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".

you always loved yourself more
than you could ever love me
it's pronouced made-lin, not made-line.

my greastest fear
is forgetting

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.

because when you said
you felt like you hadn't
     seen me
          in forty-eight
               hours

all i could think was that
i felt like i hadn't
     seen you
          in over
               a year

and as far as my eyes can see
i still can't
     see you
          at
               all

I could tell you why
you can never get the mailbox to close
but it would be a waste of breath
because you never listen to me anyway

I've found that the saddest people are the most eloquent poets
so it's okay that your phrases don't flow quite right
and that you use words that don't really fit
because the day your childish scrawl matures
will be the day I know you're gone

if I weren't on these meds
I might've cried
felt every time I said the wrong thing
or didn't say anything at all
roll off my face
and stain my laptop
with a tinge of mascara

if my esophagus weren't opposed to vomiting
I probably would've met my lunch again
would've been left heaving
gasping over a blue ceramic bowl
mourning my plethora
of mistakes

if I'd been home alone
I might even have screamed
howled
cursed your name
cursed my name
anything to get it out
of my clogged-up system

but I am on these meds
I haven't thrown up in ten years
and my mother sits on the couch across from me
so, instead, I'll escape to the shower
clean my body with broken nails
scrub my skin raw
reopen old wounds with a fluffy pink loofah

and when the water runs cold
I'll turn it off
lie on the floor of the tub
let the cold tile rattle my teeth
and I'll stay there in silence
until the faucet stops dripping

my eyes are shut tight
tears locked inside by a little green pill
meant to suppress the "bad thoughts"
I haven't thrown up in ten years
the contents of my stomach churn, unable to be free
nausea, induced by your secrets

I want to let them out
my contraband emotions
but I cannot
they'll ravage my insides
growing, a cancer
until they steal the last breath
from my chapped lips

for now I'll escape to the shower
with water burning the skin off my back
clean my body with broken nails
scrub myself raw
reopen old wounds
with a fluffy pink loofah

and when the water runs cold
I'll turn it off
lie on the floor of the tub
let the cold tile rattle my teeth
and I'll stay there in silence
until the faucet stops dripping

Words are toys
except more dangerous
Only fun when used
for the sole purpose of
destruction.

***** filled to their
brims with C4
Dolls with fantasies
to make your mother squirm
Trains driving fast,
out of control, off the rails
Games with just one winner
and a graveyard of
loss.

When you grow up
you expect the fun to
fade
But instead of fading
the game simply
changes
Your face becomes a year older
and your toys become a year more
deadly.

one day I return
to the island amongst the trees
hidden away behind the blue waves
buried in fine-grain sand
I don't know I'm looking for something
but somehow I know it's not there
my memories tell me alive
but my eyes tell me decaying
my memories tell me beautiful
but my eyes tell me dying
because a child's yellow dress
hangs from a tree
a gentle breeze tugging at the ripped fabric
and I don't need memories
to tell me that the child I once was
died long ago
with the boys who promised her infinity

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 was told once that
playing with fire was
dangerous
because someone always got
burned.

all i know is my body
is charred beyond
recognition
which begs the question - who lit the
flames?

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

we tie ourselves into knots
around each other
begging, pleading
curling tighter
suffocating one another
until there is nothing left
but dry skin and bone
a corpse that smells
of desperation and decay
our names forever seared onto the remains
and we decide to call this act
of brutal destruction
love.

the sermon today was
                                                  a story.
you've probably heard it.
a preacher and a butcher.
the preacher mistook the
                                                  butcher
for a poor excuse for a
                                                  shepard.
but the story's
                                                  irrelevant.
what's relevant is what
a woman told me
after --
that it is so easy for
christians to be led
                                                  astray.
from shepard to
butcher
and not even know the
                                                  difference.

and
i thought
this happens to everyday people
too.
how long until your
                                                  loving guidance,
                                                  gentle prodding
                    turns into
                                                  angry demanding,
                                                  violent shoving?

how long until your
                                                  love
                              becomes
                                                  forced?

how long until you
                              become
                                             a
                                                  butcher?

