He may be old,
but he is the most
handsomest man
ever.
Mid-sixties maybe.
His eyes are blue.
Pale blue but circled by dark blue.
His hair is gray,
but was once brown.
His skin is wrinkled and worn
but was once smooth.
His face is small
and heart-shaped.
I can't stop staring at him.
I imagine him
as a young boy,
entering the military
in a green suit.
The way he smiled for his picture.
How he hugged his crying mother goodbye.
Smoked a cigarette as he served for his country.
Overcome the nightmares
he's seen and heard
while protecting America.
He was handsome then
and he is handsome now.
He holds the door open with a smile
and I thank him for
the dinner that he
bought for his wife,
my parents,
and me.

You nod towards
the mustang.
A yellow ball in your hands.
I smile and slip a bat from my softball bag.
I climb into the drivers seat,
sticking my tongue out at you.
You laugh and climb in.
I drive to the track and field combination
with the seatbelt alarm chiming the whole way.
I shift into park and climb out.
I swirl the bat around
waiting for you to set up your pitching stance.
You throw the ball and I line drive it by your face.
You dive left and up.
The ball smacks into your glove.
I round second and you start running after me.
I step off third and your arms trap me
as you spin around
bringing me down
on top of you.
We burst with laughter.
I miss these days.

I feel
mesmerized
by those
blonde whiskers on your chin.
They make you look older,
sexier.
I wonder if
you're just too lazy to shave
or haven't gotten chance to get around to it.

I want to be
that wild seventeen year old.
Doing things that Daddy would let me spend
the night in jail for.
Take me out past that ranch
where no one should be.
Ignore the sign on the fence as we jump it and
run like hell
having the time of our lives.
Let's go down by the river and spin
those ATV and Jeep tires in that brown mud.
Go sit out behind that ole barn,
peeling with paint,
and down a bottle of whiskey.
Let's be innocent and free.
But I can't be that person-
I will maintain a clean record
and live my life safely.
No matter how much the edge temps me.
I just wanna be that wild
seventeen year old
before it's too late.

I watch as his pen flicks up and out
many times.
He's sketching.
He never sketches.
He doesn't draw.
Something's up.
The scene comes to be
a landscape.
Tall grass,
thick trunks
from green trees,
a blue pond
with ripples
that spread
and dissipate.
A worn down
building
is hidden
in the background.
I imagine it to be red
with peeling paint.
This is the second day in a row.
Have you picked up a  new hobby?
Or are you bothered by something more
than you can express?
The paper comes to life before my eyes
as the drawing is so realistic
so detailed
so well drawn.

Did you decide to go?
Maybe go out with some friends afterwards and
toast to being a year closer to graduating?
Did you decide to ask the freshman who is only popular because of the clothes she wears and things she does?
Or are you staying home?
Are you all dressed up in a tux?
Possibly wondering what I'm doing and
what would it be like if you
had asked me?
Or maybe you're just getting off work and had decided to skip on Prom this year?
Are you walking onto the dance floor at this moment with a date or your friends and wondering if you should have asked
me instead-
while I sit here reading my book
and wondering if you're thinking of me?

I am selfish.
                   You are nothing of the sort.
I am cliche.
                   Of which you are not.
i dream of boys like every girl does
i dream of love under the timeline of forever
i believe passion drives us to insanity
i believe that we're born to waste away this planet, only to die
i dream of freedom
i dream of kindness and fantasies
                     This sounds of similarity and unlikeness.
we are all selfish. whether we are kind or arrogant. we are all selfish and are too blind to see. but one thing is true: ignorance is bliss.

because being non-knowing cannot hurt you.
                     We don't hurt ourselves.
oh, this is very untrue. we do, indeed, hurt ourselves.
                      How is that so?
we create so much passion for something that does not return it in any form. therefore, we set ourselves up for failure.
                       But when the passion is ubiquitously returned....?
we still set ourselves up for failure. even when we are being adored, we dream of better, wishfully hoping, therefore, setting us for failure.

*in this way, we are selfish.

I'm told you've been in a crash and now in the hospital.
I fish for facts, to know what's going on.
I hear you were stuck head-on on your side, that you have broken bones and a brain injury, that you're in a medically induced coma.
My heart pauses.
I can't think.
I don't believe it.
Then the news story pops up on our local paper's website.
Your friend turned in front of another car which struck you, and your sister in the backseat. The two of you have serious injuries, you're critical. But the two drivers have walked away uninjured.
I just want you to wake up.
Could it have been avoided?
I can't let you leave, I need you here with me.
I need you to push through.
I need God to prevail.
I want to sit by your bedside and demand you wake up but I know that won't help.
I've slipped into a mind coma. I can't smile. I feel numb.
I just want you to wake up.
I just want you to wake up so we can both leave this coma.

You walk through the door
blonde hair
blue eyes
126 lbs-from being tall-
thin as a stick
long, skinny face.
I look down to see what shoes you're wearing today.
Converse, as always.
Yesterday, they were white.
I've seen you wear
teal
red
yellow
gray.
All hightops.
I am curious to how many pairs you
actually own.
What color will you wear today?
and tomorrow?
Maybe Thursday of next week?

