I still have your flannel

and you

you still have my heart.

Nothing compares
To shaking on top of an old
Broken down windmill
With you.

Nothing compares
To silent summers
Sweating in the sweltering heat
Of love.

Nothing compares
To bright blue brick walls
Bringing about a brightening of bleary bland feelings.

Nothing compares
To dark auburn dreams
Drifting down my darling's cheek.

Nothing compares
To radical rants
On ruined romances
raining rivulets of righteousness
Upon those rotten adolescents.

Nothing compares
To myriads of murals
Of most moved men
Materializing
Meandering
In the fields below.

Nothing compares
To falling flat to fear
Fretting and fanning
To finish off
This fantasy.

I live in a small town with nice people.

Nice community theater people.

Nice non-swearing churchgoing people.

Nice people who keep their mouths shut and their eyes closed.

Nice people who live in ticky tacky houses and sweep their front porches.

Nice people with children who send text messages and drive to nowhere in the middle of the night.

Nice high school teaching, comfortably living people.

Nice mothers-and-fathers people with bright voices and dark eyes.

Nice bored people.

I live in a small town with nice people.

But occasionally they all go momentarily mad.

The girl with the brown hair
And brown eyes cries
Three people stand in a kitchen.

Two steady, with eyes that pierce holes in her head,
The third pacing restlessly, eyes undead.

A dog skitters by
And jumps on one of them,
They pet her, as she is oblivious to what is happening and therefore innocent to the quiet screams and hopeless mutters of the brown eyed girl and her worries.

One of them taller, hands in his pockets and eyes just a bit red
But not quite red enough to be marred by tears.

The other small and leaning on the counter,
There is blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes
Even though this isn't her tragedy.

The brown eyed girl,
So beautiful, so smart,
Silently torn apart by an emotionless kiss and absolutely meaningless talks about absolutely nothing,
Slowly tries to die in front of them.

Sways on her feet as she leans on the couch-
They've moved now to the living room and though the house is empty it has been filled by feelings of melancholy and mutual worry for one another -
Though nobody will let her fall,

For the eyes in her head
And the heart in her chest
Are worth a swim though broken glass.

("No, because glass gets in your fingers and it's really hard to get out.")

You aren't strong

not like you want the world to see you

you go beyond

the stereotypical break through / pass through / world view  

and you come to rest somewhere different entirely.

You aren't strong

not like you want the world to see you

you go beyond

the usual cut through / push through / subdue

and you come to rest near my heart.

You aren't strong

not like you want the world to see you

you go beyond the typical attend to / be kind to / follow through

and you come to rest too close.

I'm not strong

not like I try to convince the world

I go beyond the happy pearled / swirled / twirled

and come to rest too far from your heart.

We're not strong

not like we want the world to see

we go beyond the beautiful foresee / palm tree / agree

and come to rest near each other.

Never quite touching,

never quite close,

just enough to see you

and inspire some prose.

If I focus

really hard

if I tilt my head just right

and narrow my eyes just so

I can almost make the world disappear.

If I don't blink for a very long time

I can only see rough outlines-

no noise

-and I like that.

If I focus

really hard

if I close myself off

And turn my pride down just so

I can almost make the world disappear.

If I don't breathe for a very long time

I can only see white darkness-

no pressure from others

-and I like that.

If I focus

really hard

I can almost make myself die.

Someone wrote a poem about me

Once

Wrote me in as a hand holding the chain of a swing

One of two hands,

keeping them safe,

With my other hand I feel like I carry the knife

but that hand is for our

collective protective

our blockade of secrets

We Must Keep Hidden

from the world.

I had a dream

you gave me a car

something had happened to you,

you couldn't go far.

In my dream

I didn't know how to drive

and I crashed your car

the two of us trapped inside.

I had to repaint your car

to get rid of the red

and fix the dents

you left behind.

We're a sad starving bunch

of stupid teenagers

sipping from the sky

an occasional rain drop.

We're a sad starving bunch

of secret-keeping teenagers

shrieking to the sky

the phantom growing pains and all too real slowness of our sappy lives.

We're a sad starving bunch

of sanguinary teenagers

shooting our brains toward the sky

attempting to sacrifice ourselves for something more serene.

