Is that my ******* pan?”

“Yeah, Lp. It sure is. Did you want me to stop?” As she hits the pan harder.

“Okay, okay… what do you want?”

She puts down the pan, hands me a cup of black coffee and sits on the edge of my bed.

“This isn’t you. Not all of you. You’re allowing the parts that are missing as an excuse to crumble. That’s not you. You don’t do this anymore. I raised you better than this.”

“You raised me? You never stepped foot inside that house.”

“Whining over trauma you worked so hard to get past? That’s what we’re doing, now? Fine. Crumble. Drink too much. Push people away by trying to scare them off with your nonsense about being too much. You want a grenade to throw into your life? Fine. I’ll pull the pin and stand clear…”

“Being an accomplice doesn’t really seem like your vibe.”

“You really are a ******* sometimes. Stop trying to rationalize giving in because change is hard, because you miss them, because you’re worried you won’t be someone that someone decides to take a chance on. You are better than the you that you have convinced yourself that you are.”

“What if I’m not? What if this is just… where I am, now?”

“Then you’re a brat, and all the courage you’ve built, has been wasted. Get the **** up. I won’t coddle you next time.”

And just like that,
I blink and she’s gone.
Back to wherever deities go
after dishing out epiphanies,
while leaving no blueprints of how to do so.
I spend a couple more moments
with my face in my pillow,
“99 Problems”
pulsing through an otherwise empty house.
Before I get up,
mutter to myself that she’s a real pain in the ***,
and pour every drop of ***** down the sink.
Clean my kitchen.
Fold the laundry.
Change the sheets..
Because she’s a ****,
but she’s right.

I had never noticed that bar before,
the one hidden amongst the neon signs.
I'm sure I'd driven by a hundred times
over the course of nights
I spent stumbling down those streets..
I'm sure I'd even looked at it once or twice,
unable to make out the name
or the sign on the door..
Just passed that alleyway
in the pursuit of other things.
So when I met you there,
I was apprehensive,
hands shaking,
heart pounding,
in anticipation of what you would want me to be.
Anxious of who you would think I was,
after a "couple of drinks"
on a Friday afternoon..
And my hair was a mess,
in a faded Biggie shirt,
and a pair of converse I'd worn since the tenth grade,
but could never seem to throw away
because they had meant something then,
so they must mean something now..
Because I'd worn the soles out
sneaking back into my parents’ house,
after my virginity was stolen,
tripped over the laces the morning my father had held my hand,
as he walked me into rehab and told me to be brave..
And the first time I was brave enough to see that headstone,
when I’d sobbed alone in the pouring rain,
and they filled with water through the holes in the sides.
They had been there.
Every time my heart had shattered,
so no matter what,
Capital Ave couldn't be too bad.

The insomnia hits harder than it has in a while.
My head pounds,
My eyes ache
And my feeble heart is a wanderess.
Roaming through nostalgia like a gypsy
With a curse
Or a ship lost at sea
Following the voices of sirens that never actually existed.

Running equations in my headspace
Wondering where I went wrong
Or where I went right..
I honestly couldn't tell you,
I was never good at math anyway.

Too many variables.
Too many unknowns,
My life is the letter x.
And I'm sifting through square roots
At 2am on a Thursday.

And I can’t close my eyes
Because it only gets worse.
The racing and the wandering.
The backs of my eyelids become pull down screens
Like the ones in the cheap banquet halls
With the slide shows and “cash only” bars.

And the slideshow just flickers
With every blink
Every flirtation with sleep.
In bold Times New Roman
Black letters flash

“Do you regret it?”

“Was it all worth it?”

“Is this where you thought you would be?”  

My chest tightens.
My heart begins to race.
There’s a test at the end of this presentation
And I forgot to take notes.
Everyone else is so well prepared
So I look around for someone to cheat off of
Because I have to pass this test, right?
It’s my life,
I have to pass this test.

The answers have to be easy.

“Did you regret it?”
No.

“Was it all worth it?”
Yes.

“Is this where you thought this would be?”
Well, sure I guess...

I mean, how does anyone know?
Am I supposed to know?
Do I have any lifelines?
Can I phone a friend?

But the buzzer sounds.
The lights go dark.
The film reel starts.
Another study session begins.

The moment you fall in love with him.
Do you regret it?

The look in his eyes when he tells you he doesn’t love you.
Was it worth it?

The color of the sky when you find out he died.
Is this where you thought you would be.

I told everyone
that you were dead.
I accepted their condolences.
Smiled politely,
while my chest hemorrhaged.
Somehow,
that just made sense.

I knew a woman once,
with worn couches,
and gentle words,
that would describe me as doe-eyed and wild-hearted,
though no one would ever notice that again.
And she told me that my body should be thought of
as a work of art,
instead of a shameful relic.
I thought that over for awhile,
the idea that the scars I had accumulated
over the course of this lifetime
could be considered beautiful.
And I began to paint my canvas
with beautiful things,
stories of past loves,
past lives,
the places I had once considered home..
So I painted birds across my back,
in honor of my wandering heart,
and the daydreams I had as a child,
of being free.
Inscribed words on my ribs,
from the book that had once so closely
resembled my own soul
I truly believed that they had been written for me.
And you.
I painted you,
my love,
on my shoulder,
as a dragon,
for all the nights we spent
across time and space,
miles and phone lines.
All the hours you had spit flames upon my demons,
sent them cowering into the depths of the night,
all the while saving my soul from
the great unknown.
For if what they say is true,
and my body is temple,
then you have been inscribed on my soul,
like the Gods were inscribed on the walls
of the temples of Delhi.
It is here.
It is here.
"It is here."

