when i feel the dull burn of a car window rolled down in 50 degree weather, when i am showing someone else my favorite books and films, when a boy is holding one hand and a cigarette is holding my other, i will think of someone who tried to better themselves and that it's okay if it isn't because of me.

when i approach my first day of college and there is a hand held out to me in an attempt to meet my acquaintance or a nerve-calming crack at the teacher by an upper classman, i will take that as an invitation to get right what i didn't in high school.

when i find a friend that will take me to the hottest parties a suburban chemical factory can hold, but who won't sit outside and wait the 40 seconds i have left of my cigarette to keep me company, i will gently decline and decide that i deserve better.

when i hear a sound as demanding as a freight train cutting slowly through the calm small-town winter night, i will think of the conversations between me and an old dear friend, on a front porch lit by a giant christmas star. i will smile fondly and choke back the nostalgia.

when i think of my adventures through the year 2014, although achingly transient, i owe it to myself not to pull my hair over what could have been, but instead pull my arms around the people who deserve it, and hug a little tighter, love a little harder, and demand a lot better.

in 10 years
your body will be
covered in ink
and i will look back
on the days i used to
make the most intimate
c o n t a c t
with the flawless
ivory silk you called
skin, a version of you
that was young and
pure

they say the cigarettes you smoke
remind you of other people.
i think they could have a point.
the way they burn me up and fade away
reminds me a whole lot of you.

i open the front door & a small
man with his shirt buttoned all
the way up asks me if i'd like to
buy a pocket bible, so i can
worship wherever i go. i ask if i
can fit it in a flask & if it's okay
to take with whiskey. his eyelids
shut like a casket as he touches
his forehead, chest, right shoulder
then left shoulder. tells me i'm
going to hell. i crawl back
onto my bar stool and drink from
the ceramic mug you glued back
together the night you saw my face
and pictured a room full of soft
things shattering. i can hear the
sound of a train & it's such a shame
that the nearest railroad is under
construction. it's such a shame that
the floor of my mind is set up like
a child's playroom with plastic
train tracks set in the center & a
younger version of myself is sitting
in front of them playing with a
replica of the train my whole body
was begging to be kissed by.
ugh, kissing. my god. i'm so high.
kiss me in my death spot, the
spot that'll be where my life ends.
replace my train tracks with
a dollhouse. tell the soft things
that i love them. open my front door,
tell the small man to unbutton his
shirt, that not everyone buys
pants with pockets in them.
wake me up when i'm sober &
tell me to write an ending to this.
i cannot think of an ending. please
don't let me become it

this is a poem about how you sleep,
how your body grew cold like a corpse in a mortuary.
how it felt wrong to reach out and touch you.
did you know that you turned away from me
every time i tried to face you?
did you do it on purpose?
maybe you were afraid i would be able to see
you were dreaming of her,
that i would read it on your face.
lines by your mouth like obituary,
like roadmap, her bedroom,
the destination, mine, a pitstop.
loving you was like attending a funeral service for myself
and sitting in the front row. no.
loving you was like watching you pick out a casket
and call it practice. ****.
i know how sensitive you are about death.
i know it still hurts.
i know how everything hurts.
i am sorry for just being another thing that hurts.
i think i'm afraid to let you forget that you used to want me.
like if i can somehow dig deep enough,
wound you into remembering me.
i keep weapons-grade nostalgia in my back pocket
for the days i can feel myself slipping from your consciousness.  
i was born with scar tissue where skin should've been.
but this isn't about me.
this is about the way you sleep
like you're waiting for someone to close the lid,
cover you in dirt, and read a psalm.
this is about the way i tried to sing your pieces back together,
and the way my voice gives out
when i read the things you write for anyone other than me.
lover, friend, stranger,
i just wanted to show you how to love your darker parts.
i never meant to become one.
i am so ******* selfish.
but i swear i am trying to unlearn the steps.
and you used to think my two left feet were charming.
i am out of time in more ways than one.
i keep stepping on your toes.
i can't seem to stop tripping you up,
hoping that you'll fall back into whatever this was.

- m.f.

I am the nicest mean person you will ever know
I can **** around without being a *****.
I am shy at first, but once they get to know me I am the loudest.
I am that kid in the class who doesn't get attention
I am the one who hates or loves their reflection.
I am the deep thinker or carefree.
In my world,  there is no stability.
I am fault finding or appreciative.
I feel denigrated.
I am the pessimist who is an optimist.
I make mistakes, enemies and friends.
When I write poetry,
I don't expect it to trend.
Named after the Indian goddess of victory
I am not always sweet.
I am perfect yet imperfect
as we all can be.