any hope I ever had left long ago
lost in the wind
a kite with a broken string
the scissors held in the trembling hands
of my mother
and now she wonders
where the child she once loved
has gone
and I don't have the heart
to tell her
that she burned the kite with a
gas station zippo lighter
and the ashes were poured
into a glass
of merlot.

anchor me to the skies
so I don't drown
in the depths
of this ocean
this hell
the salt burns my wounds
the cold water chills my spine
and I can't take it anymore
I'll be your rock
if you'll be my sun and stars
and keep me safe
from the churning seas below

dear goldfish -
if I'd been you
I'd have jumped, too.

no matter what I do with it
i still have the blisters on my index fingers
and the rope burn on my thumbs
to remind me of my mistakes

and I'll thank them for it every ******* day.

you sat on the piano bench
and i sat on the floor
we talked about our fathers
we shared our lonely childhoods
broken bones, broken hearts
i decided i could listen to your voice for hours
you told me you wanted to be a pianist
and i offered to teach you guitar
i played stevie nicks for you
and you said you didn't sing
but your voice is beautiful
and i wish you'd sing for me
you told me about the songs you like
and i went home and made a playlist
it's four months later and i have every song memorized
in alphabetical order

you told me you didn't believe in love
but i know real love and i know forced "love"
and i know i've loved you since that day in september
when you told me i had beautiful handwriting
and i'll never forget how you looked at me
instead of the paper
when the words drifted through the stuffy third-floor air
and i didn't even know your name

so for now i listen to your songs on repeat
and look forward to tomorrow
i just wish i'd kissed you
that evening of the recital
on that ****** piano bench

i played my recital piece
for a man and his daughter
and the man told me
"there's hope in that piece"
and it got me thinking
that maybe
just maybe
if i can find the hope in my music
i can find
hope
         in
             me

you spent an hour alone in the pouring rain
fifty degrees and dropping
waiting, waiting
blocking out the chaos
with those borrowed grey earbuds that bruise your ears

maybe you wanted someone to see you
and ask why

or maybe you just wanted pneumonia

it's 11:45 pm
and you're sitting on your bed
your newly cut hair pulled back
and your first experience with fringe
occasionally dancing over your eyelids
the sounds of a tv and your mother teaching herself the clarinet
make it hard to concentrate
on the thoughts in your head
but your inner organs tell you all you need to know
your stomach flutters with a thousand monarchs
your heart soars
and your knees are weak
and you're not sure how you're going to recover
but that's okay
because maybe you don't want to

I.
Identity?
For so long, I've felt like I had none.
I am a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
by people with faces I cannot remember;
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen,
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

Who are you, when you're no one
except everyone?

II.
I'm sick.
I am years of not getting out of bed.
I am missed school days, late-passes,
a truant.
I am doctor's notes.
I am a pile of handwritten prescriptions.
I am one white
two orange
one pink
and two multi-vitamins.
Misdiagnoses,
tests,
exams.

My feet melt into the blue and grey carpeting,
my arms turn brown like the worn-down stain of the armrests,
the receptionist knew me by name
until "next week's appointment" slipped off the calendar.

I am episodes of crying in crowds
or crying alone.
I'm haunted by mistakes remembered only by me.
I am up or I'm down
without knowing what's between.
My brain leaves my body and I can't feel my hands
so the bottle of Advil moves up one more shelf.

I am told to lie on my medical forms
so I won't be held at arms length,
or treated like someone who's different or strange;
but that's just how I'm treated at home.

III.
I am nothing more
than the result of years of torture.
Two bra sizes too small.
Four dress sizes too big.

I am nothing more than a waistline,
which would be fine
if I had one.

I am not pretty enough.
I am not beautiful enough.
I am not good enough.

And I will not be joining you for dinner.

IV.
I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
I run, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a bit closer.

I text boys 300 miles away
but pretend he's right there beside me.

I'm gullible, I'm weak.
I fall for anything, I fall for everything.
I forgive too quickly and I love too much,
I set myself up for the fall.

V.
I'm a disappointment.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.
I'm wrong.

I forget my chores.
I forget responsibilities.
I forget rules, I forget deadlines, I forget lines in the play.

I forget numbers and facts and formulas.
And when the grades come back
I remember
what a parents' giving up looks like.

VI.
I'm difficult.
I'm needy.
I can't drive,
can't make my own appointments.
Can't sign my own papers, can't run my own errands,
can't buy my own dinner,
can't call my own shots.
I'm difficult.
I hear myself say that I don't have a choice
But the sigh in reply says,
I'm difficult.

