It’s so miniscule—
this interval, this growing up

You fool yourself
into believing
it won’t ever end,
as if you could turn it back
to the beginning
like a radio dial
and let that hot-pink rapture
pour over you
again and always
but eventually it comes
to a close
and as I look back on my own
I feel like digging it a grave,
giving it a proper ceremony

Here Lies a Brief Forever
the epitaph would say

Here lies unearthly hardship
my hands gripping that first notebook
a screen door thrown open
dresses I wore and grew out of
wildflowers picked too soon
a head scribbled dark with sadness
glitter and one-sided love
bathrooms I wept in
swooping optimism
woods astir with light
heartsick
surreal courage
evolution
expansion
people who didn’t understand and
people who did
moon dancing
the carpet where I spilled English Breakfast
the road where I slashed
my knee open
and blood flew everywhere
breakdowns
the rush of space between
vocals and bass drop
snowflakes blinked away
my father gone
my mother remaining
credit-rolling darkness and a girl
hair I wanted straight until
I didn’t
stars burning and seething
ice rinks
aloneness and unity and
aching forward motion

"Time stampedes with ease
No paradox."--
the wristwatch of hard knocks

Pull me closer
Reach deeper
Don't scream
Just breathe

Touch my soul
Find my bones
Kiss my tears
Hide my fears

Dance with me
Dream with me
Come fly with me
Love me

Never begin a poem with
"I miss (you, her, him) so much."
No matter How bad you hurt

you won't for long enough
to make lasting
poetry
from your pain.

Look around.

The world is more than lost lovers.
Set them free.

Find something
outside yourself
and write.

It will feel good.
I promise.

  ~mce

The professor mounted himself in front of the dim room. His questions shackled the students, and his beady eyes craved for attention. The jail cell fell silent, and eye contact hid behind textbooks.

Panic dripped through the air while he patrolled the spacious, white room. The slightest movement could target the next victim. One of the few in the front line of fire, a woman struggled to listen. Her hands hid her young face from the interrogation. She held her breath, drowning in the silence.        

A tardy innocent fumbled through the silence when entering the room. The student’s footsteps echoed as he crawled to a desk in the back of the classroom. The interruption allowed the tension to lift, causing the professor to execute the lecture.      

The young lady exhaled nervously, and her attention drifted out of her shackles. The clock taunted through her tired mind. She thirsted for an escape, to be a refugee. The few minutes remaining in class stabbed through her.

Her eyes wandered across the students next to her. They focused on the professor, took notes; they were alive. She continued observing: why could she not be like the other students?

Instead, she rotted in her chair and in her body, waiting for the class to finish. She wanted to escape. She wanted to be free. She wanted to live.

the first time I kissed a girl, I tasted her spit for days and my mouth still doesn't feel clean
she asked permission, and I pulled her close to me
and it was very sudden and wet and slimy,
and I was holding her body on top of me in our bathing suits
my heart was beating ten thousand miles per hour
it was so sunny and she was looking at me like she couldn't breathe
but I could. I could breathe. I only started suffocating when I realized that
the first time I kissed a girl, I kissed the wrong girl.

I have this... This problem. It's something that no one can fix, it won't go away on its own, and I simply don't know what to do about it.

You see, I live behind a wall. Occasionally, I'll peek over and see people on the other side, but never could I ever take down that wall. Often people begin to take turns trying to tear down my wall: my protection. Sometimes, it even begins to work. I let them. My boarder, my protection, my guard comes down for them. And I have to admit, it's amazing... For a while that is.

At the beginning, it's scary and new and adventurous. It seems so exciting because the person appears to care so much that they want to see me. Not see me behind the wall, but simply see me. My quirks and faults all in all. It's enticing. It's encouraging. It's exciting. The mixed surge of emotions that is felt as the wall comes down and I make myself comfortable with them is remarkable. It simply makes me feel.. Wanted. They become my protection, my guard, my life.

But as it's happened so many times before: my new found way of protection.. Leaves. People have shown me that they never truly stick around. No one is in it for the long hall. The people who helped tear down that wall in first place are the very same people who leave scars in a matter of seconds. I don't even know if they realize what they do. Simply put, they disappear.

No questions
No comments
No goodbyes

It's not fair. It's never fair. The sole person whom you put your trust in will stab you in the back. They'll leave without a reason. They'll ignore you as is they never knew you. What has always bothered me, is that they never tell you why they have chosen to leave.

Now, I want the real deal. I desire the companionship, the comfort, the fun, joy, laughter, arguments and intimacy. I long for all of it. It's all I want. But that person whom you placed your trust in,  in order to take down the walls, is the same one who keeps you from this.  

The person who helped you bring the walls down the first time, second, third. They all stop you from believing whole heartedly that people stay. They have me believing that no one is permanent. Everything and everyone in my life is temporary.  And it scares the crap out of me because I don't know what I'd do if I had to deal with one more person walking out on me. But I know that it's inevitable. It will happen.

I just wish I could find someone who would stay.

Francie* is
An odd boy's name;
Uncle Francie
Has the same;
Uncle Francie
Is to blame.

Francis
Is a real boy's name;
It's on documents.
Yet Francie
Is the one that stuck.

But when I turned twenty-two,
I introduced myself as
Fran,
Sounding more like a man.
I got tired of repeating,
Francie rhymes with Nancy.
I got tired of hearing,
How do you spell that, Dearie?

When I drove a limosine,
Clients called me Francine.
When I faltered, when I drank,
I told the cops
My name was Frank.

I believe I'm the same
No matter what I'm called by name.
And even though
My ego's fraying,
I'm pleased to turn
To someone shouting,
*Hey, Francie,
You're **** good looking.