If I carved the words "I love you"
into every inch of my skin,
would you believe them?
Would you believe me?

If I painted a picture of my heart
with the very blood that it pumps,
would you cherish it?
Would you cherish me?

If I promised that there was no one else,
that there was only you,
would you accept that?
Would you accept me?

You were broken when you were five,
It's no wonder you were struggling to survive,
When your only support is a crutch of self-doubt,
How can anyone expect you to figure yourself out?


You lack the tools to fix yourself,
So you tend to turn to someone else,
To hold and guide you,
Always coming to your aid,
You forget the loneliness you felt when you were eight.


But using people as crutches is naïve,
Because eventually they get tired and leave,
And now you're ten, but left again,
Struggling to figure out how to fit in.


People come and go,
But you become wiser and grow,
Soon you're sixteen and have loyal friends,
And you realize there's no point in trying to "fit in".


The years fly and you turn eighteen,
And realize time has floated by like a dream,
You've learned to be your own crutch,
And that you used to overthink too much.

But life has taught you a lesson,
That you cannot use people as your medicine.

-a.r

1546

Sweet Pirate of the heart,
Not Pirate of the Sea,
What wrecketh thee?
Some spice’s Mutiny—
Some Attar’s perfidy?
Confide in me.

This roof over our heads can't make us a family.

this is my facebook
real facebook
instead of connecting with fake friends for numbers
i'm connecting with friends i never knew i had
people here pick me up when i'm sad
a community that breaks hoplessness and fads
a place where beauty doesn't mean perfect
my facebook is right here with everybody
theres no santas list
everybody has been naughty
and i don't put my life on display
i display my feelings
because no matter what
i know you won't judge
so i'll be the first to say

*i love you facebook

I forced my razor knife down
into an anniversary coffee cup
crammed with pens, pencils,
two pairs of scissors, and one
roll of color film I'm afraid
to develop. I jammed it in blade-
up so I'd have to deal
with the hard part first
like a blank page before
an accidental tongue slip
drips ink and makes the page
pretty. Some tree I've never met
and some pink dye died for me
to cover this pressed pulp
in illegible squiggles;

and I'll be
                  ****** if I let it down.
'cause I'm drawn to things
without opinions. Sketchbooks,
inkwells, rubber band bracelets,
a mixed-nut dragonfly rested
on my trampoline net. // Cut it
free // cut it loose.

Find a brick behind the shed
and smash it dead,—preteen me—
young Wordsworth me.
I pulled the sepia tape from Queen
cassettes and finished the glossy
plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck.
Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes
down the driver's side, all the way down
to the Germania General Store.

He was a blur to me before I could buy
my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed
and the resident, caged dachshund couple,
I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years-
old, staring at my grandpa through picture
and plate glass panes.

The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed,
praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday
the sun shined and everyday it didn't—

were now less deserving of heaven.