VII.
I love the wrong gender.
I swing the wrong way.
"I always imagined my daughter walking down the aisle
with a man who reminded her of her father," he says.
"I'm just disappointed," he says.
So I bring home a boy
and Mom says,
"Thank you -
I promise, it's easier this way."

Some girls tell their families when they find their first love,
but mine will stay hidden
in the box with the K
filled with letters and gifts and "thinking of you"'s
collecting dust between the wall and my bed.

VIII.
I am numbers, and numbers, and numbers.
Weights, heights, exes, mistakes -
too high.
Grades, standardized tests, word counts and successes -
too low.

IX.
I'm deluded.
Always telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
Convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm selfish, petty, judgmental.
I'm hurt.

I'm hopeful.
Waking up to the overhead light in my room at 10
when Dad comes home from work -
asking me how my day went
and closing the door before I can reply.
I'm silent.

I'm lonely.
Clinging to the siblings of friends and partners
desperately wanting a family.
Constantly jumping from partner to partner
desperately needing a hug.
I'm alone.

X.
With all my shortcomings
with all I do wrong
it's hard for me to find when I do something right.

But of all the things I'll never know,
I know how to feel, I know how to care.

I'll show you passion like you've never seen passion before.
I've seen gods in mortals and mortals in gods,
I've felt fire inside me when it's icy around me,
I've painted the Sistine Chapel with the notes of F. Doppler,
I've sculpted the moon and the stars and the sun with my heart,
I've loved with the urgency of the wind of a hurricane
and I've forgiven like the sand did the Atlantic high tide.

XI.
I forget so much,
but there's so much more to remember.

I'll remember your dreams, your hopes, your ambitions,
I'll remember your tears on the sleeve of my shirt.
I'll remember the days of the sweet uncertainties,
bus rides and text messages and scarves and "good morning"s.
I'll remember the day my heart fell for yours
(ticking, ticking, like the bomb in the birdcage).

I'll remember the album with the songs named after planets,
and I'll remember when you couldn't meet my eyes to the lyrics.
I'll remember the confessions from the football field bleachers,
even next year, when there's an empty chair in the orchestra.

I'll forget all our fights, even the ones you never will,
and I might lose some of our laughs,
but I'll never forget passion at 4 in the morning,
or slow-dancing like middle schoolers at high-school dances,
or your body against mine to old SNL re-runs.
I'll always remember the times you let me in
and I'll be here in silence for the times you still can't.

I'll remember our promises
of dreams and forever -
plantations in Greece, Italy, Spain.
Love letters and presents hidden around our camp cabins,
four years of love, friendship, promises
dissolved in a haze of disdain.

I may not remember the quadratic formula,
I may not remember Newton's third law,
but I'll never forget how you make my heart hammer,
even when you forget me.

XII.
I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday,
sad, looking for joy in things big and small.
A hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but passionate.
I am identical, but a glaring mistake.
I am what-if's, maybe's, and might-have-been's.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips,
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head.
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write,
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls,
I am running across busy streets in April
and sleeping in screened-in porches in June.

XIII.
And every time I wake up alone,
I'll stand in the yard, look up to the sky
and remind myself that the sun, too, is alone
but can still warm the earth with its love.

it's three months later
and the tune of our love
still echoes through the labyrinth
of my prozac-poisoned cerebrum

it's the sound of rainy evenings
in whitewashed suburban neighborhoods
overwhelming me
as it ricochets off the cold stone

it's the ghost of your hand
holding mine so tight
and it feels like home
as I stand here alone

even as the symphony changes key
to red hair and bright blue eyes
the cadence of you
still rings in my mind

it was stale bubblegum
it was a bouquet of paper flowers
it was my favorite latte in a styrofoam coffee cup
and all it did was make my teeth ache

take me apart
peel away my flesh
strip me down to the bone
and devour me
let our bodies become one
on these worn out sheets

take me apart
put all the broken pieces
in a ceramic bowl
and dump it in the trash
replace it with lust
and let's call it love

take me apart
let me feel you
give me touch
kiss me, grab me
give me a taste of you

let all our destruction
pour out of our systems
and fuse in the stale air
so that then you can put me
back
together
again