Long ago when Eden masqueraded itself as a paradise
Back when the tree of life bloomed with the sins of fallen angels
And Eve picked the apple that the snake had offered her
And once the juice trickled down her lips
So the snake laughed and writhed with glee
At the idea that woman had condemned us all
With her feminine wiles
And selfish urges.
Back when god scoffed at his muddled creation
For being weak enough
To take temptation by its supple fruit
****** us all
She did.
By being human.
How could woman be so stupid?
How could woman be so vile?
Did she not understand what she was doing
Did she not understand what she was setting into motion.
That all of this
Could one day be her fault
For being hungry
For being human.
Did she not understand that the fruit
Was poisoned.
Wasn’t it?
Woman be ******.
For isn’t it your fault.
It must be.
That the monstrous ways of men were born.

Laying here on ***** sheets,
the words of that crooked smile haunt me.
That moment
over and over,
like a black and white movie with a scratch on the film.
Over and over and over...



You're like a black widow, he said.
You bite the heads off every man you touch,
You're lucky you're hot and look good with your clothes off.
You don't even know how to feel, he said.

You're cold.

You're cold as your eyes are blue, he said.
But you know if you laugh loud enough,
and pretend you're drunk enough,
your prey will be dead before they figure you out.
I sure as hell wouldn't love you, he said.

You're ice.

Even your hands are cold, he said.
Doesn't it get old?
Don't you get tired of being so guarded,
Isn't it painful being you? he said.

You're stone.

Look at you now,
How blank your eyes, how ridged your lips,
How thick your skin,
I don't even want
to touch you, he said.

You're heartless...

Heartless..

he said...

heart.
less.

Heart - less.
Adjective.
unfeeling; unkind; unsympathetic; harsh; cruel.

Heartless.

That word pounds through my head,
wreaking havoc on who I am.
Forcing perspectives.
Since the moment he said it,
while I laid there,
naked,
more vulnerable than he ever gave me credit for.

Heartless.

Jokingly, I tell myself that he's insane.
Scientifically it's impossible to be heartless.
I'd be dead, I think.
He's an *******.

But I know that he was right.
Because he wasn't the type to spare feelings,
or mince words,
He never said things he didn't mean,
especially not to me..
And he never cared about my reasons,
or the things that made me this way.
He showed up at my door, and took my clothes off
Told me I wasn't the type boys bring home anyway.
Told me I was too damaged to belong to anyone.
He said and did mean things.
He was not a nice boy.
But in the end I told myself I deserved it.
All the things he did and said.

I perfected my game face.

After all,
I'm stone.
I can take it.

I remember the last time,
I felt like I was flying.
Do you remember?
In that club on High Street,
with too many shadows,
and too little sincerity.
That time
that song came on,
the one that had suddenly convinced us
that everything could be beautiful
that for three minutes and thirty six seconds,
everything could really be this easy.
Life could be this simple.
We could own the night,
our destiny,
the rest of time and space as we knew it.
That song,
had somehow
negated the existence of anything
outside those florescent walls,
a world where we were merely human,
because to the sound of that bassline,
we had become gods.
Do you remember,
how I looked at you,
and smiled,
as you threw me onto your shoulders,
and I threw my hands into the air,
as the world turned faster and slower
all at once.
That night,
for that song,
in those three minutes and thirty six seconds,
if never again,
in that club on High Street,
I was flying.
And I was infinite.

The boy with the frat tattoos
calls me again,
to tell me he still loves me.
He always will.
The annual surrender
to his overly wasted heart.
Tells me he's never met a girl
with so many secrets,
a girl with so many different lives.
He reminds me that no one will ever understand
the way my eyes turn grey when I'm sad,
or deep blue when I'm angry.
Asks if I'm still as angry as I was,
back when he used to show up
at 3am,
to my unlocked door.
He tells me he knows what I'm thinking
in pictures that he sees,
based solely on the colors of my irises.
Says he knows me,
Because he always knew me,
despite all the secrets,
despite all the lives.
He says loving me was like
trying to survive a hurricane.
And knowing me was like
attempting to choose what to save
while your home went up in flames.
But he loved me.
He says.
He'll always love me.
And I let him talk for a while
about the good times.
until I can hear him getting tired,
and the tequila setting in.
I wait until he starts to get quiet,
starts to tell me that he had to let me leave
because loving me was too exhausting.
Because I refused to let him in.
Because my skin was too thick,
and my eyes were too cold,
too much of the time..
It is then,
when he gets quiet,
that I remind him that there were no good times.
I was angry for reasons,
that I never told him,
because he never asked.
Because for all the 3ams,
and all the unlocked doors,
he never stayed long enough to appreciate
that I had let him in.
And he weeps.
Quietly,
so that he thinks I don't know.
Tells me he hopes that one day I stop spinning,
"One day,"
he says,
"I hope the sky that is your soul finally clears."
before hanging up for another year.
But he always knew I was a hurricane
and you can't tame a storm.

So what the **** did he expect?

Are you thinking about me?
While you’re laying wherever you are
with whoever you’re with,
am I crossing your mind?
In the quietest moments
with bloodshot eyes,
and that sinking feeling,
are you wondering
if I’m thinking about you?

I could’ve loved you anywhere,
at any moment,
in any other life.

But instead,

instead, I loved you
in the front seat of your truck,
when you reeked of cigarettes
and cheap whiskey.
I loved you,
with your slurred words
and rude hands.