You don't cry anymore.

So used to you is the sickness that is sadness

that tears don't fall anymore;

Eyes only cloud

and fingers only pick at each other

and as the monotonous drive drags on and on

you see the tough concrete wall and think,

"It wouldn't be the worst way to go.

Would be quick."

But you never quite do it

because you have parents you need to impress

and mothers to buy houses for

and most of all

you don't cry anymore

so it can't be that bad.

Tell the people that I love

that I'm sorry.

Sorry that the wounds on my skin will not be healing

sorry that my eyes will never be opening

sorry that the mess I leave behind requires a cleanup you can't solicit from me

sorry that I won't apologize anymore.

It feels like every time I pick up a pen to write

All that comes out in the light of day is sorries.

Maybe I should write poems in the dark

I wish I preferred the dark

but in reality all the dark means is another missed opportunity

at telling someone I love them.

I don't even know who I'd say it to

but maybe myself

if I ever got over the fear of rejection I will imminently face

staring at the mirror

whispering the words until love turns to hate

and I **** in my stomach and wipe off my tears

and I give into the headache that has never left my mind.

Tell the people I love that I was sick,

and I was angry,

but I'm done with all that because the minute my boxcutter met flesh the anger and the sick gave way to scars

- I am a master at making scars -

and ebbed at the shore of my life,

my life is the sea

AND I AM DROWNING.

Eons ago when I would spend time with friends I felt empowered and happy

but now when I do I realize that I am no longer new or shiny or even worthwhile

and my friend's crossover into being just an acquaintance kills me every time

even though I am waiting in line

to end the tortuous tiptoeing myself.

Tell the people I love

that I am not sorry,

just at rest,

sitting beneath the dark shade that death provides

steadily freezing to death in a bath tub full of ice because

ANYTHING is better than you making me feel like garbage again.

Tell the people I love

that screaming at my grave

would be better than bringing flowers

because at least I could have something real from you.

Tell the people I love

that love is not a race;

you don't need to be first to be winning.

Tell the people I love

that I know they love each other

too much to spare any love for me

and that's okay.

Tell the people I love I won't get in their way.

Tell the people I love I won't apologize

for this.

You are gone

and I can finally allow

the tears to fall.

I don't want to be
A lovesick puppy
Anymore.

But I'm a shaking chihuahua
Terrified of losing all of
These things we've accumulated together.

Once he promised me his love

once he promised me his heart

He didn't see what I saw, though,

saw he was a work of art.

Once he promised me his last name

once he promised me a ring

he didn't know what I knew, though

happiness it would not bring.

Once he promised me his affection,

once he promised me his smile

I didn't know what he knew, though,

he didn't intend to stay a while.

Once he promised me his love

but his car's smashed to the wall,

I didn't hear what he must have heard

the way death must have called.

My love

is as beautiful as I knew she would be

silver, rough, sharp in only some places,

and she takes a bite from me every time I cry.

She understands my woes,

my fears,

and wants me always to stay.

She bites a little deeper, sometimes,

after I've been away.

He walks with knowledge and runs nowhere.

He makes plans and he keeps them.

He smiles when he sees her and only then.

He reluctantly allowed her to take his hand and lead him to places of wonder.

He takes vacations to exotic places but always returns.

He holds her hand like he holds a gun.

He has work-worn fingers.

He is tired of pulling a trigger, but it's all he knows.

He sees ghosts in the corners of his eyes, but never quite catches them.

He recalls the blood and sea salt on his hands.

He remembers hundreds of last words and will hear hundreds more.

He sees countless horrors but has learned to sleep without dreams.

He drinks because it's easy.

He has a past that you will never know.

He is more than tired bones and trigger fingers.

He walks with knowledge and runs nowhere.

He steps past death on a daily basis, but it doesn't touch him.

It must know the one thing he doesn't.

I know that you love me. That you tried so hard to make me not know, but I do. I thought this place would help you understand that I loved you, too. I was so wrong. I'm so sorry.

You could have had anybody else, but you hadn't wanted anybody else, and I should have helped you more. I didn't.

Once, you told HER and I that you loved us. Said it all the time, though you started sounding less and less sure after a while.