the gentle twin
of the aggressive,
passionate
5th
beethoven's 6th dances
sings
of repetition in nature
and in ourselves
how, in a way
we are all the same
leaf, stem, branch
eyes, nose, mouth
it's the law of uniformitarianism
what happened before
in geological history
can, and will,
happen again
love me today
love me tomorrow
hit me today
hit me tomorrow
disappoint me today
disappoint me tomorrow
uniformitarianism
or beethoven's 6th
it's what keeps us
safe in our beds
and wide awake
scared
at 4 in the morning

he fell for a girl
mourning the heartbreak of a boy
who fell for a friend
to the tune
of a broken lovesong

your life hangs in a balance
a rotting see-saw
of deprivation
you listen to the chorus
of growling, pleading
from your internal organs
begging for sustenance
and you smile
are you proud of the pain you inflict on your body
or just yourself?
I'll watch you decompose
and tell you your decaying flesh is beautiful
because I know you're not looking for bones
or extra fabric on your jeans
but while your stomach cries
for yesterday's missing lunch
your mind weeps
for something to be proud of
and if the only thing you can do right
is your hipbones
then so be it

When we talked the other day at lunch
we were standing in the hallway
you holding my hands tightly
between yours
and a piece of paper crumpled in the
sweaty palms of mine
told me that your identity was
hope.

And I've been thinking about identity a lot lately.
How, for so long, I've felt like I had none.
I was a piece of college-ruled paper
ripped, torn, taped to a back alley wall
with names and dates and places
all written in a rainbow of Sharpies
from people who's faces will never escape my memory
my handwriting with the cursive "f"s
nowhere to be seen
words I'd written so long ago
buried beneath the influence of everyone else.

I believed that, if I had a word at all
my word would be something like
smothered, suffocated
lost, broken.
And, in a way, I guess it is.
But I think it's more than that, too.

I think that my word isn't just
right here,
right now.
It's the past, it's the future
it's what I have, and what I'll never possess
it's what I need, and what I crave
it's what makes me feel so much, yet feel nothing at all
it's what I'd do anything for, yet what I fear the most
it's safe, and it's dangerous
it's beautiful, and it's ugly
it's small, but so magnificent.

It's how I feel when my daddy holds me tight after a long day.
It's when my mom says she doesn't want to see me hurt.
It's why I always hold on a little too long when you wrap your arms around me.
It's an excuse for hurting myself in an effort to protect those around me.
It's what I say when there are no other words.

It's why I push people away
but long for them to come closer.
It's why I run away, keep my distance
but, when you're not looking, lean in a little further.
It's why I text girls 300 miles away
but feel like she's right there beside me.
It's why I kiss boys in the rain at their parent's house
but, somehow, still doubt myself.
It's why I make promises I can't keep
but wish you wouldn't do the same.

It's why I laugh with you and cry without
It's why I hold your hand with my left and take pills with my right
It's why I read stupid books and write ****** poetry
It's why I believe in nothing but wish for something.

It's me, telling myself that if Mom really loved me
she'd put me before the glass of wine.
And it's me, convincing myself that it's my fault
and that I'm not that important, anyway.

It's me, telling myself that if I had friends
they wouldn't leave me alone on a Friday night.
And it's me, telling myself that no one
would want to hang out with me, anyway.

It's stupid things
it's serious things.
It's stupid things taken too seriously
and serious things mistaken for stupidity.

It's the past
it's the present
it's the future.

It's what I want
what I need
what you give me.

It is lost
it is suffocating
it's shattered into a million pieces.
But it's also found
it's alive
it's messily put back together with a 6'3'' hot glue gun.

My word is perpetual
eternal
infinite
but so fleeting.

It's me
because I am
forgettable, only wishing to be remembered by someone, someday
sad, looking for joy in things big and small
a hypocrite, begging for proximity then crawling far, far away.
I am miserable, but so happy
I am identical, but somehow completely different
I am what-ifs, maybes, and might-have-beens.
I am quoting Jethro Tull songs in my confessions.
I am words in my head that will never escape my lips
I am words on my lips that should never have escaped my head
I am things I'll never say and stories I'll never write
I am singing in the shower, dancing in the halls
I am running across busy streets and standing on freshly painted front porches.

And so is my word.

It's me
but it's not
but it is.

I was convinced
that the English language
was too small
lacking
missing something.
But then I realized
it wasn't.

