I am so grateful
for those who know my soul
and still tolerate me-
there's only three, I think;
Shea,
Pam,
and Miranda
that fully grasp who I am
and don't seek to change me except to make me better
and I love them increasingly more with every day.
I am blessed to have those that are,
maybe not perfectly matched,
but perfectly willing to try.

I want to write a million poems to someone
who will write them back to me
I want to scream my favorite song with someone
who will yell along with me and know every word
I want to give my favorite book to someone
who is willing to read it
I want to hold hands with someone
who loves to hold mine
I want to knit my soul to someone
who understands what that means
I want to give my life for someone
who would let me
I want to find my Jonathan in someone
who has been searching their whole life for their David.

when it's dark and cloudy like this
it feels as though I am in between two layers of Earth
or in a collapsing room
the sky is a ceiling that is ill supported
a ceiling made out of ***** water leaking on the truck
a wet blanket on a fort from a broken childhood
made to hide from a father that doesn't love you
and if the soggy paper towel breaks
what will come crashing down through it?
the ground doesn't feel safe anymore
because the trees are the only thing separating the sky
from the Earth
and keeping us from being crushed
by whatever it is that's tormenting and oppressing
Atlas.

I'm sure people have told you your name is beautiful,
but darling, it's not just your name that's beautiful
it's your eyes
and your soft hands
and all the times we've fallen asleep next to each other
and that little smile you get
or how desperately and painfully in love I am,
with you,
and how much it hurts to be near you,
and sevenfold is the pain of being away-
how nervous I got when your sister sent me a picture
-you were seated next to a man's arms-
who was he? your small body
is a bullet straight through my soul
I fear every day I've lost you and you're gone already
or that you'll find a boy and fall for him
and never think anything of me ever again
I've felt the way you moved around me-
I never want anyone else to feel that-
because I want you, all of you,
you and me,
forever,
and all my stupid lines of poetry
are cliche and hurt my own eyes reading them
but they're honest
and still fall short
because I'm so in love with you,
and we've faded so far, so fast, from what we were and have been-
how can I get us back?

you matter to me- and since you matter to me,
you hold power over my heart
that you can't abdicate unless I fire you.
Because it is I that bestows the crown and you
physically do not have the power to remove it-
and if you try, all it does is rip my heart out,
because you're trying to take it with you
and I want to keep it;
my rootstrings are yours to do with as you please
and maybe you don't want the burden but I'm sorry,
it's too late, I can't stop now,
this has been going on for too long;
you could tell me to abandon my family and I would,
for you,
and without agenda, and
declarations of love do not require returns,
for it is like gift-giving- mindless social
conventions, and my darling, you are not conventional.
You can't let someone else carry the yoke, you
have me at your will,
and just as much as I can't make you love me,
you can't make me stop loving you.
If you must, you can let me down easy-
but my heart is in your hands.
So please, please, please, darling,
be gentle.

You know how that quote goes, everyone does.
"If I was a drizzle, she was a hurricane"
When we're all just our own kinds of rainstorms
Magically not working with each other
Just trying to drench whatever we can
But I'd rather spend time with you than anyone in the world.
People used to tell me they looked up to me
and the same people barely talk to me anymore
because what they saw was a figurehead instead of
a friend who is on their level,
and they like people who have flaws (not that I don't),
but tell us to strive to be perfect.
And I've worked so hard to learn how to love
flawlessly, but the more I love, the more I
bleed, with every breath you don't appreciate
and every love poem you don't read
And they keep beating me and beating me down
expecting this priceless gold mountain of positivity
and crushing me. It's like they're looking for flaws
in the statue I'm hiding within, and they seek to
destroy it because even tarnished gold is too bright
in their losing eyes. Maybe I'm the flaw in the statue,
my pink flesh and pale blood can't stand
these attacks and violent words, creating
holes in my heart where before there was none. I'm on my knees,
begging because I don't think I can do this anymore.
The blood I give is torn out of me from the passion I have for
you, I've had my suffering and death,
where's the resurrection?
I'm driving my head into the ground trying to
whip up the storm that will make me unique, beautiful, and valuable,
trying to gather little tornadoes around me,
while they're destroying me from the inside out;
standing for these things that are greater than me, and
watching in vain for an equal partner, since
no one can come too close to these whirlwinds
and mountain-high clouds.
It's lonely being a hurricane, too, because
none of the lovely drizzles think they're worth your time.

Who is it that does not know of Hercules?
Tragic hero written in the stars
and of the stars to tangle his string
with that of Megara's. He watched the sunset
with twisted arm and muscled thigh
alone, his bride in the Underworld.
he thought he'd be strong enough to rescue her
maybe not- maybe the grasp of the ghosts
was too great- the cycle and spiral down, down,
down into the chasm, leaving Hercules
alone, once more. he couldn't save her,
not for all the trials in the world, even with a divine
parent who guides his hand, He can't weave
the strings in Hercule's favor, he watches the sunset
alone now; the moral of the story:
everything we love will die- we must learn to never
make our home in others, for we will be homesick forever.

"The Balkan Peninsula is surrounded by the Adriatic Sea, Aegean Sea, and Black Sea..."
Looking around, I wonder which of you
have problems with your family
and who's kissed a girl
or a boy
and who has nights they barely remember
when they were broken beyond repair,
And who's skipped through a field, and batted their eyelashes
and cried on someone's shoulder
because I know we're all alive and we're together
here, and I'm not alone, I have to believe I'm not alone
you must've done stuff like this too
why hasn't it been communicated?
Why do I, like you, hide behind these uniforms in this class
because the wounds are too raw to display to even
others who have the same wounds?
Why am I scared to tell you and to communicate who I am
and these polite little lies cover up everything I say
we're too scared to offend or hurt those around us
and keep a bottle of feelings in the bed next to us,
not-to-be-shared with any but one who is inside the bottle.
Why do I write all these poems instead of paying attention in class?
Because there's something unhealthy in that
I can't say these things out loud
and everyone is sitting writing their own poems
privately, the cuts on their heart are more painful
than the ones clearly visible.
I can heal you. Show me.

Sun is up, expansive, out, and enveloping
Moon is down, within, internal, and intuitive
These two inside you are constantly connecting
It's impossible to be just one or the other, but if you're not, then punitive
measures will be taken to ensure we're protecting
that God-**** marriage covenant, a twinning of sun
and moon; a ******* that's worth correcting:
those couples that are neither, or only one-
Women are 'supposed to be' moon,
Men are 'supposed to be' sun,
But femininity and masculinity into our genders aren't hewn
There's some that are neither and none.
This isn't just one culture, not just one idea
The yin-yang is Chinese, the Word God's favorite son.
Within the human soul is the forbidden black María
we all know within us what is true and to be done.
Although I'm not of that culture, 'Two-Spirits' were a boon,
To hold a special place, set apart, but the white men have begun
A regime of 'this is it, this is you, you cannot sing your own tune,'
But lately, the real ones, the humans, we've won.
Hey, guess what? I'll break it.
Not sorry. I'm sun.

You read these poems, don't you?
Every time I post one, you act differently
is it a coincidence?
If you know I love you, why don't you say anything?
You've got to know, by now.
You're smarter, more aware than this.
Maybe you're still deciding your feelings. I don't know.
You haven't said anything.
Once you figure it out,
at least say, one way or the other.
I'd like to stop vaguely hoping.
"The signs we give- yes, no, or maybe-
should be clear. The darkness around us is deep."