I loved you
when you didn’t love me  


at all.

I never called it ****,
the events of the night the gin had made us hazy
and the drugs had us reckless.
The half hour you spent strumming me
like some pawn shop guitar
Suffocating me in the sheets
which were covered in the filth of your former lovers.

I never called it ****.

The way your hands had rudely ripped
my previously untouched skin
and your mouth devoured my innocent lips.
Never thought much of the way you had told me to be quiet
while I whispered for you to stop
because I'd never done this before
and it was painful
and I wept.
Because you had warned that I would wake the others
and I was embarrassed
and you had made me *****.

I never called it ****.

Never let the repetition of your phrases sink in too much
as you told me it was fine
and it was okay
that I'd like it.
I never thought too hard.
Because you moved too fast
and the room was spinning
and I gave in to waiting for it to be over.
And when you had gotten too tired of hearing me whimper
and my pleading had become obnoxious
you sighed an angry "**** this"
and stomped off to the bathroom to finish yourself,
after commanding I put my clothes back on,
And find somewhere else to sleep,
I stumbled across your ***** basement to where the others slept
and collapsed hiding silently in the sinkholes of your couch,
Listening to your grunts before the light came on and you passed out
avoiding the stains of my youth on your sheets.

And I never called it ****.

In the morning you drove me home
making little effort to hide your disgust in my failure to get you off
While I looked out the car window at all the houses I had grown up next to,
None of which looked familiar any more
attempted to ignore the stinging of the poisonous scars you had left behind
pretending that my body wasn't covered
in the scratches and bruises of your insincere actions.
And when we arrived outside my parents' house
after an eternity of painful silence
you didn't speak merely
grunted at my departure
and I snuck quietly through the front door to the shower
where I scrubbed until the marks from your fingernails
became indistinguishable from the skin I had rubbed raw
until it bled
trying to convince myself
that I had eliminated all the remnants of your scent
and the dirt from your actions.

But I never called it ****.

I think that maybe I loved you,
in the darkness,
and in the lowlights.

And I think that maybe I held you
in my heart
or in my hands.

I think that maybe I misunderstood
all the little things,
or maybe the big things,
the things of which the size, I couldn’t comprehend.

I misunderstood everything.
Every moment that was spent thinking that I understood the world,
thinking that I understood us.
Who we were,
and where we were going.

Everything was supposed to be black and white.
I expected it
to be black and white.
I tried to avoid all the grey areas where the lines were undefined,
sought to avoid the questions and confusions.

But I couldn’t.

Slowly,
the universe seeped through the eyelids I had attempted to keep forced shut.
Strands of color.
Threads which shot across the darkness,
of my lonely ceiling,
weaving galaxies,
and forming Gods.

I watched all the stories being written
in the form of harlequin dreams.
Surrendered to the kaleidoscopic visions,
of everything I’d originally witnessed in passionless monotint.

Everything became chaotic,
complex,
as I laid there in what was now
nothing more than the remnants of a former perspective.

I think that maybe that was the moment it all made sense.
All the things that didn’t make sense,
all the things that were never meant to make sense.

I became suddenly comfortable with this *******-like perception,
where everything was smeared and splattered together
as an illustration of pure and continuous creation,
providing a canvas for both reason and insanity.

I think that maybe it was then that I loved you
for everything that you weren’t,
and everything that you would never be.

I loved you for all the expectations that weren’t there.
For all the things you didn’t ask about,
and all the secrets I didn’t feel the need to tell you.

It was all clear,
when the lines blurred and the colors mixed.

I think that maybe I loved you
simply because I loved you

It wasn't the same,

laying in your bed,
Touching your flesh.

It wasn't the same.

All those months I spent missing you, haunted by the secrets you told me,
in that alleyway
somewhere in Columbus,
all your secrets of loving me,

it wasn't the same.

My skin didn't spark from your drunken fingertips
and your lips didn't taste like they used to,
back when they were all I could taste,
when everything tasted of you.

And you were sweet and frightened,
vulnerable,
giving up the pieces of you I had sought for endlessly,
these last three years, giving me everything you had.

But all I remember is feeling cold, Shivering under the blankets of your mattress on the floor,
and all I was thinking about was work in three hours,
and my laundry in the dryer, back at my parents' place.

And you followed my skeleton with your hands
and traced the writings on my skin, whispered that you loved me,
that I was the one that mattered,
the only one that made you feel alive.

And I glanced past you at the clock and debated whether I wanted coffee on my way home.
Then once the lights began to rise and you had gotten off enough for the both of us,
you begged me to lay with you and sleep the day away,
told me to hold onto to you and never let go.

But I got up without saying goodbye, and drove to work, smoking my last newport
never looking back at what we had been,
all those years ago
in a dark basement, somewhere on Susan Lane.

Last night,
well last night I dreamt that you were making love to me.
when suddenly,

you lit me on fire.

But I didn’t scream or cry out.
I didn’t even fight it…
I simply

watched you,
watching me,

burn
to
death.

I loved you.
There.
I said it.
Wrote it down.
It's real now.
I loved you.
And I still love you.
Love the silly look on your face
when you realize you've said something that made me laugh.
Me.
The dutchess of the straight face.
The queen of the dead pan.
And I love that stupid smirk when I've bested you.
When I've gotten to the punch line before you even knew
What the punch line was.
And I miss you.
Miss us.
The way we were.
Back when you let yourself admit that I had stolen your heart
The heart you had sworn to never give away.
I miss that.
Miss the times I'd lay on your chest
And we'd laugh at the little things.
Miss the way you'd glance at me, and I'd catch you.
Better yet
When you'd catch me.
But I was never any good at playing coy.
Not when it counted.
And you knew that.
And you loved it.
Maybe just liked it.
But somewhere
Deep in your head
I like to think you considered
Falling in love with me.
Even if
Now
It's too late for it to matter.
I like to think you considered loving me.
And when it comes to you.
That's enough.
That will always be enough for me.