You told me who you were
and one day, it'll be my turn.
I am
love.

too sweet
not like candy
more like raw sugar cane
dainty and honest
to the innocence of tastebuds
but grows stale and sticky
to the back of my throat
and all i can think of
to wash you away
are a couple swigs of listerine
and her mom's stash of *****

relax.
be calm.
you're safe.
in through the nose, out through the mouth
50 times
and, into thin air
anxiety disppears.
*safe

and i could lay with my face in your curls
and my arm around your waist
every night
for the rest of time
but for now
just hold my hands a little tighter
snuggle in a little closer
and give me one more day
to wake up to those beautiful blue eyes

I'll never apologize for my love to you
but I'll tell you I'm sorry it took so long
please don't tell me how long you cried
I know that I'm weak, but I know you're not strong

you can't expect my fragile frame
to save you from your mighty deep
though, it's possible I followed you there
when you picked her to keep

you are a fetal pig
dissected
cut open
for science
displayed before me
on a shiny slab of steel
dripping with chemicals
meant to keep you clean
for the next person
to pick you apart
and take notes on what they see
dress me up in a white jacket
scrub my skin
make me sterile
give me your protective glasses
don't forget to distort the lenses
I couldn't see straight, anyway
but don't hand me that knife
'cause the blood I see on my hands
won't be yours
I promise

your father died a long time ago
before your mother married him
before you were born
and i watched when your mother
pried his cold, dead hands
off of her arm
hoping it would let you and her be
free.

the stench of alcohol still clings to your clothes
and you scrub it out of your sheets
with tide and clorox
with soaps and dryers
and the love of your mother
as you struggle once again
to let you and her be
free.

you do what you can to protect your mother
from the dangers of our world
because she's been through enough
but sometimes you forget
that you need protection, too
and you find yourself scared, trapped
wishing you and her could be
free.

but people aren't just born broken
it's what people do, what people think
what people drink
that breaks the person, who breaks you
and sometimes it's so easy to hate the man
broken by the desire for his brand of whiskey
when it's been years since you've tasted your own brand of
freedom.

there's a girl who sleeps in my bed
I don't mind her too much
though I wish her nightmares
didn't make such a mess
of the sheets.

she uses my shampoo
I'm okay with sharing
I just wish she would
save me a little
conditioner.

most of the makeup in my room is hers
some of it's mine though
I prefer blushes, eyeshadows
while she collects
concealors.

and sometimes, on the right day
I see her when I look in the mirror
not very often though
I don’t really look a lot
like her.

when I look in the mirror
I see flushed cheeks, wet hair
nails need a trim
hips, a little excess
but okay.

I don’t always see cuts
bruises, starvation, memories
of self-induced punishment
three failed attempts at
"making it stop".

I don’t always see
the ghost of years ago
when I look in the mirror
but sometimes
I do.

i accused you
of clinging on to the remains
of a girl since passed
but now i find my fingers wrapped tight around your cold hands
and your eyes
once a million shades of green
are now reminiscent of grey
and they haven't met mine in months

my hope no longer breathes
no longer lives
no longer loves
no longer tells me it's mine under bridges downtown
my hope has been reduced to a slip of paper
a magazine cutout
on a collage on my bedroom wall

when i was little i
wrote poetry about
                                                  bugs.
i watched them
dance through the evening
                                                  sky
and­ at the time i
thought that they were
                                                  free.
free­, like i would grow up to be.

but i grew up and they
looked different to me
                                                  then.
the fireflies no longer would
dance for me, it was more
                                                  frantic.
l­ike they were trapped,
schitzophrenic, in cages of their own
                                                  making.
and­ i felt pity for them.

but now i see
that we all have
                                                  cages
and while everyone
around me is finding their
                                                  escape
i feel lost
between these narrow
                                                  bars.
i'­ve been here a long time

and i think i've
lost my
                                                  key.

there is water in my lungs, darling
I'm choking, suffocating
my face is beginning to match the sky and
I'm not sure I can feel my fingers
but I think I feel more at my farthest extremities
than I've ever really felt for us

for the last two hundred and seventy-six days
I've wondered how I would breathe
if you ever left my side

but never for a minute did I consider
that I might be the one to leave you

mis demonios parecen a cicatrices
con el sabor del suicidio
and they watch
they wait
from the dark corners
the creases
of my mind
and they laugh
as I drown
in this stale air
they step on my chest
crushing my brittle ribcage
caving in my empty lungs
they laugh
as I drown
in this salty ocean
one small drop at a time
as my skin tightens
my cheeks stained grey
my eyes bloodshot
blinded
they laugh
as I drown
in giving up
giving in
to the biggest demon of them all
the beautiful sister of depression
anxiety*

mis demonios parecen a cicatrices
con el sabor del suicidio
and they run back into the shadows
chased by a box of kleenex
and her scratchy sweater
leaving my face raw
but finally
dry

there will always be a part of me
that sighs when I'm happy
and says I-told-you-so when I'm not
because I had the chance
and now it's gone
now I'm stuck
because 3 years ago
I dropped it in my nightstand drawer
and locked it away
with all my conviction
and all my courage
and promised myself never to look back
I open the drawer sometimes
hoping that maybe it came back
but there's a hole in the back of the dresser
and I fear that the three of them
snuck off in the night
looking for a new victim
with a bigger supply
of conviction and courage
and a steadier hand

lying here beneath the stars
I've never felt so alone
happy independence day, love.

