The wind used to carry your whispers to me
gently,
lifting them from your distanced lips,
carrying them to my distanced ears.
The wind loved our delicate romance
and would do any favor
simply to hear
your next beautiful dance of words,
or to watch me smile,
heart melting,
at your whispered adoration.

But now it is restless, itchy summer
and though the wind rarely blows past
my ears,
I know your words drift slowly to me,
floating,
lingering,
whispering:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

You told me I was **** when you touched me
on my chest and stomach,
but I am sure that I wasn’t **** at all.

I have memories of you
cradling me like a lion with his cubs,
except there was nothing paternal
to your touch or words,
and I felt no safety when I was
in your bed.
Not even when you told me not to worry,
not even when I came to you
to escape my nightmares.

You didn’t seem to understand
that you simply led me into new,
scarier ones.

You were the only one who held my stares,
your eyes were moons
invisibly courting me, sleeping next to me,
whispering to me gently as soft as you were.
I was not soft,
but angry and calloused and alone.

I cradled you each night as if you were ice cream,
or pills
or anything to take the pain away.
You were warm and solid and alive,
but I wasted it;
went out buying lemons and mouse traps
until I could figure out what I really needed.

All you had to do was sit with me,
watch me,
play with me,
nap with me,
to teach me how to live.

But it wasn't until you were gone
that I knew I was in love.

simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.

you know you miss someone when you can taste them,
but you've never before
on the back of your tongue
                                                      wet bones in your mind
soft, skeletal, unreal
i'm feeling you now, somewhere between my forehead and eyes
makes for interesting dreams
and frequent days without food.

it hasn't been too bad
i've only lied a few times
maybe six or so
and thought of you hardly ever.
(i'm hoping that makes up for everything else i've been thinking about)
a six pack should hold me over until i can clock more hours
until then, i'm a cigarette ****
and a half-chewed burger: "****. i don't eat meat."

seconds accumulate the same way dust will
my breath isn't strong enough to blow it all away
that's why i asked you so many questions
should've used the rear view mirrors before they broke....oh well.

something in the air tells me you don't like me back
that your plump sides
drooling lips are really nothing but an anecdote
and everything i've forced myself to feel for you is nonsense
blended in a juicer, foamy like a latte
nonsense

When we used to go to the same supermarket,
I would watch you pick out fruit
and buy the same kind.
I felt close. I felt like maybe someday you would notice
and say something like,
"I've always loved you," or "I like blueberries, too."

I can imagine your face
lingering between blueberries and raspberries,
the teetering glance you gave to each price,
and even the way you opened each carton gently,
as if it were a precious music box,
and tasted the slow, sweet juice of each berry.

When we used to go to the same movies, I would sit near you,
imitate your reactions.
I only wished I could come closer,
and maybe touch your hand.
Your eyes made me wish I was on the screen.

When we slept in the same bed,
I held you tight enough to scare you.
You said let me go,
but I couldn't. I won't. I didn't.

You gave me AIDS.

They lied to me through the gaps where their teeth had been,
and clutched at my purse with their eyes
until I was unclothed and wise,
causing fate to follow behind me as I walked blindly on.

There is no measurement of time in a moment when you feel something,
and I held that moment for as long as I could,
cradling what I thought was different in me.
I stretched until I could see it going around the corner,
and I called to you, trying desperately to get your attention.
But this is fatal,
and only what I don't do will spread quickly enough to get to my lungs.

I don't feel what I used to,
like maybe I can make myself change in the same way that the hand moves over the face of a clock.
I'm just reminiscing over created and discovered memories.
Maybe I found them on my way to the third floor,
I cradle them as if they were yours and hope to god you're an idiot when I know you're not.

It doesn't make sense to be in any body but mine,
thinking anyone else's thoughts,
or feeling anyone else's emotions.
It doesn’t make sense for me to feel sorry
or for me to wish I could handle these things better, like I always seem to.
It doesn’t make sense to be what you think I am,
but that’s why it was fun.

Buttercup, she whispered to me,
your hair is falling out.
I began to worry, and I wanted to scream
but I stopped myself because
I had already screamed once that day,
and she always seems to tell me
Once is enough.

But my dad found out what she had been saying to me,
he told me she was lying,
but then I had no idea what to believe.
I missed the feeling of loosing hair,
and I missed the way it felt as it landed on my shoulders.

At the grocery store
while choosing between strawberry and grape jam
some twenty years later,
I glimpsed her humor in my peripheral vision
and I turned to dance with her
but faced only the peanut butter.

I have seen the sun at night
but only when I was sleeping,
and she always used to tell me
Night time is when things aren't real.*
And I believed her.

I float like a rock
and sink in clean air.
The scent of me alone
is enough to make any head turn.

I can promise you nothing
because I claim the title "starving artist,"
and every time I bleed,
I do it for the sake of humanity.

I live on a crucifix created by Picasso
and crawl to work on my knees.
The Pink Floyd blaring through my headphones
is louder than the sound of my heartbeat.

I cry when I see art that doesn't make sense
and I feel sad even if I do understand it.
I don't use razors to shave
and yearn each moment for rainy days.