We said,
we wouldn’t turn nothing
into something.
Said we’d refrain
from “what ifs” and
“maybes”.
We agreed that nothing
could never become something
because it didn’t make sense
didn’t fit into the ideas
or the plans,
of who we were and what our lives looked like.
It didn’t “line up”,
how you felt,
how hard I fought it.
It just didn’t make sense.
Nothing couldn’t become something,
we said.
So, we were so careful not to be honest.
Made so sure we treaded lightly.
Tried so hard to lie whitely.
We planned our lives around nothing.
But we never prepared ourselves for what we would do
if nothing suddenly became...


everything.

I have this recurring dream where I’m running.
Running and running.
Full speed,
sprinting towards everything
and nothing at all.
And I don’t know
what I’m running from,
or running to.
I don’t know where I am,
There’s no history of what I’ve done.
In this place I know nothing,
and I am nothing.
I just know that I have to keep running.
Because there’s a pounding in my chest,
and my feet are aching to keep moving
and there is this subtle
but paralyzing fear
that if I stop running,
only for a moment,
if I stop running,
if I can place where I am
if I can remember who I am,
if I stop for one single moment,
I know that I will die.
So I run.
In some versions,
tears stream down my face
blurring into the lights and sounds.
In other versions,
I am laughing with intoxicating bliss,
like some animal that has been kept
locked away,
only to discover that there is an entire world
outside the iron walls of everything
I knew before.
Sometimes,
I keep looking behind me,
like I’m waiting for something to catch up to me.
Sometimes I look nowhere but ahead,
to the horizon,
the rising moon,
never-ending ground.
Sometimes there is pavement,
and street lights melting together,
as if the lens of my consciousness has been left open,
sometimes I can’t see at all,
I only hear my own breath,
the rhythmic pounding of my soul hitting the pavement.
But always,
I am running.

Oh, to be a flea upon my lover's flesh,
I'd land softly upon your neck and there
I'd kiss you sweetly,
Taste your sweat,
Smell your sweet scent.
Our illicit love affair would be for only us
As I lay hidden, quietly, in your silken strands.
Then, once your blood had crossed my lips,
You would be one with me, and I with you.
And no matter where my travels took me,
No matter how many lovers you would come to have,
You would always be with me.
And perhaps, one day,
You would brush your fingers upon the place
Where I had once secretly made you mine
And you would remember me,
If only for a moment.

I think you like the idea of me.
Because I’m unexpected.
I’m not obligations or schedules,
staring down the barrel of 25 years
that have already been planned out.
I’m spur of the moment
“Wanna grab drinks?”
and blowing off other plans.
I’m heavy breaths in parking garages
accidental brushes in passing.
I’m windows that slowly fog up
in your front seat
while we whisper even though we’re alone.
I’m kisses pressed up against alley walls
because you couldn’t control yourself one more second..
Headlights bouncing between irises in stolen glances
“Tell me you want me.”
I want you.
You say I’m intoxicating...
You like the idea of that.

But I like you.

See to me,
you aren’t an idea.
You’re laughing out loud for the first time in a while.
You’re hands shaking while I drive to meet you
lighting one last Newport
to calm my nerves in the parking lot.  
You’re silent wishes that you’ll kiss me around the next corner,
and forgetting we’re in public
because all I can see is you.
You’re whispering while I kiss you softly
because you’ve left me speechless,
and I'm scared to speak too loudly,
for fear that you'll disappear.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I can’t.
Because this is real for me.
You're real, to me.

So how much longer do I wait
to be real to you too?

I love the very beginning of a relationship.
Where you’re both still nervous,
your palms still sweat,
your hands still shake.
Where each kiss is still tentative,
and each touch is private,
personal.

Daring to go further
but not wanting to go too far.

Daring to say everything
but not wanting to say too much.

Everything is real.
They say it isn't.
But it is,

right?

It's pure,
so pure
in the beginning..


I wish we could just stay like this forever.
In this sort of secret place,
where every glance
and every word are so deliberate.
Because it is real.
It is.
In this place, it is real

I wish it could be like this forever.


I wish we didn’t have to get used to each other.

The boy with the crooked smile,
tells me that I have riot eyes.
That when he looks into them,
all he sees is the chaos and he just...
gets lost.
He says he can remember when he met me,
and my eyes were soft,
when they twinkled playfully in the Christmas lights,
that hung in my bedroom window,
while we laughed and danced,
and loved,
until the soft morning light lulled us to sleep.
"Do you remember that?"
he says.
And I look away,
unable to look at him.
Because I know the answer,
and he knows the answer.
He knows.
"Can you remember that?"
His voice more pleading, than asking.
And he looks at me,
like he's looking for who I used to be.
Looking for any sign that the girl he loved all those years ago,
is still breathing,
somewhere.
But there's just silence.
"What happened to you."
he says.
It isn't a question,
just a statement that he finally whispers under his breath
from across the bed
while we sit there,
drowning in the final dying remnants of who we used to be.