this love that we share
transcends
any stuttering ****** *****

I compare myself to silverware
because both myself
and your shining collection of forks and knives
let people use us over
and over again,
never asking for anything in return.
Though sometimes I wonder
if the tablespoon ever tires
of the same old routine
because I think that,
possibly,
I do.

I promised myself
That if you were to drown
That I'd go down with you
That I would spare my dying breath
For one last second with you

But now
If he were to drown
I would fight to my last breath
To share it with him
To breathe together
To heal together
To live together
To love together

somewhere out there
there's a blue house along the shore
abandoned, empty, with wooden planks covering broken windows
debris and rock collects around the support beams
as hurricanes make the beach increasingly claustrophobic
and if you lay on the hot sand
letting the sun burn your bare arms
and close your eyes really tight
you can see the ghosts of two adolescents
whose adolescence has since been obliterated by love
and hear their desperate voices cry out into the bright blue skies
messy prose of blurred confession and stolen honesty

but your concentration will waver
and their throats will fill with ocean water
they will become weighed down by each other's presence
and suffocate beneath each other's scarred skin
one's lips stealing the breath from the other
and in your temporary state of neglect
you won't be watching when they die

so carry their bones away and burn them
let their ashes become one with the sand
and watch them disperse with the 12 o'clock high tide
come, see the weeds flourish
where their warmth once fostered daisies
and let their fragile organs decay
along with the remains
of their salty love

looking at the sky
is enough to make you feel
more insignificant
than the bacteria we crush
beneath our feet
which begs the question;
are we so tiny
that all of our efforts
all of our actions
amount to nothing?
or are we small enough
that every single thing we do
matters?
you said you hoped it was the latter
I do, too.

it might've meant more
if any of the words we used
had actually been ours
though I guess that explains
why when you left
and I looked to see if my heart was okay
there was just an empty space
the veins ******* in MLA-formatted knots
like citations
for all your stolen speeches

my lungs burn
as I inhale your stench
a cigarette
the secondhand smoke
of a broken lover
breathing your cancer on me
watching my bones decay
and calling it
beautiful

the love of a best friend
is one that cannot be
smothered
but when i watch you and her
i don't see best friends
i see one girl desperate to escape
a sick, twisted, dying relationship
and i see you
starving, crying out in the darkness
wanting to be the girl she longs for
while she's too busy chasing boys
to notice your sacrifices
you look in the mirror and you see wrong
you see lost
you see empty
where she sees nothing
when she asks why there's no one
to hold her close in the night
you look at me and i can see it in your eyes
i'm here, love. i'm here.
but just because i see it
and just because she sees it
doesn't mean she wants it
doesn't mean she needs it
so please, for me, for her, for them
wake up in the morning
eat the food in front of you
smile at your reflection
just because she doesn't appreciate you
doesn't mean no one else does

when i look at you and her
i don't see best friends
i see a love that's been
smothered
by codependence and
a lack of oxygen

i see loved
and i see
lost.

a white ceramic swimming pool
filled to the brim
with hot water
and rainbow bubbles
growing, swelling
popping
forming anew
the stench of your organic dish soap
overwhelms me
chemical and lemon has become a part of my DNA
use me
abuse me
then tell me I'm *****
useless
and scrub me clean
let me restart
none the wiser and twice the cleaner
let your fake nails and cheap sponge
leave streaks and scratches on my surface
and lock me away
in a wooden box
with the others
where we wait
for the next bowl
of chicken-and-zoloft soup
to be served

music is many things
it is invisible
untangible
nonexistent
but so powerful
coursing through your veins with every
beat
with every
measure
emotions, spilling through the air
butterflies, soaring through your soul
it's aggressive and loving
it's violent and gentle
it's painful and soothing
it's hideous and beautiful
it's me
it's you
it's all of us
music is
we are
seperate
unique
alone
but one.