I am nothing to no one,
I am not real or imaginary--
simply a popped balloon at a six-year-old's birthday party.
But let's not cry over spilled paint.

saturday feels like tomorrow
already?
already.

i told too many stories in one sitting
and now my fingers are moving in circles and changing
colors. (because of this, I can't make it to your birthday
party)(can you believe the excuses I am making?)
i will be speechless
already

once someone hears something they shouldn't have
we will turn off the fan to avoid further mess
and keep our eyes shut so that we don't see what
we've done.
melting like butter, quickly
when put on too much heat but always,  always tasting delicious

I will try and keep my mouth shut after this last meal.

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.

Regretting the juice I spilled on your lawn
and lingering on the things I said that sounded like my mother,
I drank myself to whispers so I could stop myself from yelling.
There are books about people like me,
people like me whose whispers hurt their children,
but that's the only good reason to be forty and bitter and alone.

So alone that I forget to check the expiration date on yogurt,
so bitter that I like 100% cocoa  chocolate.
I can hear you forgiving me, as if everything I do is okay
at least, maybe until I stop chewing something that isn’t there.
You make me feel like I overreact, when you're the one who loved me;
when you're the one who left.

And when you went the door was left ajar
because it doesn't matter who sees into my house,
but it matters that I could see into your heart (******* hypocrite).

Three years makes you feel like you've had your laugh lines forever
but you didn't make me smile
and you couldn't see any difference in my eyes
when I'm obviously seeing you in such a different way.
Facing you earlier in the backyard was like looking at myself
(when I was twelve)
and it made me happy to be eating 100% cocoa
and paying for my rent in cash from my back pocket.

I’d forgotten what it was to be afraid of speaking,
to be afraid of being alone.

I’ve been sitting here for weeks,
and this is the first time you’ve noticed me?
Do you think I like being under this teacup?
I’m terrified; it’s dark and cold.

You’re out at your party,
and all I can think about is my wife,
all alone on the web back home just waiting for something, anything, to fly by.
It’s all a joke to you though, you sick man.
And would you believe that I climbed into a man’s suit,
got on a plane, flew all the way from Europe,
and lived with Johnny Depp for a while?
No, no you wouldn’t—
you work at NASA,
you drive a corvette,
you are dating the Aphrodite of your age
and it’s all not enough.

So let me tell you about me:
I’m not like you or him or anyone else here.
I don’t own shiny medals or have my own talk show,
I’m just looking for a chip in a cup,
some little imperfection that will set me free.

I’ve been thinking how I like
smooth jazz
poptarts
gushers
wheat thins.
I have hundreds of kids I’ve never met,
and a home in your bedroom window.

But none of that matters anymore
because I’m trapped under this ridiculous cup
and it’s dark, and I’m cold.
I’m beginning to think I should just give up.

my head hurts
constantly
my eyelids are pulled back—
let me be awake.

stop the tug-of-war,
the short sentences
the silence.

the woman next door told me all I had to do was keep breathing
(I wonder what she’s on).
sometimes The Girls talk about it
in a coffee shop,
or under the pretense of a book club.
they tell lots of other stories,
but I always seem to forget them.

the pounding in the night is just the ghosts in your head;
you see, I’ve tricked myself into believing that I’m not the only one who can’t sleep.
it’s a nice lie to live by,
so it’s okay, you can let me have my blind spot—
everyone needs a little character.

even though the machine is falling from the sky,
all the parts are still working.
I saw it on TV, so it must be true (and let me tell you,
the weather we’ve been having here makes me want to curl into a ball
and sleep in my mother’s driveway)

“she’s back!”
I want to hear them scream,
“she’s back!”
but it’s a little late to remove the earplugs.
maybe I just haven’t been listening
at least everything makes more sense that way.

look, I’m tired, I’m hell-bent on distraction, and I keep  losing my train of thought.
I don’t know; just tell me what it means.
Just tell me that it means something
because I’m out of options.
the toaster won’t turn on, the kettle stopped boiling water, when I try to sing I simply croak
like I’m full of slowly hardening cement,
and the kids who opened their windows
to feel the night on their skin are leaving hand prints and initials.
what is wrong with the picture?
(it’s not candid. it’s not candid, so take it again)

why do people have to be so picky?

the sun makes me feel
like I need a bath—
my skin tingles and breathes beneath its rays.
I am in someone's comforting arms.
the warmth
of being
alive
is so easily forgotten.
                                             if you say something
                                    softly, "tell me a secret," then
                               I will be able to hear the scent
                                                            of your lips
                                                                  on the silent wind.

you close your eyes, not because you are afraid to look at me,
but because you must. there, in the
invisible moans that scamper out between breaths,
lies the secret I was too fearful
to speak:
                 I'm afraid to miss you,
but          I'm terrified of letting you go.

what is it that bones are saying,
so trapped and silenced by their fate beneath
skin?
whose idea was skin?
let it wash off: your flesh is a figment of your imagination.
I suppose I wouldn't be soft anymore
but I wouldn't have to open my mouth
for people to hear my secrets.

bones are trees
with initials carved in
and hearts left whole
when they have really been broken.
bones have deeper thoughts than you
or the circles that spiral the trunk of a thousand year old
stump.

bones know nothing
and everything.
you don't have to tell them.
they are made of whispers, too afraid
to say anything aloud
(though they wouldn't be heard if they did).