We left these everything unanswered
and never had any form of closure.
You left me with these memories,
the good ones great,
the bad ones not so great.
I'm sorry for everything I've done,
but maybe if you show me what your dreams are made of,
we can make sense of this ordeal.
Because I know you still have something, buried deep within.
Did you want to tell me about selling your car?
Did you want to text me about the scar that now wraps around your ankle?
If you're done with us,
and trying to get over our conversations and memories,
than I'd appreciate it if you'd leave me out of it.
Close the door on the way out instead of trying to waste my time.
But if I'm the one wasting your time,
it's your call.
You left me,
so maybe I'll go show someone else what my dreams are made of.

I down the shot of whiskey. It burns its way down my throat. I shut my eyes and take a deep breath of fresh air as it sails in from outside. I open my eyes and flick my lighter. Watch as it sparks alive and latches itself onto the end of my clove cigarette, melting it.
I inhale and my lungs fill. I release, contracting my lungs. Smoke floats out and diffuses into the atmosphere. I breathe in the smell of the sweet addiction.

Once I'm finished, I lay back down beside her. She has the face of an angel. So sweet, so innocent. I stare at the peacefulness on her face and try to figure out why she chose me. Why she loves me. There's nothing special about me. I reach over and run my fingers through her soft, straight, blonde hair that's sprawled out on the pillow behind her. Her hands are tucked beneath her cheek.

I remember back to when I asked her to come with me. I didn't really want to go, but I know she did and I would do anything for her. We danced around the living room of our tiny house to the static of the AM radio. She refused to dance to some hip-pop song that they repeated on the radio. Her face brightened as she laughed. I kissed her cheeks then random places on her face. She laughed and squirmed but never stopped swaying with me.
"Let's do it. Let's travel. Europe, Mexico, Asia, Canada. Wherever you want to go." Her smiles softened as she looked into my eyes. She searched to see a bluff. Yet, there wasn't one. She wanted to get away. I would give her a getaway. I would give her anything.

We ended up in Rome first. We wrapped the moon around us as we slept under the stars.
London was next. We rode the London Eye many times around. She laughed the whole way.
Mexico was third. Just hours ago, we walked into a dated diner. She chose the corner booth in the back. Secluded and comfy. Even with all the space the booth provided, we sat hip to hip. Talking and giggling. We spent the evening in that booth, talking about anything and everything, meaningful or not. It felt not long after we arrived, a Hispanic woman walked over to us, letting us it was time to close. We said our apologies and left. Deciding to rent a hotel room, we chose a ancient one. One with columns and historical means-in her eyes.

The French doors let air blow in, the curtains connected to the doors ruffled. I slid my fingers from her hair and ran my callused thumb down the side of her face. I was so lucky to have her. I hadn't a clue to what I'd do without her.
"I love you," I whispered. The air ****** my words into infinity and beyond. I pressed my lips to her forehead, careful not to wake her.

Just like whiskey and clove cigarettes, she was my sweet addiction.

As I see you two laughing across the way,
I feel as if I've been placed in a modern Disney movie.
One where two best friends finally exclude their third best friend.
They leave her out and are no longer friends.
They laugh together about the stupidest things,
they go get frozen yogurt,
they enjoy Starbucks in their free time together.
They do everything the three of them used to do, but without that one girl.
I'm her.
You've excluded me and continued your friendship. A fight with one wasn't supposed to tear our whole friendship apart. You weren't supposed to stop being my friend because she was mad at me.
But you did. This isn't middle school, why have you frozen me out?
The plot twist though, is that we don't make up like they do in modern Disney movies.
We won't make up.
And that honestly scares the crap out of me
because you two were the ones I could always count on.

There are many things
that you could teach me.
      to snowboard
      to be good at Mario Kart
      to laugh and have fun on my own
      to kiss with passion
      to let my walls down
There are some things
that I could teach you.
      to drive a stick-shift
      to do Pre-Calc
      to speak French
      to love other sports
There are things
we could help each other on.
      to get better at soccer
      to fix cars
Mario Kart is your SPECIALTY-as you say.
I've been driving a manual for three years.
I know about classic cars.
You know about new ones under the classic name.
I'd like to say that maybe we could have deeper conversations,
but we already do that now.
What could beat the PG-13 discussions we have?
If anyone took them out of context,
they'd be rated X.
By our word choice.
But within context,
they're perfectly harmless.
We make plans
but if we're gonna do anything
you might as well fill those shoes and take care of me.
Because I'd do the same for you.
*Parce, bébé, je pense que je suis tomber pour vous.

I stand under the
shower head
letting water scald my skin.
Water burns my face as I hold it under.
What did I do that's so bad
that you leave me hanging?
You've shut down and don't wanna talk.
Maybe you think this saves us both the hurt.
Yet, your hesitating caused my heart to break a little more each day.
Forgive me babe.
Did I do something wrong?

