Did you like me? I thought
you did but there's no

response and life's taught me
I'm wrong so often, I soften

my brow in realization that
you won't message back,

I lack something, of course,
you found wounds that run

too deep, that seep too much
into the cloth of my words

and personality, finality is
heard by what goes unsaid,

inside your head is the
goodbye unspoken and my

trust in myself broken yet again
by thinking that you
could have liked me.

may I scratch my way under your skin

I want to be so close I'm in your blood,
flood me in your veins

vain attempts to reach beneath you,
feel the space between your breath
from inside your chest

death come quickly to me if I can't
be where I can see your mind from
behind your eyes, spying mine

despise my morbidity if you will
but I still at the thought of

scratching my way under your skin.

I want to crawl up
onto the stage
and become invisible,
only my voice heard
and my shape seen,
anonymously,
appreciated for
what it is and how
it sounds and what
worth I've found in words,
my girth neither
here nor there, square
me in in your mind's
eye, cry at my tears
that fall to the floor
from nothingness
like rain, because like pain,
I'm am not really here, hear
my roar across the floor
and wonder from which
cat it erupted, you'd never
guess me, less is more and
I'm so lessened I'm
transparent, listen
to my wind and observe
the outline at the altar,
the nerve of this ghost
won't falter so long
as she stays invisible,
united in fear indivisible.

he played for me,
"I don't do this".

he did.

I hear, not see,
the fingers dance
a familiar tune
so competent but
not quite confident.

there is a story here.

it's one I know only
in my own twisted
version, aspersions
received over again.

how dare they.

I want to slap away
every hand that
criticized yours. I want
to kiss each fingertip
and whisper
"you've done so well"

play me another.

I can always spare her a smile
through my tears and
contorted face of anguish,
a light can shine through
my eyes to hers and I will
tell her without words
you are safe and I love you--
she smiles back, and so
I may look away and
again return to sobbing.

they'll miss you, but
how much, really,
and for how long? she
says this to me
almost daily, the part
that yearns so much
for rest she considers
death a vacation.

it's for them, always
for them, that my
hand stays shaking but
away from that bottle
of little white saviors,
and I sacrifice myself
every time I think
of those who might
miss me but not
very much, kiss me now
but kiss someone else
later, they'll benefit
in the long run.

when can I be done?

I'm barbed, my spines
poke unsuspecting victims
intertwined among softness
are poison spears that
***** with doubt
and about what? well
anything, sling and slug
punches, cut a rug with
this manipulation tango
I dance starting first glance
and ending inevitably
pending your 'goodbye, crazy',
my sigh at myself seals
this missed opportunity
in a wet exhale, the
envelope is shut, but
the letter contains the unsaid,
a love poem unread.