for years we have
speculated,
wondered why the earth's bones
are so very brittle
and why ours are so very
small;
smaller than the thoughts we pretend to think
when we avoid eye contact or run out of things to say.
what lies between one and the next
is simply a breath we neglected to take
when we were waiting to hear if everything was going to be okay.

bones are wise.
without listening we cant see.
what is the point of walking around with our hands over our eyes
and looking for our beds
when we can lie down,
remember to breathe,
and rest in the gentle hand
that we've always pushed away?

with taffy wrapped across your scull for warmth,
you look at me in secret glances
—there, beneath your heavy eyelashes—that make my heart flutter so ironically
like the soft shake of my bed when snow drops from the sky in chunks.

you are still the same pile of bones
but flushed and grown,
still the same gentle glow, but now are close enough
for me to feel your warmth,
and for me to become wrapped inside of your exhale.

even if I am only using tears to hide from the wind,
they are better than bare-***** chill, or the helplessness
of true winter
, darkness
, space.

how full can one mug be of slowly climbing steam and the gentle loss of speech?
it rises until it is at the ceiling, and it sits there
taunting my empty lips with calm silence, embarrassed touches,
accidental movements
until we are only pretending to hide behind walls that we are only pretending exist.

I do not know how many times we will need to close our eyes
or how many times you will reach for my cold fingertips,
but these things are irrelevant
(immaterial)
(unrelated)
(extraneous)
(beside the point)
and the doors that come unlocked open to cliffs,
the steps we take cause us to fall eternally, spinning into blissful
"nothingness"/"somethingness."

there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

It's a mirror in the doorway that tells me I can look no further.
I am not experienced, like you.
I don't know how to defy this.
I don't think gravity is on my side;
nor luck or love.
I wonder why, sometimes.

It feels like summer in winter
if I think of you with my eyes closed.
And there's something kicking at the edge of my mind,
like a skeleton tired of being locked away
and tired of trying to read in the dark.
The bulb is burnt out.
I can't see anymore than you can,
but at least you have the key to the closet.

I meant to be this and that
and all the things you used to get mad at me for being.
I'm not sure why you're so simple,
so feeble.
When I used to admire your heart I would sit on my knees
so that when my feet went numb I could feel the pin-***** of waking up.

Now you've been sleeping for years,
and I know, at this point, that I'm not Prince Charming.
You've told me nearly a million times.
Or at least your lips have,
as they mouth the words of your death,
like a diabetic child ******* on a forbidden lollipop.
I still can't seem to miss you.

I can hear the water dripping
From a memory into the faucet where the basin of my tears has been sitting,
Waiting for you to drink them up
Flavorless, but full of nutrition.

This isn’t the same as it was. Your words
are music,
but the emptiness they are made of is more than lightening could shatter,
more than any question I could answer.

I don’t know where all my courage came from.
One moment we were lovers, the next
Betrayed
and forgotten on the front steps
(chilled concrete, running from shadows, knowing the world is evil)

With you, I became some sort of second voice
one that was heard
one that was imaginary—I am now seeing
more colors than I have ever seen before
and it is ugly.
They are blending together, becoming murky.

I wish I could step backwards,
but somehow I am propelled constantly towards something inside of me—
forward!onward!—
and it feels lighter, simpler
than the heavy words I read (the ones that spilled from your seemingly empty mind and onto the page)

I have not felt that way in a long time.

words are the stones you used
to shut the water out;
dammed
and silent until broken,
like the promises lost in a whisper
and misconstrued by hopeful
ears.

where are you taking me?
I can’t travel far without my oxygen mask
and my flask of dreams, filled
to the brim
with something sour
which smells shockingly similar to
lies.

always a different color than you
think. Red:
sweet and lonely,
can be everyone’s lover.
but when it comes to
parenting, no one knows ****.
I don’t blame you.
I have too many fingers for that,
too many fingers to count the names
you’ve called me
but just enough to count the ones that have
stung.

final offer:
going once. I’m not up for twice.
the world has secrets you wouldn’t
understand, but at least
you can close your eyes,
count to ten,
and disappear.
Some of us have the luxury of death,
while others have the burden of
living.

it has been too long since i’ve written
too long since I’ve pressed my pen to paper and expected it to move.
it feels new,
like not kissing for months
I’m scared that I’ve lost my touch; it won’t feel good
but at some point it’ll start to feel normal.
when?

I feel like I should apologize
no, I know you haven’t been waiting,
but I wish you were. sometimes I do.sometimes I forgetspaces
                                                    ­                                                  and time
I guess that’s nothing new.
it’s better if you just read, they told me, it’s better if you don’t say too much out loud.

sometimes people get stuck in between two feelings
and it comes out as a misspelled word
do you ever look for things in the world that just aren’t there?
look harder. they’re always there.

I can tell you yes or no,
whichever you would like to hear
I’m odd that way
I’m programmable
then again, I suppose that’s rather normal.