I guess I wanted you to have something that wouldn't have to remind you of me. Something that could belong only to you and the people you chose to invite into it. I wonder if you intended for this attacker to be let in.

Maybe when I saw the letter of my name scribbled along every rock and welded into every building, every shine, you thought you could never live with the knowledge not that we would never be together, but HER and I would be together without you. Maybe you thought that.

No, here, you let me whisper your fears at you in the dark without saying anything. You allowed me to feel at home in this place with you by my side not as a lover but as a good friend who had a deep understanding of all of this. But how could you continue to love me like this? When I am so utterly lost among my thoughts and my long drives and my harsh words?

A glimpse into your eyes, an echo of what you used to be before you met me. Simple, elegant, happy. Now, knowing me and HER and wanting us to be happy even if it means without you has caused you to wither into the walls alone.

There were remnants of us, old photographs and carvings made by my own car keys, but you disappeared the moment I whispered into the dark that I kind of liked HER. It hadn't even been real at that moment, just a small inclination given to HER because of how much we both cared about HER without the messy premise of love. Promise of love. Whatever you want to call it. But I grew to love HER, not you, and though I'm not sorry for that I am sorry that you felt the need to distance yourself the moment we confessed to one another.

Through it all, I had hoped you would stay. Really.

The vastness of this world, that was supposed to be yours but turned into mine. I feel like this is less of a planet now and more of a burial site.

Nothing will ever be the same without you. The cold of this winter was unbearable, but the cold without you to shine sun on the world is vast and unthinkable, undreamable. HER and I lay in bed often, awake, and quietly acquiesce to missing you. It is almost pathetic. We almost need you to keep ourself happy. Perhaps we are simply ticking time bombs without you to defuse us.

I tried to make it clear to you, that even with HER and I together you were still YOU; instead, YOU became you, small and distant and dejected, and while part of me was disgusted by your lack of persistence another part of me was mournful to the fiery nature that I fear I killed.

I thought that YOU and HER and I would all live happily ever after somewhere, away from the hustle and bustle of our normal lives where we could swing on children's swings forever and discuss everything and nothing. But you are no longer YOU. For that, I am sorry.

The ending to our night
Was as beautiful as the beginning
Bright eyes were still there, three warm hearts.

Shivering as he stared up at the stars,
Speeding soundlessly down silver roads in the headlights
On which the speed limit is
30.

Listening to dogs bark,
Laughing wildly,
Bright,
Pointing out stars
("That one's a UFO.")

Accidentally brushing hands
And pulling away to avoid a mistake
That would have to be made
On both parts
(I'm better.)

Shaking and sobbing and slurring your words
I almost wish we were drunk
But we aren't
("I don't know what I did wrong.")

Trying to force you to believe what you won't
That you're beautiful, amazing, and more
("I wasn't built to make people happy.")

("But you make me happy every day.")

You live your life

by highway lights

Never knew anything different.

You live your life

by highway lights

Hands on the steering wheel,

eyes forward, safe,

seat belt unwillingly buckled by responsibility and pressure.

You live your life

By highway lights

Staring at walls

and aching to pull the wheel that way.

You live your life

By highway lights

Shooting stars in your eyes

and loneliness in your heart.

Once upon a time

you shared your fears with me

Once upon a time

you thought I wouldn't be able to agree

and I wasn't.

Once upon a time

you told me you knew we all would leave you

Once upon a time

I tried to tell you not to be so blue.

Once upon a time

I promised I wouldn't let this go

Once upon a time

you didn't, couldn't, ever know.

Why are you lost, so far in the fields,

populated by sadness, going without meals?

Why do you refuse the outstretched hands with thin fingers,

but take the hands in which blades are clutched?

You could likely get better, if you tried,

but you don't.

Why do you want to see yourself bleed

onto the porcelain ground,

turning the white to red?

Why do you let your hands shake

and whither with weakness,

when you can attain a cure?

All of your supplies are in your quivering hands,

why won't you stop dropping them?

"What are you afraid of?"

"Ghosts, killers, guns?"

I'm afraid

of you.

You who hold the power in your hands

to break me open

and leave.