The magnitude
of what is happening here
is something I don’t think either of us
can comprehend.
Somewhere along a line
we set a wheel in motion
that has been spinning uncontrollably
ever since.
I think we’ve fallen
into what Salinger could only describe
as an intimacy
from which
We will never recover.

Remember that time I read you poems in the dark until 2am?
and the way you used to hold my hand until you fell asleep
...You know I hate when you do this.
Can we have an actual conversation, please?
Oh, right. Because I’m always the bad guy.
Would you just listen?
I love you.
What about that time we made love in your truck?
There is something worth saving here.
What about all the nights we spent laughing until we cried?
Yeah, well you’re never willing to try, anymore.
I’m not crazy for asking if there’s someone else.
You’ve always said this would never work.
I’m ******* trying, here...
You’re tired of all of this?!
Yeah, me too.
No... *******...
Babe, please... people fight...
Don’t tell me it’s not me.
It’s not over. It doesn’t have to be over.
Let’s give this a real chance.
Fine, ******* go then.

Wait..

There once was a boy
who told me they must have cried when I left home,
"I bet the entire state cried for you."
He'd said.
"because a girl like you must be once in a lifetime,"
and he'd keep me around if it killed him..
he'd promised.
"After all, girl.
he'd said
I'm a snake charmer.."
And at that, he had rolled up his sleeve,
to reveal the grayscale serpent baring it's fangs,
wrapped around his forearm.
He made that joke a lot.
Over he course of falling for me.
"Don't forget, babe.."
"I'll break a girl like you eventually.."
And I'd laughed and wish him the best of luck,
after all,
that's the polite thing to do,
in scenarios like these.
He would go on to tell me,
that he knew what to do
with a "body like mine."
He would make them wish they had never let me leave.
Whatever the ****,
he'd thought that meant.
And I let him believe that,
until the day that he didn’t.
Because really,
from the beginning,
we both knew no one was crying over me.

Write something beautiful.

I tell myself,
"Tonight,
I will write something beautiful."

I think..
as I drink wine from the bottle,
wine I chose because that particular taste
seems to **** the loneliness better than others.

Cheap moscato.

I feel somewhat like
the sad counterpart to a jay-z video,
sipping bottles and writing rhymes.
But my writes don’t rhyme,
and my bottle was $6.99,
bought by my cousin because I’m still too young to legally drink,
but somehow I can vote and go to war..
I could die, if I so chose, for the very country that tells me
it’s illegal to find some sort of way to **** the pit in my stomach.

But this is the alcohol talking,
and I’m starting to sound like I do this often...

Then again, the way I’m writing, if I told you I didn’t, you wouldn’t believe me anyway.

So yes world!
Cruel, sad world.
You drove me to a bottle I cant even own,
and somehow I’m still allowed to be



this
*******
sad.


Riddle me that...







..But then I remember that my problems pail in comparison
to those in other worlds,
and my demons are child’s play compared to victims
of all the other sins of evil-doers...

But you know what?
Tonight, I want to ******* feel sorry for myself,
and I don’t want to be sorry about it.
Because, my family is terrifying.
And I ran away from the clutches of a life I still believe
I’ll fall victim to in the end.
And the boy I still cry over,
finally told me that he loved me,
but regret it twelve hours later
when the whiskey had worn off.
I haven’t spoken to
any kind of god,
in longer than I can remember
and I doubt any of them would listen anyway.
At this point,
the men I’ve slept with no longer have faces
except for the one, with the whiskey and the sweet words..
and all I can do
is lay in bed
and wait for the world to slow the **** down
so I can figure out which ******* direction
I'm even going in.

So **** it,
that’s it.

There’s your something beautiful.

I cleansed myself of everything that was left of you.
So in turn,
I disappeared too.
For so much of me,
had been you, for so long,
I wasn’t sure there would be anything else.
You had crawled under my skin,
made your home in my headspace,
and you just... lived there.
Unkempt and untamed.
Wreaking havoc.
Weaving your smirk through the darkest corners
like the cobwebs that never seem to have a keeper.
Appearing in dark corners with no other evidence of the architect.
You were the spider,
that left your masterpieces for me to stumble upon
before retreating underneath the memories you thought I’d never unpack.
The pile of film reels,
Our first kiss,
the last kiss..
Everything in-between.
There, you hid waiting,
for my guard to come down,
Something, anything, to remind me of you
giving you time to weave your last words to me
in your silken strands
So that when I returned from nostalgia,
there they were.
You needed time.
You needed space.
You were sorry,
because I really was great
But it wasn’t the right time...
All the *******.
All the lies.
Enough.
Enough now.
So I went into every corner,
cleaned out every crevice,
scrubbed down every wall with bleach,
until all the remained of you,
and therefore all that remained of me,
was that empty room,
and a hollowed chest.
And when I finally found you,
cowering underneath the last cardboard box,
the one with the last of the memories
of how you used to look at me,
I killed you with my shoe,
walked out of that room,
and slammed the ******* door behind me.

My son will never know the me I was
before I became myself.
He'll never know the girl
who sat on fire escapes at three am,
in some city somewhere,
smoking cigarettes and writing love poems.
He'll never know the tiny apartment
where she discovered
that she could never really be as broke and glamorous as Audrey had been,
because she didn't make enough money,
and there was no handsome stranger that would eventually take care of her
after ninety-five minutes' time.
And instead of throwing fabulous parties,
she preferred sitting on the floor,
drinking cheap wine from the bottle
in front of old movies.

For years I dreamt of a life like that.
Where I was my own and belonged to no one.
Where life was lonely
in a tragic but beautiful sort of way.
That was the woman
I believed
I was destined to be.

