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.

We speed down the winding
highway.
You pass me.
I pass you.
We repeat this until
the straight strip lies ahead of our
headlights.
You go to pass me
but stay by my side.
I can't wipe the smile from my face
as I look to my left and see you grinning at me
not paying attention to the left side of the road ahead of you.
I kiss my fingertips
and flip you the bird.
You wink and finally pass me up,
revving the engine
of your American classic.

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.

I wonder what went through your head
when I replied with Kay
I didn't use a period at the end
like I normally would.
You said you always thought I was
mad at you
when I used a period at the end of a sentence.
Maybe I should have used a period.
But I wasn't mad.
I wasn't necessarily sad.
I knew it was going to happen.
But when you told me that you couldn't go
after you wanting to go all day
you didn't use a period-
so you weren't mad.
Was it an excuse?
or did something really happen
and you couldn't go?
You almost begged me to go,
to take you,
to drive you around.
I finally said yes.
Suffered the wrath of my parents-
of who you are,
who your parents are,
where you work,
what your grades are like,
THE talk (multiple times, I might add)
but I saw it as a harmless hang out.
Maybe not though.

Hot tears stream down his face as the
realization hits him that this is the last game
he will play on his home turf.
He hands his proud mother a single rose
and wraps his arms around her.
His face presses into her shoulder as
tears soak his away jersey that his mother wears on her back.
She's there to comfort him.
Only he doesn't feel that way.
He's scared.
Where will he be a year from now?
He remains scared the whole game.
He then feels ice cold fingers grip the neck of his shoulder and chest pads.
He turns to meet the face of the person who make his skin cool.
Her smile warms.
He tries to stay positive and polite while she talks to him,
as he tries to multitask and focus on the game.
But internally, he wants to cry again.
Therefore, he ends up snapping at her,
feeling guilty about it.
Wanting her to walk away and forget everything that just came
out of his mouth.

When I'm bothered,
I've learned to
not look anyone in the eyes
and to
keep my mouth shut.
Because if I don't follow those lessons,
I break.
I crack.
Tears will spill from my eyes.
My throat will tighten
and constrict.
I can't have anyone see me break.
I do not break down these walls for people to see my weak side.
I am strong.
I am unbreakable.
So I tell myself.

I walk into the building and am greeted with
a stairwell in front of me,
bathrooms and the office to the right,
classes to the left.
I start down the stairwell.
My hand reaches out to the wall,
running over the nature paintings
of raccoons, trees, leaves, and deer.
I look over my shoulder and see that it continues
to curl around the corner and the wall across from
each room.
I continue down the stairs,
left into the gymnasium.
Behind me is the lunch window,
in front of me is the counselor's office
(only open on Wednesdays)
and a steep, skinny stairway up to the hallway of classes.
How I miss this old building
that some jack had to go and burn down.

we can pretend it's meant to be.

You feel your heart begin to crack and crumble
as it begins to shatter.
You finally realize that the two people that you always thought would be there want nothing to do with you.
You want to exclaim your pain, but you hold back
afraid that one will notice.
You're afraid because you almost want her to notice.
In all reality, you know she won't.
You want them both to notice but you've realized they don't want a thing to do with you.
There was a time when you meant something, everything, to them.
You still feel that they mean something, everything, to you.
They helped you through so much.
You did everything you could to help them and to keep their wonderful smiles afloat from all the troubles they had too.
You feel your heart begin to crack and crumble
as it begins to shatter,
as you begin to cry,
as it becomes harder to breathe,
as you realize they're done with you.
Your heart begins to crack and crumble
as it begins to shatter.
*Things change and people change.

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?