There has to be some sort of inner monologue
waiting to come out of me.
I am a character of course,
but I get jumbled up.
it’s easier when someone knows how you feel
and you don’t have to write it down for the world to read.
but you can’t always count on people,
especially not yourself.

some guilty pleasures are more guilty than others.
I’m sorry if it’s news to you,
I was only trying to touch my toes before I got too old to keep trying.
I learned once that if you close your eyes
and imagine God, that you’ll see him or it or whatever you imagine
crazy right?
I guess that means my imagination controls what God is.

it’s easier to have no power than to have all the power in the world
I know I’m not the first to say it,
but I’ve already taught you a couple lessons, so I should keep the ball rolling
nice
to
meet
you,
but for now I think we’ll just stick to formalities.

I like to think I know people on a level that no one else does
but I am only making up for my lonely childhood
what an odd fetish you have.

go eat
if you’re so hungry
IT’S NOT THAT EASY

stop yelling
fill in the blank
stop crying
take up some space
come back
do what they say
use your imagination.

No swing, no ding
no kool-aid mix for my *****,
my car's stuck in a ditch
I'm off to Norway
for my holiday
to see a band play
and visit my grandma on her birthday
where we hired a magician
but she didn't like it because she's a mathematician
and a *****
she hates dudes
she'll make calculations just to be rude
and spit in your food when you're not done eating
she's always repeating
different sayings
or her high school day-dreams
and whispering things you can't make out.

Forget it, I dread it
the day is looming
like the shadow of a blooming
sunflower,
I've lost my power
and my will
and the money to pay my bills
all because of the chill
you sent down my spine
that one time
when I said it was okay
but it wasn't.

I'm a parody to mythology,
the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth.
I'm a staring contest with Clinton,
who lied through his skin about touching someone else's.
He wasn't alone the way he thought he was
I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them
just to spite you. He touched inside my skin.

Eyes like raisins or melting almonds,
touch like hairy, pointed fingers,
snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger.
He can hear the voices of politicians over his music
like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep.
He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty.
babies' cries twang through his dreams
from the strings of a banjo, making his lips
yearn to speak, green with envy.

I could write for hours; I could write for minutes
she caresses his silky hair,
his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake.
He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled
limbs are too long for grace, for lies
brain is too tall for truths,
and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears
as you walk out of the movie theatre.
It's true, now feel it.

His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993,
when he saw a new light like heaven opening up
but it was just a practical joke,
he's stuck on the stairway, no way up
no way down.
****
****!
****
who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes.
All he feels are feathers and minutes--
long, dreary minutes.
Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet.

Time passes more quickly than he counted on;
he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet,
not coherent, clairvoyant.
**** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior,
but as soon as the clock is fixed
God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams
just fingers shaped like leggos.
He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that
made you weep solid tears and ice cubes.
The wives of men would watch him and frown,
thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets
for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands.
Too much mess.
No sunlight.
Empty corners.
Fur coats.

Sometimes I wish I could drive for once,
instead of always watching the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand
as if it doesn't even matter that you're driving,
as if it isn't my life in your hands
or our child's in the back seat.

You're crazy and unrelenting,
you're stealing and hunting,
and it's not something I understand.

I like it when you hold me and I can know your being,
I like it when I can feel what you feel for me  
and I can empathize and be hurt and you can smile, and forget it.
But it's how we are, not who we are.
Because you let me go too soon, and all I could feel was warm.

Do you ever wish you could leave and never come back
just disappear for a while and be separate
think
feel

every time I peel back a layer it regrows
every time you pick up the newspaper I see though your bathrobe
not everything is intentional.

Words have changed with time
I haven’t
beneath the blankets is the same body with the same fingernails
beneath the skin is the same heart pumping the same blood.

I need someone to notice the tears in my eyes
the way he always did
or understand the reason I can’t shut my mouth
is because I never truly have anything to say
and I’m waiting for someone to notice
that I need a real conversation to keep me going.

There’s something familiar about the past and future molding together
as if one is the same as the other
and it’s the worst part that’s kept under lock and key, but still
Kept

I miss when I could lay down and feel something deeper than myself
without questions
without needing to find the right person to listen
where did all the metaphors go?
when we spoke in tongues we understood
and we listened because it felt good, but it never mattered if we didn’t hear.
You would light a match and it would excite me
and now I have to wait until I’m alone
to feel what I really feel
to peak through the blinds and voice my questions.

I still have old fears
things like that don’t just disappear.

I can't ******* tell if you're squinting or not.
I am, and I can't even see any better.
When I have trouble breathing it helps to close my eyes,
I imagine the stars, and I imagine death.
The sun is beautiful when asleep.

I keep trying to hold your hand and you don't get it.
I thought we already established that we're in love.
I guess if I had any courage I would have less trouble speaking.
But I can't sleep when you're breathing so loudly.
My mind is more alive when I'm gone.

Consciousness is a dry topic to those whose concern is ego,
but neither one of us knows what either one of those means.
So stop pretending like you do and be admittedly in the dark.
I keep finding it pointless to talk.
I see more with the back of my head than with my hands.

Everything's a mystery at this point.
I'm getting so huge that I can't see my feet.
I guess you could say it's a problem,
I see it more as a pathway.
Each pound is a streetlight that goes dark on my walk home.

it lifts like silk from the skin:
soft and slow, extremely sensual,
and gives goosebumps
that shiver through my eyelashes.

it whispers to my senses,
gently pulling
until I am lifted from the ground
purely ecstatic; purely silver.

it is in my eyes when I see you
and under my skin when I don't
tickling me to madness--
I think I need you.