I think of you
and your poem from February
whenever I wear the blue and white dress
and though I'll never be your china doll
I still hope you think I'm cute

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

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

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

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.

hold the silver over a flame
turn it, twist it
let the metal soften
mold it, bend it
dull the sharp prongs
blend away the etching
and the nicks and scratches
from years of abuse
with your rough fingers
press it's extremities together
to fill in the gaps
between it's teeth
make it slick
make it shine
replace it's maker's signature
with yours

now, stand back
look at what you've done
forks are just spoons
without the holes
but when you went to fill them in
you forgot that
there wasn't enough material
for them to patch over smoothly
so in your hands
you hold the mangled remains
of a broken masterpiece
that you thought you could fix
but forgot
you didn't know how

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.

you said you were the man
who fell in love with a star
and you couldn't understand how
a mere mortal
could fall in love with something so far away

maybe I am a star
but stars have no substance
I am nothing but chemicals
so big, so bright
so distant, so empty

here I am, adrift in orbit
of a black hole
of illness and self destruction
dark, haunting
waiting to **** me in

you wonder how insignificant you must be
to all of us above
but I think you look quite
enormous
and it makes me feel small

don't come closer, dear
or you'll burn
and if you wait long enough
maybe it'll be time for me
to burn up, too

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 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

peel away the strands of grass
from the mother blade
one at a time
one slender green piece pulled from the rest
as the leaf becomes smaller,
smaller
a thing of beauty
nature's most abundant
reduced to pale shreds
and loose strings
dangling in the air
curling, reaching for something
what I can only guess to be
their lost companions
so close but yet so far
as the wind stirrs
and the remnants of life
dance away
into this sweet summer's eve

night and day
is an abused expression
but you abuse me
so it's okay for me to tell you
that that's exactly what you are
your day is bright, sunny
100 degrees
too hot, too bright
and I never have enough sunscreen
but your night
well
it's beautiful
gentle rain against my dry skin
a chorus of thunder in the distance
followed by an honest flash
of lightning
I wish I could say
that these glorious July midnights
were worth peeling the flesh off my arms
after your hideous noons
or that watching the stars in the sky
were worth the burns
the cancer
as your fiery sun ravages my body
but I can't
because nights aren't meant to be enjoyed
when we live for the day
and I'm tired of waiting
for the clock to strike twelve
only to watch you turn the hours back
before my eyes
I used to have it in me
to appreciate the blue of the skies
but all your days bring me now
is summertime sadness

any other time
I would ask you to stop saying things
we both know aren't possible
but lately it seems
I've been living only by the sustenance
of fragile promises
so tell me again that you'll never leave me
and if I fake it long enough
maybe one day I'll believe you

it's amazing how much we talk
how many times a day
we let words and sounds escape
through our heavily filtered lips.

different people talk
in different ways, different voices
and with different meanings
some, meaning nothing at all.

it's amazing how much we talk
but I still find myself in awe
of just how little
we actually say.

you pried open my clenched fists
placed the colorful glass into my palm
and pressed my fingers closed
too rough, too fast, too soon
and i squeezed
and i squeezed
and i opened my hand
to find the shattered remnants
of something that could've been beautiful
surrounded
by a pool
of blood

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.

I went to therapy
to feel human again
but now I find myself feeling
less alive
than before.

they've got an edge going down
and at first it feel good
it feels right
but then the edge becomes a burn
a slow burn, dragging your coeherency down with it
they catch in your throat, choke you
you can't breathe
you feel like you're drowning
but you don't stop
can't stop
and suddenly
it becomes an addiction
it's wrong
it hurts
you feel like it'll never end
but eventually you've thought yourself to sleep
and you wake up the next morning with a headache
and a bad taste in your mouth
that tastes a bit like forgetting

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

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

have you ever thought about
the similarities between
united
and
untied?

read one and
mistaken it for
the other?

felt like one
but found out
you were
the other?

lost musician
failure of a poet
and lover of things I cannot afford

these words
make me sick

as the clouds cover the moon
on one last summer night
i'll watch the stars die
before they dance from my sights
i'll lay here in silence
and i'll feel you wash over me again
because in this moment
i feel celestial

painted faces
scarred skin
weary arms and quivering legs
you asked for an army
and this is what you got
walking corpses with empty eyes
that you'll scoop out with plastic spoons
singing the songs of our breathren
in abused voices and sore throats
selling our bodies for boys in other countries
doing it all in the name of love
congratulations
you created us
now let us welcome you
to our black parade

I was thinking about wills
what we leave for those we love
(and those we don't)
when we die
I've always been a little too materialistic
that's what happens when you've got nothing to cherish
"where it counts"
I have my guitars
my collection of snow globes
some dusty glass jars
expired makeup
a row of empty pill bottles
but of all my material things
that I guess you could say I hold dear
I couldn't think of anything to leave for you
so I thought, and I thought
and I realized that I didn't need words on a paper
and a signature in black ink
to give you
my heart

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

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