And I was lucky
For not many people make it
to who they've always dreamt of being.
Not many people escape the monotony of real life.
I did.
I got out.

And parts of me were glamorous.
The nights I met strangers
and danced on city streets,
drunk and in love with the world,
wearing tight dresses,
heels in hand,
hair blowing in the summers breeze.
She,
was glamorous.
Walking down streets
singing anthems to our youth and independence,
we were glamorous,
me and all those nameless friends.
We were young and unattached.
We roamed the world,
and it belonged solely to us.

But friends,
life gets lonely.
And when the glamour fades,
you are who you are.

I loved those nights.
Every one of the passionate,
exciting,
artistic,
lonely nights.
And if my life had gone a different way,
I would still be that girl,
in that tiny apartment,
twenty years from now,
longing to escape that life as well.

You see,
my life has been wonderful.
And I have been the luckiest girl to walk the earth.
Because I never got stuck.
Some people just get lost,
in all of that never belonging to anyone,
never belonging anywhere nonsense.
But I didn't.
Now, I
belong to my son.

And he will never know who I was before him.
Nor will I tell him.
Because those memories,
and those secrets,
those are mine.
Mine,
to drift off into remembrance from time to time,
smiling secretly
about how I was one of the luckiest women alive
back then.
And luckier still that when I come back,
my son's smile is there to greet me,
and remind me that my life
my life, is exactly where it should be.

My son is an old soul,
filled with old thoughts.
I can feel it in his breath as he sleeps,
and his eyes while he studies the world,
ever so serious,
ever so conserved,
and ever so beautiful in his silent observations
of me and the world he is meeting
for the first time.
And one day
he will be the man who walks city streets,
changing the world,
saving the existence of man.

This,
I know,
because he saved me.
He saved me when I was so "glamorously unaware"
that I needed saving.

So while I have moments
where I mourn who I was -
the starving artist intent on creating tragically beautiful art -
I remind myself
every moment,
that my son,
my son IS art.
And who he is
will forever
be my greatest poem.

I live, in honor of him.

Three years ago
my best friend died.

He got too close to the water,
they said,
and they named it "accidental".
And that was that.

I never bought that.
I think he just..
gave up.
I couldn't tell you why,
not an answer
you would accept anyway.
Just a feeling that lives
deep in my soul.
A feeling that tells me
that he knew
what his decision would mean,
and he jumped.

Took all my secrets
and demons with him.
He took
all the things
I'd only ever told him,
and he buried them,
then he left me here.
Without him.

I've never felt that kind of pain before.

I thought
I'd felt it all.
But I was wrong.

That night I sat on my floor,
listening to the same song on repeat.
The tears refused to stop,
along with the shakes,
so I got drunk
and tried not to feel.

But that didn't work either.
So I drank more.
Cried more.
Smoked another cigarette

and I tried to write him down.

But I just stared at the screen.
Blank.
Waiting for words that never came.
I think I thought
that if I wrote it down,
it would be too real.
It would mean that he was really gone,
that there was no going back.
And if it was real,
then I would have to miss him.
I would have to let myself feel that..
And I wasn't ready for that.

So I told myself that
I would wait to write him down,
wait until
I didn't miss him so much.

I would wait until the words came.

But they never came.
No words came.
Eventually
I refused to write at all
until I could write my best friend down,
until I could tell OUR story.

But suddenly,
three years had come and gone,
and I didn't miss him
any less,
and I didn't write
any more stories,
and it didn't change anything.

At all.

I’d like to think that this ends
much like a dying star.
That it burns and boils with fury and passion
until one day it implodes into itself,
in a beautiful spectacle of cosmic mourning.

But there’s a feeling in my soul
a quiet, dreadful haunting
that this dies uneventfully.
Like the anticlimactic withering of the last flowers before the frost.
That one day
we just realize it’s been awhile,
but neither one of us really has anything to say.
And the final petals fall
without anyone really noticing
at all.

When the first boy comes,
he will inspire you.
He will paint roses in your hands
and stars on your soul.
He will touch you gently,
like he is holding something
that would shatter the world
if it were to fall onto the linoleum
in his mother's kitchen.

When the first boy comes,
he will enchant you.
Your mouth will shiver with each delicate kiss
he leaves upon your naive lips
and he will change you.
But you will not understand the importance
of such deliberate,
cautious
tender actions.
You will not appreciate that he
is just as cautious
as you are.


When the second boy comes,
he will be less kind.

There are tears I should have shed for you.
Sometimes I feel them in the backs of my eyelids.
Where I stored them
so long ago
when I lied
and told myself that I would never cry for you again.
Three years in the making
our tragic end
the heartbreak heard around the world.
When I told you I'd stay
but you didn't ask me to.
The one where I packed my bags
and moved across the country
leaving you in the wake
of the storm that had been us.
The torment of fighting for you
of fighting to love and be loved by you
Three years of holding you while you hated yourself
and your life
and everything.
Only to get you through the darkness
and have you throw me back to the wolves
from which you had crawled out of.
Bloodied and broken it was there that I would wait
wait for you to need me again.
wait for it to be convenient to love me again.
Three years of playing your game
of always getting two steps ahead before always falling a lifetime behind.
Waiting for the conditions to be right
and the music to play in tune.
Waiting for the sky to turn
that shade of blue
that it always seemed to be
when we would lie together
and you would trace my tattoos
tell me I was perfection
tell me that I really was loved.
The early morning blue
when everything was silent
except the sound of your breathing
while you finally drifted away from me.
Three years of leaving without saying a word
kissing your cheek while you slept as I got dressed
before leaving without a sound
to drive home alone
and wait until I was worthy enough
to be loved again.
A thousand mornings led to this.
to the morning I left
drove home alone
and didn't wait.
The morning you didn't come after me
where there was no cusak moment.
There was no music.
No breathing.
Nothing that made this worth it.
That morning I took what I had left for you
what was left of the heart I had placed in your hands
dropped it out the window on I-81
as I drove
and drove
and drove until I saw the ocean.
Where I dumped your memories into the sea
stripped off the person you had carelessly made me
swam naked and unattached
as I wept for the years
for the moments
for those mornings.
And when the water had finally washed you away
and I was clean
I took the last of those tears
and placed them in a secret place
deep behind my eyelids
perhaps as a reminder
or perhaps just as a memory
of the three years that I loved you.
Before you let me walk away.