Footsteps should feel like rose petals, velvet and red,
when you’re not soft enough
I can hear you approaching
wearing your father’s shoes. They used to clunk around as you walked;
they used to be too big.
Now they fit.

I know I shouldn’t hold you without arms,
but I am too in love with this
and it’s getting to my head faster than the things you say when we're falling asleep.

I’m telling you about things I felt
because you asked if they were real feelings or simply colors
and I don’t have an answer yet but it’s coming to me.
Now,
about last night
I only cried because you said you were afraid
and my heart goes out to you:
the only thing you have to fear is your mind.
I made a new color today.

I thought I would be able to tell you more
but isn’t that always the case
filed and boxed and put on a shelf because no one bothered to look close enough
or pay their bills.

I wasn’t going to say it,
but I saw a heart hiding under your bed and I think it’s mine
don’t keep it too long
don’t think I’ve forgotten it

Sometimes I think I won’t ever be enough
and that you won’t ever realize it
so, so sorry.
(Too bad you’d never experiment)

I’m always speaking but I’m never listening
all I want to do is hear your voice
clear
as a glass of water
but I keep putting a spoon in and stirring,
stirring until the water moves so fast that I get ****** in
half asleep and dreaming, forgetting the meaning
of oxygen.

I guess I was trying to show you something you couldn’t see
just like time—
there’s more of it than you think.
You watch me closely but you forget
blinks;
you forget the ripples in a pond.
Before you know it, dinner will be over
I’ll be full, and you’ll be wondering where
my appetite came from.
Didn’t you know?
I’ve been hungry for years.

I'm tired of the same licence plates
over and over,
all the padlocks, all the nods
from my neighbor over here.
Why must you ask me questions when I say some
people are more beautiful than others?
You are full enough
You will go home and eat at least

two more meals,
you will pet your cat and yourself and have a bowl of cereal before bed.
dreams like chocolate
silk. fingers like bear claws on trout
or salmon
from upstream with last names
coffee shops. They try to

warn you and you let them lose their cries
to the wind. They think
of their grandmothers.

When you ask me to hold your
hand I wonder if you will wash it before we eat
kiss make love
(you don't always warn me if you're

not clean)
In your chewing I hear the words
I should have said before dinner with hands
clasped, heads bent, feet flat
on the restaurant floor. The waitress
is younger than she looks, I
try not to laugh because I'm sure she's worked here for ten years
no
benefits
no
raise
no
tip over seven fifty.
Her eyes are strong from all the tears

but her words sound like
swing sets
half eaten dinners:
merciless.

Her teeth are the San Andreas Fault:
tired of opening and closing.
Tired of fake smiles, nicotine gum, chattering in the cold of other's
glares, all the nods from her next door neighbors, the same streets
with the same cars with the same licence plates. So she'll press them
down over her tongue, and curl her lips back slowly
until the day someone touches her the way she was touched
before claws
salmon
chocolate silk

before she was fat.

I stopped feeling anything almost a week ago,
you said that was normal for someone like me who always bites her nails
who doesn't like to shut up when people tell her to,
but I feel like you were just trying to make me feel something,
or maybe just feel better.
I still bite my nails so nothing's changed.

you eat equations as quick as you eat watermelon
and spit out the answers like seeds into neat rows and shapes,
trying to impress me because you think you can,
but I'm watching your sister and she's picking her nose
and she still looks like an angel.
you're trying too hard to get me to love you,
that's not how it works.

when I touch you I can hear your breathing;
it's disgusting.
(hold something in for once,
your thoughts, your breath, your laughter, your answers)
and when I woke up yesterday, you were silent.
I danced a little bit, until I thought you would wake up soon.
I wanted you to try and excuse your actions.

but you didn't wake up until noon and by then I was thirsty
and I was too gentle.
you told me that you felt something last night,
felt like I still loved you underneath my sarcastic skin
and you tried to prove it by touching me.
you only proved that you're gloriously stupid.

she’s camouflaged red and brown
voices appear closer than they are
so if she closes her eyes
she can play tricks on her mind to keep from breathing too loudly.
just keep dividing – she says
just keep dividing.
(whose name is my name?)

she’s alone in the room
where it’s dark and where it’s silent
like the grave you dreamt I was in last night,
now you’re ashamed to admit it
it was going to be a secret
it was going to sound silly once I put it on paper
(it does)

she didn’t have to say the boy’s name (riley)
still, it was out before we knew your ****** orientation
and they told you “the door’s over there” but
you knew you were glued to the spot
because sometimes words feel like concrete.

she should have known it would be a mess,
she should have known that when she cleaned
she would find your ring
somewhere beneath the couch or the rug
and she would wear it quietly until you forgot it was gone
(it is too easy to be silent and too hard to speak)

she found her faith in something different
lying beneath a persimmon tree, begging to be picked up
before it rotted between the orange, cinnamon fruits
(my teeth feel soft)
but now she has to write down her secrets on a peice of paper
slip them into her pocket,
where we can all be blind to what she's done
(just keep dividing keep dividing)

she thought becoming a woman was more than being able to bleed
she thought her voice would be soft
she thought her eyes would be quiet
she thought she would feel something new (some sort of reverence)
but she’s been walking with her eyes closed
and asking for more than she needs
when all she really wants is for people to see the inside of her soul.