You who hold the ability

to tell me I don't matter

and the authority

for me to believe you.

I'm afraid of betrayal,

of not being right for you.

I'm afraid you will hate me

afraid of losing my friends, so few.

It's okay

it really is

hadn't cried in a while

anyways.

I promise I'll be fine

that it's fine

I promise I'll be just as divine

as before

if not more

to ensure things haven't changed.

I'm not good

at anything, really,

can't be a leader,

don't know how to scream.

I don't know how to be quite or small

I'm never the prettiest, but that's not all,

I'm not good at being a person.

Sometimes my hands shake

'cause I forget to eat

sometimes I get bad headaches

and getting out of bed's a feat

but I'll tell you one thing I'm good at.

I'm good at digging a little blade into my skin

and pretending that I'm just fine.

I'm good at digging it in 'til I see red,

going out and being sublime.

I'm good at casual excuses,

but I wish SOMEBODY knew,

but I can't tell

because they have fragile hearts

and healthy things in their lives, so few.

(If they find out they will leave).

When I think of the word, poets,

I see a small group of people huddled around a tiny tinny coffee table

heads close together as they produce what is ultimately their life and death.

When I think of the word, poets,

I see a single bearded man standing

at a small stage in front of two person tables

with a crumbled piece of paper clutched in his ever aging world changing hands.

When I think of the word, poets,

I do not see a group of teenagers circled around one another in a clear classroom

with a box of cheep cookies

trading words and telling jokes.

When I think of the word, poets,

I don't see the boy with lingering loneliness, or

the girls with brightly dimmed eyes.

I see the Greats,

The Bukowskis, the Beats,

without realizing that one day

we may join them.

You say that you're fine

that you don't love anybody

but we can all see

your true thoughts.

The truth is that you love everything too much

long to hold the hands of every girl and carry the secrets of every boy.

The truth is that you want to run

but your near-arthritic muscles force you to walk

that you look at HER with loving eyes only when she closes hers.

That you are drowning in love and suffocating in loneliness,

next time she opens her eyes,

SHOW HER.

You made me a mixtape

didn't write down the names

Track 1,

Track 2,

that's all that you gave.

I'll never know the names of those songs

but it will not have mattered

for the lyrics all say the same thing,

that you love me,

and that is what this mixtape thinks.

Yes, I am expressive.

When I am angry or sad or happy or bad you will know and hear about it.

But you don't know the half of my feelings.

My expressivity extends beyond what you see as a person and turns into something toxic coursing through my veins,

hidden and yet expressive in its own twisted way.

It longs to **** me,

to wrap its black hands around my throat and squeeze

but I grab it with both bloodied hands and hold it away

for another day or so.

Yes, I am expressive.

I vocalize lots and secretize little

But more is secretized than you think.

My fury rushes through me in hot waves of cut hands and bruised legs

my sadness shifts restless through tears shed by myself as well as with you

my happiness shines fleetingly though my eyes and my fingers that hold the pen

but most important:

my contention with the world comes in brief flickers of silver and pink,

as small as single pieces of confetti

scattered on the forest floor

of my head

what a beautiful life.

I delight

in dimming your light

I delight

when you put up a fight

I delight

when you use all your might

I delight

when you say

"this isn't right."

He loves you

in a way so strange

he loves you

with knifes, firsts, and change.

he loves you

when he cracks your head against wall

he loves you

when he makes you fall

he loves you

every time you cry.

he loves you

and that's why you must die.

He is a sculpture

made of a blend

metal on the outside,

porcelain on the in.

He speaks in soft bursts of thunder,

in love,

outside he is wonder

but will collapse with a shove.

Heart pounding

hands shaking

at that terrible

two worded

phrase:

"leave me."

A silent plea

made in the middle of the night

out of nowhere:

"please, let me go."

It makes you want to hold tighter

to swallow them up in your chest where you can keep them

and nurture them

and ensure their safety:

"we're hurting each other. It'll be for the best."

Maybe you are hurting each other,

but the flame burns too beautifully to put out

and though your mind numbs with it so do the bad feelings:

"you're consuming me. I can't be like you."

No, but they can be something better.

Though they're laying still, you can feel their aching struggle:

"you scare me. Your eyes are dark. Your mind is dark. I think I may hate you."