I think I drank
a tube of
Amortentia.
The most powerful love potion in the world.
Rumored to smell different to each person
by what they're attracted to.
Scents fill my nose.
Sunshine absorbed in your skin;
the smell of outdoors-
air, leaves, trees, grass;
soap used to wash away dirt and secrets;
laundry detergent to remove stains from your clothes;
minty toothpaste to whiten pearls;
and shampoo to remove oils from your wavy strands.
Sometimes a hint of chlorine from your shower's water tank.
The smells overpowers me and I float on scents
that seem to
get me high.
I think I drank
a tube of
Amortentia.

High school isn't what everyone said it would be.
It's not the time of your life.
It's not necessarily the worst either.
Teachers hold you accountable for every little detail.
You won't finish every assignment.
You won't be in love
when you believe you are.
You won't care if you get detention.
But there's always that one class that is the best out of your high school
experience.
It happens to be French.
There's a group of us
and we all sit in the two middle rows.
Two girls
three boys.
We're all fairly smart.
Four nerds,
one who is able to get by.
We laugh
and annoy each other.
Sarcastic arguments,
fake fights,
and loud voices.
We question the stupid things
we do.
Flinging pencils,
taking phones,
stealing papers
to help each other out.
We escalate to
tripping,
kicking,
flicking.
But as we tell others
who are
not in the
class,
they look at us like we're crazy.
Which we probably are.
They think we're abusive,
and that the teacher isn't in control,
and that we hate each other.
They're wrong, though.
I guess
it's probably
one of those
"You gotta be there"
things.
Because it really is.
While we do annoy and anger each other-
we have an odd friendship
that we don't even consider
a friendship.
We're classmates
who have fun
by being
stupid and obnoxious.
That is why French has topped every other class that was apart of my high school experience.

My reflection shows in the mirror and
my rib cage protrudes from my skin
my hip bones jut out.
My hands run over my skin before I pull
a shirt over my head and pants up my legs.
You used to purposely freak me out.
You would **** in and skin would almost dissolve under your bottom rib.
You wanted me to stick my hand under your ribs, pressing into the dissolved skin.
That's the only part that freaked me out, pressing under your rib cage.
I didn't care that you could **** in and have your ribs show one by one.
I didn't care that you had me feel the dip in your sternum.
You used to pull your sweatpants down your thighs when you sat down.
There would be a skinny slot that the shorts you wore underneath and your boxers would leave because they hung onto your bulging hipbones.
I was to get over you.
I didn't fall for you until you showed your interest in me.
Finally, I began to like you in a way I never planned.
I was to get over you
that was the plan.
But you still have my head spinning
thinking I was stupid enough to fall again
and
here I am,
writing you a poem,
because hard work to keep myself in shape
even reminds me of you.
I guess I'm able to say life was about living for the night when I was with you
because talking to you alone got my mind off things and allowed me to have fun.

I swallowed the lump
in my throat
as I climbed into the passenger seat.
Are you sure this is what you want? There's no going back.
I nodded, ready to burst into tears.
She sighed.
I knew if I didn't do this,
I'd be more hurt
than I am now,
than I ever have been.
She turned the key to start the truck.
I watched as the building disappeared in the side mirror.
Why did she let me do this?
I wiped tears off my cheeks,
trails being stained.
Why am I doing this?
Why is she letting it happen?
She let me walk away from something I love.

The tip of my nose burns
from the repeated contact of the Kleenex.
I stand to blow my horn
and everyone turns to look at me once more.
Well, I'm sorry,
I think.
Minutes later,
I am turned around in my seat
talking to old friend
about him having allergies
and me having sinuses.
The professor has a look of fake fury
on her face.
Would you two shut up?!
she raises her voice.
We're having a nasal conversation!
he fires back.
I crack up,
unable to control my laughter
about our conversation of blowing our noses
and the watering of our eyes.
We're having a nasal conversation.
One of the funniest-most meaningful
and stupid
lines I've ever heard.
One I'll never forget.
Because we were
having a nasal conversation.

I remember the days when
jeans would come up past
your belly-button.
Now they stop before they reach
your stomach.
I remember when
skirts and dress
were long enough to cover the sacred places.
Now they're barely long enough to leave
the slightest bit to
imagination.
I remember when
tank tops
showed just enough cleavage to drive a guy wild.
Now they hang low,
showing everything.
I remember when everything was
modest.
Now everything is revealing.
I remember when being modest
was ****.
Now being modest
is to be a *****
and hideous.

I'll be the first to admit that I love
that adrenaline rush.
I loved having the chance to be the wild child I wanted to be.
It was all great.
Speed Racer.
I've seen you almost smash into a guardrail on a bridge,
have two head-on-collisions.
One with a car, the other with a bus.
You've hit 95 in 35 mph zone. I couldn't wrap my head around how you did that.
It's scared me from day 1 that one of us could get hurt.
That adrenaline rush kept me going though.
Racing you, Speed Racer, was my guilty pleasure.
However, I don't know what I would do
if I could stand seeing you
crash into a guardrail
or have a head-on collision.
I can't be responsible.
And when that chick told me that she hoped I crashed because it would be funny...
That's why I told you I couldn't participate anymore.
It kills me, Speed Racer.
My resistance can only be so strong.
It kills me that I can't take part in my guilty pleasure.
It kills me that I can no longer race you, Speed Racer.