On tiptoes,
I am finally feeling
the coldness and tears
falling consequently from your heated choice.
I do not credit you passion
or even courage—
simply the naïve ability
to run away
as if life is a game of tag
where you will never be "it."
But, you must see, what would be the point of playing
if the same person was always chasing?

*** was the beginning
when a baby became a whale,
skin like diamonds and cotton candy.
They left their son early,
drank many colors and tasted the seven wonders,
breathing slowly so as not to wake the gods.

Their potatoes turned to meat and tasted saltier than usual.
Once at the bar, they drank nicotine
with their eyelashes.
God told them, "*******!"
and they touched each other on the knee
because abstinence from *** feels like cotton mouth.

They stole their child's heart
because they needed a second chance,
but they kept the body to feel less like aliens.
They lost reality in words,
unspoken or spoken.
Their son listened through his eyes,
regretful of his age and of the times.

They began to feel their actions more softly,
taking deeper breaths and
moving in slow motion.
The thoughts made their skin heavier,
their chins began to wrinkle,
their touches became cold,
and the only way to feel warm was to

i said i didn’t miss you so i wouldn’t
but you made me
listen
to things you wrote, gave, made
did it say something about love? she wonders these things aloud
it’s hard to keep them in when you’ve been thinking them so long
without even noticing.
sometimes just noise is enough to change a person

I haven’t looked in the mirror, she lied
because she was self-conscious about being more beautiful
and about changing so often.

if there is enough to go around, let’s all cry.
all of us.
if you listen hard enough beneath music, there are words
and they are talking to you.
why is it so hard to do something you don’t want to it says
questions that don’t have answers

why is it so hard to do something you do want to do?

what if I just go back?
what if I never go big – just go home
sleep in a cabin
eat fish
become something greater than myself
before I become less than I was before?

I keep trying to think of new ways to touch you
sometimes you touch me back
but often you don’t seem to notice me here
I just need you to need me back.
but I’m alone in more ways than one.

listening to you again feels good.
why did I never get through to you?
why did I never get to BE with you?
I don’t care who you were, why wouldn’t you let me see? why wouldn’t you let anyone see?

you try to forget the things that plagued you
but they have a way of coming back – me, it’s because I want them to.
I like the despair of old fears, of rekindling something dead,
of sitting by a campfire in the woods alone thinking about what you should have said to your parents before you left
or what you should do when you’re in love with more than one person
because no one plans that stuff
no one plans dying.

where are the metaphors you ask
and I tell you they are in the universe, full of color
full of something that we try to understand but have too many names for

I am going to ask you one question, and you have to promise to answer.
promise.

get lost in something
and you can start to tell the difference between you and someone else
if you feel sad, that’s okay. just stop trying to hide it
just stop trying to hide
just stop hiding

who are you?
you promised.

and imagine God and you’ll see him or it or whatever you imagine
and it comes out as a misspelled word
                                                           and time
and you don’t have to write it down for the world to read.
but at some point it’ll start to feel normal.
but for now I think we’ll just stick to formalities.
but I am only making up for my lonely childhood
but I get jumbled up.
but I wish you were. sometimes I do.sometimes I forgetspace
but I’ve already taught you a couple lessons, so I should keep the ball rolling
but you can’t always count on people,
come back
crazy right?
do what they say
do you ever look for things in the world that just aren’t there?
especially not yourself.
fill in the blank
go eat
I am a character of course,
I can tell you yes or no,
I feel like I should apologize
I guess that means my imagination controls what God is.
I guess that’s nothing new.
I know I’m not the first to say it,
I learned once that if you close your eyes
I like to think I know people on a level that no one else does
I was only trying to touch my toes before I got too old to keep trying.
I’m odd that way
I’m programmable
I’m scared that I’ve lost my touch; it won’t feel good
I’m sorry if it’s news to you,
if you’re so hungry
it feels new,
it has been too long since i’ve written
it’s better if you just read, they told me, it’s better if you don’t say too much out loud.
it’s easier to have no power than to have all the power in the world
it’s easier when someone knows how you feel
IT’S NOT THAT EASY
like not kissing for months
look harder. they’re always there.
meet
nice
no, I know you haven’t been waiting,
some guilty pleasures are more guilty than others.
sometimes people get stuck in between two feelings
stop crying
stop yelling
take up some space
then again, I suppose that’s rather normal.
There has to be some sort of inner monologue
to
too long since I’ve pressed my pen to paper and expected it to move.
use your imagination.
waiting to come out of me.
what an odd fetish you have.
when?
whichever you would like to hear
you,

"As long as there is room for error,"
she said,
"I am content."
her hair was that of a shih tzu,
her eyes were those of a raccoon.
when she felt something deeply, she couldn't eat.

she whispered about the color orange(turned a sickly green)
and enjoyed the repetition of vowel sounds.
one spell away from invisibility—
like shutting your eyes when the world is spinning too quickly—
and three snaps from sanity.
she held my hand before I knew her heart,
her fingers were a birds nest
but mine were chocolate and
melting fast.
"I'm feeling another person,"
she said.
"It is from my soul, and it is giving me cancer."

before dawn she got up and stretched her limbs
until they were elastic,
(longer than sausage links)
and almost reached the moon.
I was never afraid of the marks her teeth left on my furniture;
still,
it was coming out of her pocket.
her eyes were those of my dead husband
(I was almost sure she'd dug them from his very skull),
and she looked from side to side
until they rolled back in their sockets,
demonic
sensual
fiery.