I was doing just fine.
I didn’t miss you.
Not at all.  
Didn’t want to call you.
Or text you.
Or even see that stupid smile...

Then I saw something that made me laugh.  
Drove past a place we had talked about.  
Saw a commercial about a joke you made once.
Heard a song that you had mentioned.
Did something awkward, I’d usually tell you about.
Went to work.
Ran on a treadmill.
Put on those jeans you liked.
Closed my ******* eyes...

And there you were.

Life is fleeting.

That much we know, right?
We can't see the future
and the past is a filthy liar
that often makes things seem
so much better than they were.
Coated in some fog of nostalgia
that allows us to forget the pain
or disappointment
or even failure.
So where does that leave us?
Right here.
Right now.
But in the tick of my watch hand,
we're suddenly older than we've ever been before
and further away from the moments we shared.
Every second,
those moments get blurrier
until one day they're just there.
And they mean nothing
because they aren't real anymore.
They've been distorted and warped,
mangled by time and space,
anger and loss,
love and longing.
But our story...
Our story doesn't deserve to be watered down,
falsified by years
of wanting a better ending.
Our story deserves to be what it was.

So that's the story I'm going to tell.

I didn’t expect to see you.
I never expected to see you again
if we’re being honest.
Despite the habit I have developed of glancing
at the door when I'm in all your old favorite bars...
Even though I still order all your old favorite drinks,
since it's all I have left that tastes like you.
I didn’t expect anything.
Didn’t look for you in every old Lexus,
or glance at the exit signs that I knew would lead me
to your old house.even though you moved away
years ago,
I took the long ways home.
Just to be sure.
I respected the way we left it.
Tried to retain that image of you walking away.
The one where you don’t look back...
Because everyone knows that if you look back
It isn’t over.
And you didn’t.
So it was.
I respected that.
I never prepared myself for seeing you again.
I didn't think I needed to.
After all, I had buried you in my graveyard of lost loves
with that blank headstone.
Marked simply as “the one that got away”.
I think maybe that through all the years,
over the course of all the moments of forgetting you,
I had convinced myself that maybe I wouldn’t even recognize you,
anymore.
That felt safe.
So I lived on
And you loved on.

So when you walked through the door
That I wasn’t glancing at for the first time in a while,
I don’t think I thought you were real.
Lost myself somewhere between being mistaken
And seeing a ghost...
But, there you were,
staring at me,
staring at you,
attempting to figure out where we would go from there.
There we were.
Almost like a dream,
the music faded,
the crowd thinned,
and I watched you,
trying to decide what to say.
And my heart was pounding in my chest,
and my hands were shaking,
while you got closer.
As you did,
the scent of that same cologne you used to wear suddenly flooded over me.
Drowning me in the images of lying naked next to you,
your hands tracing the words written into my ribs,
the only one I’d only ever explained to you...
All I could see was us.
The war that we had loved through flashing before me,
as you stepped closer through the crowd...
still unsure of what to say.

Time stood still.
Until I watched you change your mind.
With the saddest eyes, I had ever seen you have,
You just turned away.

The crowd filled in.
The music returned.
And I stood there hollow.
Unable to breathe,
as the room suddenly became stifling.
The air too thick to breathe,
my drink too strong,
I ran.
Ran like some depressing cinematic vision into the now pouring rain,
down the street to the closest corner awning,
to light my last cigarette,
I just stood there...
shaking...
Crouched on the ground in six-inch heels,
with my head in my hands.
Fighting the tears and the *****,
and the suffocating panic.
I waited for it to be over.
And after what seemed like a lifetime,
when the shaking had slowed,
I slowly stood...

And there you were.

Standing there.
Looking at me, looking at you.
Still unsure of what the right words should be,
after all the years of trying to forget each other,
we just,
stood there.
My eyes met yours.
You didn’t say anything.
Just stepped closer
soaking wet,
putting your hand to my face,
wiping your thumb across the tears on my cheek,
like you had in that hotel room,
that one time,
until finally,
“Hey.”

In the darkness,
I become tangled in your fingertips,
legs,
and sweat soaked sheets.
Your body rocks and moves against mine
in perfect motion
As you whisper how you want
to "make love to me."
That’s what you called it.
But I’d never done that before,
I didn’t even think people still called it that.
But once you said it,
all I wanted to do was...
make love...
to you too..

Now,
baby,
I'm not saying I love you,
or anything like that.
Don’t smile that smile like you’ve enchanted me.
Because I refuse to make that commitment
or give you that much.
Cause see,
I've got things to see
and people to do
and I can't be in love right now.
it's not a good time..