you tell me
most people call you only
by your first name
it's just mary, you said
it's just mary

i'm not strong enough for another loss
i can't lose someone else i adore
but i adore you more
than anyone before
and i can't afford to subject myself
to that breed of hell again
but i'll carry you across the coals
and leave my sandals behind

i'm still in repair, my love
i know you know
and i know you care
but i'll peel off the bandages
and i'll show you the scars
and i'll give trust another chance
for you
for you

but no matter what happens
and no matter what we decide
i promise
i swear
i will still call you
by both names

you always told me I was patient
so patient I will be
I'll wake up in the morning
and I'll go about my day
and I'll stop by to see you on the way home
even though you're never there
but you always told me I was patient
so patient I will be
I'll sit here on this mound of dirt
for an hour every evening
and I'll wait for you to come home
I'll wait for your voice to dance across the stones around me
like it used to
if I listen hard enough
sometimes I can hear it
but as soon as I turn, it's gone
so I'll stare at your name
engraved on this slab of granite
till the sun goes down
and maybe a little longer after that
just waiting for you to come home

hello, anxiety
welcome to my humble abode
tell me you're doing well
you seem to be thriving
in this poor excuse for a body
I wish I could say the same
my love
my constant companion
my greatest weakness
I see you've made yourself at home
please, enjoy your stay
I'd offer you coffee
maybe tea, or just water
but it appears I have forgotten how to ask.

I was thinking about us
about our twisted mess
of love and lust

of ****** unfinished poetry
about stars and misery
and damsels in need of a
knight in shining armor

of how you're so gentle
when I crave the opposite
all I ask for is aggression
and you can't even give me that?

I sat down today, meaning to combine
the words "love" and "lust"
(because, dear,
that's all we are)
and all I could come up with
was "lost".

people like to talk
about ways they
want to meet their
demise.

there's this recurring theme
of herocism, bravery
dying in battle, sacrifice for one
another.

some even joke about it
make it sound like something
comical, funny, like some kind of
movie.

the media plays up death
to be something to be cherished,
something to give your life a final
meaning.

dying for love, for loss,
for country, for state,
for freedom, for slavery, for
glory.

they romanticize the word
until it begins to sound like
some sick kind of gift instead of a
curse.

still, they all recognize
that they would rather breathe
than find themselves 6 feet
under.

but what happens when
you realize that, maybe,
death isn't so
beautiful?

does death lose all its honor,
its glory, its divine salvation
when it's delivered by your own
hand?

the smooth brush of fingers against my face
morphs into steel against my hips
pulling, dragging
the remnants of your words
spoken so harshly, as if a command
leave red stripes on my body
tracing every imperfection with the violent caress
only found in a blade
carving you into me
over and over again

shh, please be quiet
don't tell me I'm beautiful
because the place where I keep
my collection of lies
is running out of
skin.

I hate the way I refer to him and "you" and you as "him"
I hate the way the passage of a year means nothing to my aching heart and
I hate the way the thought of her lips that are too thin and her eyes that are too dark and her hair that is too long is what he's chosen for three hundred and sixty seven days because I hate the way she told you you didn't love me the day you called me to tell me they told you what love was and I hate the way that I will always fall back into you and the jail cell that traps me between your ribs

but I love the taste of the glue from this envelope that lingers on my lips I love the way you wrap your arms around my waist I love the way you look at me as you **** me until I can't breathe
I love the way the blue of the skies I see when I wake up in the morning and the seas that lull me to sleep at night pales in comparison to the blue of your eyes and I love the way I miss you when I stop at stop lights and you aren't there to unclench my hands from the wheel
and I love the way we look at these stars together from this distance but ******* christ I hate the way the specks of light in this god forsaken sky are so far away - just like you from me tonight
I just hope they find a way to tell you that I love you with their whispering voices in the dawn cause baby now it's just you and me

I'd rather be the shattered mess of glass
strewn across the floor
of every hallway in your house
than be the frame
that once held this mirror together

because now that I'm free from the grasp
of this "pride" you so cherished
you can't leave the lonely cave
in your black hole of a heart
without the remnants of me
splitting your flesh
     to
          the
               bone.

there's an empty space in my bed
it's always been there
but i'm just feeling it now
i shouldn't be able to stretch out so far
kick my legs over the side
wrap my arms around the headboard
the wood is cool against my skin
while you kept me comfortably warm
i have two pillows too many
and i'd rather have a shoulder
i'd rather feel your hair tickle the back of my neck
than be searching the pillow for the cold side