"Dying is something I did in my past life,"
she told me.
"I won't be making the same mistake in this one."

it was only meant to keep me alive.

I see how you did that
I see how you grew your fingernails long enough to wrap them around yourself
tasting cruelty on your unbrushed teeth? is it there yet?
you'll bite your lip to seem kind
: secretly let it bleed out to seem pained

you are so small
your biggest actions fit beneath my tongue better than a honey lemon
cough drop
the words said themselves,
I didn't have to put them in front of you,
you simply held out your plate and asked for more.
what more did you want?

it is too often that you hear yourself through a megaphone
mute it mute it, stop it
everything you want is hiding in your eye sockets
this moment is too microscopic you complain
it's too scary to see what's behind you
so I stand before you
mirror
hit me
look at yourself
hit me

there's nothing in my hands
nothing in my pockets
I'm not tricking you, and I never was.

She held her fists between her lips
and chewed them
as if they were caramels
or beef jerky (she loved meat).
Stopping only to taste her own fear,
she became an enemy of herself
and dreaded the taste of her hands.

She kept her eyes averted
or crossed because she was crazy,
and chuckled silently
behind her eyebrows.
Maybe she was keeping up an image
to show that she was afraid of change,
or maybe she wasn't.

She kept her mind
under her tongue
and pressed down on her thoughts
until they were altered.
She let her ideas mix with her spit
and swallowed them until she was full,
or until her mind was empty.

Once there was a cow. She had a well. "Neat-o," was a word that she liked to use, and she often used it to describe things such as ball gowns and large crowds. She frequented clubs, not the sweaty kinds where European dance music is played, but the sophisticated kinds where people tie sweaters about their shoulders and don't dance unless classical music is playing, and even then the only movement is the bob of a head from side to side as violins trill past notes that human ears should be able to recognize. She didn't mind it when people used the word "****," but that was probably because she didn't understand them, being an animal and all. She helped herself to seconds at every meal and had a goose follow her around to taste her water before she drank it just in case it was poisoned. "Not to be rude," she would say, "but sometimes I wish there were less geese in the world." I don't take offense though, being human and all.

She had a pet that drank liquor heavily, and often slurred his words to the point of….this is difficult to describe. His hair fell into his eyes and he could touch his tongue to his nose in .01 seconds (if he'd been sober for at least 10 hours). He tested the water with his **** cheeks before diving in, belly first, and he never wore swim trunks (ever!), but that was simply something that ran in the family. You could always tell when he was sad because he would try to fit the cow's feet in his mouth. It was a matter of opportunity, but once the moment presented itself, he never let it pass. He liked the color red, but mostly because his blood became that color when he ate gooseberries or mint leaves. He secretly liked lamb, but he didn't want to tell anyone because all the ant-eaters and water spiders would have looked at him differently after that. He was very concerned with his image, you know. He liked to say things like "****-berries" and "I'm not done drinkin' yet," but only when the sun was down (which was not often because he lived in Alaska). He slept with a towel on his head and an egg between his legs to practice balance. He knew that one day, no matter how far away it was, he would be King of the Jungle.

Those moments are the best ones:
the awkward instances where I start to get upset,
but when I think back to them now I smile because, even if I hate it,
these are the reasons I love you.

I used to think that I would tire of your little mistakes
or the jumps in your voice
how you sing slightly out of tune,
but now I only hope to hear you hum again
and wait all day in anticipation
of your voice.

It should have been easier to say it I suppose
but it's hard to speak after such a long silence.
I know your mouth is as dry as mine
(which should make for an interesting kiss)
but I will kiss you nonetheless.
There's nothing I want more.

When I think of how one can seem so much less than the other,
it only becomes more clear how much of a hero you are.
I can't believe I was selfish enough to think I deserved you,
but I'm the lucky one.

One comes to these realizations without prompt,
generally,
and I think that is the best way.
Who needs a reminder when life itself is enough to remind me
of my love for you?

She leaned in close to me
and She whispered, "there is no secret"
but I turned away,
and I held my hands closer than love.

She leaned in so close to me
that our noses pressed against glass,
and She held my cheekbones in the curve of Her thumb
until I was light
and pulsing
"there is no secret." She told me
again
again
still I did not believe Her.

She held me closer
until we were bone against bone, our flesh
unbuttoned and heaped on the floor.
but I turned away, bones clattering
we were just two skeletons in a closet, and I yearned for Her
"but there is no secret" she would tell me,
so I closed my eyes and wept, waiting only
for a simple answer.