Oh, how you want to crack their skull against the granite and watch their blood spread across it.

Even still, you only wind your arms more tightly around them:

"I may love you, too, but I can't be sure like this."

How? How can they be unsure when you look at them like they hold the keys, and they look at you like the Frankenstein monster turned beautiful?

They shift, just a little.

Your fingers curl in their shirt:

"leave me."

You want to cradle them in your arms and you want to scratch marks into their cheek and you want

their eyes to bleed and you want their eyes to see and you

want them to feel the pain they've caused you and you want to keep them from the wrong air and

you

want to protect them and expose them and yo

u want to be responsible for both their life and death and you d

on't

want them

to go.

You would rather hold them hostage than let them unlock their cage.

You can't let them win.

The pillow stifles their breathing.

She is art personified

she speaks in soft bursts

of golden sunlight.

She is thin

and shivering

she is sad;

she is withering.

**** **** ****

i care about you so much

and you can't see it

and i want you to

but i don't know how

to open your eyes.

"You know, I worry about you."

"Oh, you shouldn't. I'll be fine."

This lie slips from my mouth

Like clocks tell time.

Thunder roils

In my bones

Lightning flashes

In his eyes.

We are a match made
In heaven/hell

And I can't wait to love you

In both.

You gasp and fight against the hold

your blood-

on the ground-

is running cold

the shirt he wears

yet your heart drops;

you wished he cared.

I could run right now.

Through the shivers and the smoke smells I realize with supreme clarity:

I could run away and not come back.

I could leave everything

my friends who don't need me

my family who loves me but can never understand,

I could take my solid seeing eyes out of my head

and wander blind

Alone

On my own

with nothing but a new journal without lines and

a couple of used postcards tucked in my pocket.

I could run through wheat fields and get strange tan lines

or I could shiver through the snow and sniff at the sinus problems that are sure to ensue.

I could scream till the birds scram

or I could listen to the silent sounds of the silver forests that are dripping with something serene.

I could lean against stone walls and watch waitresses and grocery boys shuffle past,

living the fast life

while I live the past life.

I could live with two dogs or one dog

or one person for a while but not

Forever.

I could feel the swell of loneliness in a city in something soft

and maybe feel my back press against the line of a stranger's chest.

I could run right now.

Sitting here
Letting the rain touch my back and shoulders

From between the gentle enclosure of my window screen

I feel at home

Shivering and partially soaked I lean my head back

Against the fragile safety net and I wonder what you're doing while it rains like this

If you're inside enjoying the coolness from beneath a comforter or

gritting your teeth and bearing the cold because

You think you don't deserve comfort.

I am in between,

Stuck between comfort and cowardice, wondering

How far I could go before I caved into my little house again.

I could probably last a few minutes in this rain, pouring and unwelcome as it is. I could probably

Walk around my backyard and stare at the tree that fell down in last night's winds and maybe

Consider ducking under it for protection however

I probably wouldn't, would probably duck back inside when I could no longer handle the cold and

Curl up beneath a towel and maybe a pillow

And try to sleep

Without you. I wonder now if you

Think the same things I think, if you looked up at that rainbow not five minutes ago and maybe thought

"Hey, this could be okay,"

Until the rain started up again and everything went cold and maybe it won't be so okay but it will get worse

I wonder if you

Think that. Or maybe

You choose oblivion and you lean back against mattresses and something warm and think of you

Schoolwork, of something that matters in the real world, and maybe you

Ignore the way the world is turning.

Maybe our worlds are turning different ways.

Maybe our worlds are more aligned than we think.

You're afraid of loss

I understand

but if it's loss you're trying to find from me

I'm sorry to say

your fears I must disband.

You won't be lost

and I won't lose you

I promise,

not now,

not ever,

you could never see

what you mean to me

but this is enough

this is alright.

I am running

running out of time.

running out of time,

living on a dime.

running out of time,

living on a dime,

pretending to be fine.

running out of time,

living on a dime,

pretending to be fine,

trying to remember how to rhyme.

I was made

from stolen things

old Polaroids

used postcards

they collect dust

in the lightless attic

about all but still

below.