Dear Louise,
     I am writing this letter to you, my love, fifty years after the one summer day that everyone remembers. June 6th, 1944. The day I first landed in Normandy, France. I was fresh out of high school, only just eighteen. I was scared out of my mind. I remember the day I spent in the hospital, as the nurse looked at me and started a conversation. "You're all kids, sweetheart. You're so young. Eighteen, drafted to ****. Killing people at eighteen years of age. You're all kids, fighting for the same purpose. But it's not fair, I tell ya." I didn't know what to tell her. I couldn't think of anything besides the fact that I was defending my country, not only for myself, but for you, my love. I wanted you, us, to have that wonderful life everyone once dreamed of. Today, as you lay in heaven, I hope I was able to give you that life. The one you and I dreamed of. I hope the house, the marriage, the children were everything you wished for. I miss you dearly.
                                                                 Much Love,
                                                                     -Walt

Demons.
They are not what our eyes view them as.
I am an angel.
with sweet selfish dreams.
Sweet sinful dreams.
This is what
makes me in smile.
I smile at my sins.
Because sins make a demon.


Once upon a time,
a demon was an angel.

Because an angel with sweet selfless dreams
will fall for a demon with sweet sinful ones.

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?

Did I disappoint you?
Did I let you down?
Did I see the ending before it had even began?
Did I know you'd win?
You disappointed me.
You let me down.
You say you saw the end before we had begun.
You knew you won
for me being blinded.
You took my heart
what once was mine.
You've kissed these lips
and held my hand.
We've shared dreams,
slept side by side.
We know each other well.
Memorized every detail,
even smell.
You've seen me cry,
saw my smile,
even watched me sleep.
And while it may be over,
I'll always care
and be here for you.
I'm a dreamer
and it's my dreams you'll take
when I wake.
And when you move on,
remember me.
Remember us
and everything we used to be.

We all want something beautiful.*
I wish I was beautiful

He says we all want something beautiful.
She says she wants to be beautiful.
She's telling him that she wants to be wanted.
She grew up being told fairytales.
She just wants to be apart of one.
She wants her own personal fairytale.

Father,
forgive me,
for I have sinned.*
My skirt slides across the wood seat
of the confession booth.
I don't want him to ask where I've been
as I've been away.
I am back because these are worse.
I've laid my former confessions
to rest.
Father,
did you miss me?
He stays silent.
My throat clears.
I've been away, for awhile
He doesn't ask where I've been.
But I want him to know-
know that I've been gambling with
the devil.
Do you hear
those wedding bells,
Father?
I've been getting heavy with the devil.
Did you miss me Father?
Visuals of him biting his tongue
circle my head.
Father, don't
bless me
because I have sinned.
I'm a walking sin,
and Father knows this.

I want to tell you what I want.
I want to be brave.
I wonder how I've had the guts to do what I have
but not be brave enough to tell you what I want.
I want to tell you what I want.
I just don't know how to put everything I feel into words.
I feel you in my head,
in my heart.
I feel you causing
butterflies in my stomach,
heat rushing to my cheeks,
and a smile to be plastered to my face.
I want to tell you what I want,
so you can do the same.
But I know you won't.
You're the most unbelievably stubborn person I've ever met.
I have so many feelings,
that I want to say,
to let you know.
There's too many to put into words.
There's too many to make sense.
I want you to use your words.
I want you to tell me what you want.
I want you to tell me how you feel.

I want too many things.
But the only thing that matters to people are feelings and emotional crap.

I want you to know
I'd never judge you.
That I'll listen to you
and your problems.
That I will help
put you back together.
That I can help you build that wall
just right.
Where you can trust
the right people
and block out
the wrong.
I want you to know I'm in the same boat.
But I care too much.
You have trouble seeing
that I will always be here
and there
anywhere you ask.

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.

Friends.
That's what we are.
We explore
unusual topics between
opposite ***
friends.
But that's just us,
that's how we are.
But it feels weird the day
that you ask me-
Are you going to the bathroom with me?
I tell you no,
thinking you mean this as joke
while we're walking in the same direction
with different destinations.
Then you look at me with a smile.
Help me go to the bathroom?
Wait, what?
Excuse me?
Do you mean this as a joke?
Or is this one of your flirting techniques?
Maybe I'm over thinking and this is a joke?
Another friend told me he'd never ask me that.
So why did you ask me that?
Why?

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.

I hear rumors that you're sleeping with her.
I hear you say how you miss your ex and you need to feel something.
Maybe there were feelings there.
But doing something of your choice then complaining about it...
I can't even go there.
Get over yourself.
You're not the person you believe you are.