Is it for you...?

..cause if you say it first
I'll jump at the chance to tell you
that when I'm with you,
I soar.
Your fingertips send sparks from my skin
and the sweat dripping
down your caramel complexion
leaves me hungry.
Hungry for your lips on my lips
and your body on mine,
and lord oh lordy,
I might need a minute
excuse me..

Baby see,
when I'm with you
I can smell the scent of your country
taste the exotic taste on your tongue.
and it sends me to far away places and distant lands.
sends me to other planets.
I'm so high off the scent of us,
I'm lightheaded just thinking about you.
****..

And you laugh at me
because I breath a little harder
when you whisper in your native tongue.
"¿Te gusta eso?"
you ask.
And I'm not sure what you're saying
so I just say yes..
and you keep on going with your secret words
losing me in your translations
to the point where I don't wanna be found.
So let's stay in this limbo forever..
because you got me so high baby,
so high,
I never wanna come down.

It's such a strange thing,
falling in love,
and the way the things you fall in love with,
change with the seasons,
or as various lovers even strangers,
enter and exit our existence,
as time passes.
And it's extraordinary how love
seems to warp time.
How it moves too slowly
when love is sad,
but far too quickly
when the love is good,
how you fall in and out of love
faster than you can say the words,
or the tears can form
on the inside corners of the eyes.
The tears that don't ever fall,
but linger just long enough
to melt the mascara on the fine lashes,
that only seem to be evident
during moments like these.
The moments when people look most like themselves.
Moments of weakness.
The same moments when you realize
that the movies are liars,
and songs are rarely written from truth.
Because people don't find their soulmates
in the spontaneous moments of passing,
but in the everyday moments.
Real people don't fall in love
during the dramatic, desperate, lonely moments
but the quiet
simple moments.
For I once fell in love with a beautifully ordinary boy
as he slept soundly
on the other side of my mattress at 4am.
Because he'd never shown me
any of the private memories he had survived
and that night he'd told me everything,
and whispered that without me
he always slept, but couldn't dream.
And once during a quiet evening
on a couch,
in a small town in Connecticut,
in front of Lord of the Rings,
while we'd laughed about all the things,
we'd somehow forgotten to laugh about
over the course of growing older.
And then a third time in your car,
on a rainy afternoon
while we had danced horrendously and sang off key
to an old mix you had burned back in
God knows when.
Where you knew every line,
and I'd rolled down the windows
despite the rain,
to hold my arm out like I was flying,
like we had when we were kids,
and you had smiled at me like I was magic..
These have been the moments in which
I have fallen in love.
Never during the movie-esque moments,
but in the ordinary moments.
The moments in which,
I never expected to fall in love at all.

I gave you
three years.

three years of my life.

three
*******
years.

How the **** could I let that happen.

I gave you
everything that I had.

What the **** did you think
would happen to me?

No one will ever love you
the way that I have.
And no one will ever hate you
the way that I do.
I hate that there is nothing left of you here
nothing for me to hold on to of you
nothing to burn in place of you.
Because the only things I have left
are the images burned into
the deepest layers of my brain garden.
Past the wall where
Kurt Vonnegut is reading poetry,
the shelves that cradle the words of “Catcher in the Rye”
the lyrics of “American Pie”
past the wild flowers planted
by the sweet giggles of my daughter,
the orchids nurtured
by the smiles of my sweet boy..
deep
deep in my brain garden there is a corner,
behind an old iron fence,
where the images of you play on repeat..

I don’t walk back that far anymore.
I don’t open that gate.
For if I do,
if I cross that threshold,
I am bombarded by the times that we laid in that hotel room
and laughed until we ached,
where I awoke from a nightmare
to you stroking my hair
and holding me tightly.
Or the night
we made love in my apartment
and I caught you looking at me
like I was magic..
Before you shook the thought away,
just like that,
and the moment was gone.
Before you,
I never knew that you could fall in love with a moment.
Never knew
that you could fall in love with an instant,
a single solitary second where I thought
I could’ve sworn,
I saw you love me..
before I watched you
refuse to acknowledge
or accept even the idea
that you could love me.

I held onto that moment.
Planted wilted flowers in that moment.
And waited.
Waited for another fleeting moment
when you would let your guard down
and love me.
But while I waited,
your flowers began to grow
thorns but never petals.
After that moment,
those thorns engulfed my garden.
Every second
that you convinced me
that you didn’t love me,
those thorns spread,
twisting
and curling
around everything that attempted to flourish there.
Through the books I had loved,
and the songs I had danced to,
they covered the memories of past loves,
past lives
I had lived before you
until it was only thorns.
Until I truly thought
that gardens were supposed to be just...
thorns.

You.
Destroyed.
Me.

Then you left me.
Left me standing in the dark,
***** ground surrounded by nothing
but cobblestone remains,
walls that had crumbled
until there were only structures
that had once resembled castles.
And everything became just
dark.

Until one day,
when I met a boy who brought a single rose
into my desolate paradise.
A single rose
that would go on to multiply into a thousand different flowers,
flowers that would cover my brain garden,
grow higher than the clouds
you had covered me in
until the sunlight shattered the sky.  
Together,
he handed me brick,
by brick,
until there were castles again.
The books that had burned
in the trails of you insincere actions
rained down from the sky as beautiful new stories,
laced with golden scriptures.
And your thorns,
the thorns that you had planted,
retreated back,
back into the farthest corners of my garden.
And I built that gate.
And there you stayed.

It
still
rains
when
I
miss
you.