“there is no secret”
She hummed to my cold, solid tears
Her thumbs held where my cheekbones had been,
eyes gleaming with my emotion,
“look at yourself.”

in a dark, cluttered room where nothing shone before,
Her fingertips glowed,
and I felt myself
covered in feelings I distantly recognized.
She unbuttoned my shell and laid it
on the floor next to my skin and bones
smiling, She said “there is no secret”
and I held Her, nose pressed against glass
nose pressed against nose
nose
nothing.

(it's impossible to make anything from words
it's impossible to **** without *******
moan without a mouth.
I'm not happy with your body or the way
you treat mine. I've had it I'm not me anymore-
I'm an alien, an name, a slowly disappearing breath in cold winter air

gentle, slow, inconsistent
kneecaps that hold every limb suspended by a tendon
tendon: it hurts, it's new, it's an excuse
excuse the coldness of my mind
minds molded from clay, hardened, and smashed into tiny pieces that look like dead children
children holding hands to face a man with a rake and two hammers
hammers to pound the right answer into our minds and out of our teeth
teeth gripping onto fingernails
fingernails gripping onto teeth
bitten rotten, bitten ******* short, smelling of cheese, and falsities
and
****)

**I put on my shirt and go to school.

tell someone sorry
please let it be me.

when you ask yourself questions
the answers are more apparent than they seem.

my footprints in the snow look like camel hooves
and you always seem to think
I'm something you can capture.
it's awful being edible, but it's something I've come to terms with.

I'm sure you're thinking about what you're eating
but sometimes you need to have something else in mind
and I'm freezing.

because you don't know how
to whisper
everyone knows your cat has no claws.

look,
don't ask me about conquering obstacles
like my sarcasm;
it's not something I understand

but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is
but fear is FEAR.

please, no one talk about how
they frowned, how
they looked processed (like canned meat)
and lowered their voices in pitch
because that's easier than changing yourself.

I'm sure eventually they'll make me
king of something.
until then my nose will keep
growing and I'll have to find a way
to fall into God without a vessel.
spicy food?
actually keeping people's secrets?
just put something in the suggestion box.

it's this feeling -
these uneasy moments when I'm unsure
it's his smile that distracts me from the memory of yours.
why? do I choose?
do I let myself become succeptable?
your love is a wall - or is it hiding?
must I search for it?
I'm done pondering.

I just can't shake this feeling that he has something to teach me about God.

It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”

2morrow, I will go 2 a dance party.
I will drnk chocolate milk.
I will fake an orgzm,
or mbe I won't try that hard.
It's all up in da air at dis point.

I'm sure that 2day my mother died,
I felt it & I knew ILY,
IDK if my mind is R;
each breath I take is JFF
and I can't seem to con't.

The bruise on your left knee is yellowing
and I watch it when you're speaking.
Your breath is straight from the oven,
your teeth clattering like a rattling spoon
as you feed me your words,
hard and fast--my stomach so full I can hardly take more.

You talk at me like I'm a chalkboard
and I should be able to create your words at the same pace that you can;
you stop feeling my gaze on your knee
and you try to tickle me with your eyes,
as if this simple movement will make your words softer.
As if I will stop feeling something if you stop too.

You tuck your eyelashes low, like that counts as an apology,
and you face me like you're strong.
You're always like something.
And you have fingernails like a girl's, and you are one,
and you have fists like an ex-lover
and eyes like the city,
but the city is ugly in the light;
you're only beautiful when the sky dims to night.

There were days when we would grasp our pencils
as if they were the cause of all our troubles,
when really they were the only things that were a constant.
There were moments when we looked too far forward,
and we missed things that were right in front of us,
when we pined for those we had not yet lost—
moments that made us question ourselves, our choices, our futures.

Maybe we do say the wrong things,
and maybe we think we know the answers,
but there is no space between the lines we carve ourselves
unless we fall asleep too early
or we decide to go out for food instead of writing down our futures in pen.

For some of us,
there has been time to learn how to say sorry
or to tell someone that we love them.
Others have watched and waited to hear these very words.
There have been days when we look in the mirror and we don’t see ourselves,
but at least we recognize some variation of who we are.

It is there, in these
moments which feel like they should be more meaningful,
that the secrets we are too fearful
to speak are hiding:
                We’re afraid that we’ll miss each other,
                but we’re terrified of letting go.

when kisses feel like melted butter
stuck to your fingers,
it’s a warning sign.
it’s easier to listen (sometimes)
if you close your eyes and pretend you’re on an airplane.

there are too many people who say “I”
when they should say “we”
and it makes the boat sink faster than it has to.
when we have to abandon ship, we will,
but for now let’s hope the winds die down
and the lighting keeps striking someone else.
now say I’m the captain
SAY IT

I wouldn't have controlled myself
but every now and then the world hands you a child and tells you “love something”
and you can’t help it:
it’s easy to cry when you can empathize.

we’ve been pretending for so long that we fight for different teams
that now it’s hard to look at each other
especially as **** as we are
in this moment
I can barely touch you (it burns)
(but not as hot as my own skin).
if we made love we would hate it.

surprises
are something I will always remember pleasantly
my brain associated them with love
and now when the phone rings
when there’s a knock at the door
when someone taps my shoulder
my heart skips a beat.
thump
could it be?
thump

I’ve died a million times before,
but somehow this time was more difficult.