Twenty percent who die in cold water do so within the first two minutes -
it's called cold shock response,
which is a really boring name
and kind of how i feel because
when your body hits the water
     it panics
and can't stop trying to breathe
and the water cools your blood
and hits your heart
so if you happen not to hyperventilate,
cardiac arrest is always an option.

I talked to a girl who claimed that earl grey is better than any other tea -
i wonder if she's had anything else
because if she did she'd know
that sharp cinnamon apple spice
warms best on a cool fall day
and hibiscus and rose hips
make you feel like a little kid again
and throat coat is something to be worshiped
or so i've heard, anyway
it's something i need now, anyway
because like this so called fact
this sore throat has been passed on
from one room to another
has sneaked down stairwells
and curled under blankets
and that's kind of how i feel
like autumn and rose hips and sore throats
and i'm not really sure what that means
but like obscenity when it is here
it's impossible not to know so.

i have killed my flower three times since i've been here, and i think i'm giving up -
i knocked it off the window ledge
and then watered it too much
and then watered it too little
not really learning from my mistakes
as much as letting them evolve
each stage a new form of destruction
and i kind of feel that way because
each time i pick up a book
or open a new tab
my fingers linger on my phone
and i'm replying to a friend
checking my email
playing spades
and when i play i bet too high
though i've been low for weeks
i've been as dry as my flower's soil
and it hasn't bummed me out
as much as other things have
and that's feeling less and less incongruous.

the boy sitting in front of me has a really high voice and a really small body -
his beard is well groomed
and it fascinates me
and while i'm trying not to make
any assumptions about him or anyone
which is turning out to be
a lot harder than i thought
he gives me hope because
he represents something i want
something i'll get one day
because nobody looks at him weird
when he speaks so soft and high
and nobody laughs at how short and small he is
and nobody asks any questions
because there aren't any to ask
that's just what he is, how he looks
and even if it wasn't always
how are we supposed to know
and why should we even care
but even so i find these people and
i want to be close to them, to speak to them
because they look like how i think i'll look
even if they didn't get there the same way i will,
but we spoke in an elevator once
and i thanked him for his help.

sometimes you sit next to me,
and golly, gee, good gosh - i get all old fashioned,
and squirmy and quiet and corny,
you'll have to forgive me, it's just that oh man,
your big book on computers and your orchestra t-shirt
and how your hair's all ruffled and curly - these things thrill me
and how you're always so **** collected and relaxed and not drowsy
not even at nine in the morning when i forgot coffee and look like tim burton designed me

you make me want to look good - i've taken to staring at my wardrobe
waiting for nice summer clothes to appear out of nowhere,
waiting for a genie to make me a prince, to throw a parade where i'm the
star, all eyes on me, because maybe aladdin was a fake
but it's better than what i've got.

You've even got cute teeth, how are teeth cute, that's too much, stop it -
no don't, please, ever, geez - my brain forgets to talk to my limbs and my lungs and
so i just get kind of quiet and silly, and
excuse me teacher but are you expecting me to learn like this?
but i do learn and you learn and we learn, we're so cool we say,
we know this language, we can just move to this country right now,
let's go, you and me, let's pack our bags and say who we are loud and proud,
because that's really all we know, but it's awesome, and this is awesome
and so different from that awful plan with buses and begging and stupid. *******. decisions.
this is joking at its purest, and you understand that - you're so
rational, wow, and that is something i think i've been craving for a
long
****
time.
so hey,
your seat's open -

oh.

except
except, wait -
it's not.
sometimes it's not.
sometimes some big, brutish boy who doesn't give two *****
flops into your seat, hunched over to laugh with his stupid friend in front,
and you come it, a little later than usual, and pause when you see that *******
- and that pause, oh that pause -
maybe i'm reading too much into it, like a **** up in a literature class,
but i hope not, because gosh, it'd be great if we could get coffee,
or see the new documentary at that independent place tucked away just for us,
or even go to a game and sweat away in the seats for five hours,
and maybe that pause is telling me that could happen, maybe?
I hope so.

A truck pulls into the driveway I'd just walked by, and
Three men, bulky, hat brims casting shadows over their watching eyes,
Three men clamber out, boots heavy, lips twisted into snarls -
Three men with meaty fingers, built with rusted screws and gnarled wood,
Warped as their rotted minds, full of parasites feasting on whatever knowledge once was consumed.

Dry wheezing breaths push out beside me from a bench I pass by, and
Two men, fingers cracking, gripping their canes with too much strength,
Two men, wrinkles twisting, grin with rows of yellow-brown teeth and black gaps -
Two men, hunched over, cloudy eyes pinned to my back, and
Wheezing grows faster, uneven, a croaking whisper of a snicker, a laugh, trailing after me.

Footsteps thunder behind me through the bathroom door, and
One man, teapot stout but not so dainty, instead gut bulging, too close,
One man, beady black eyes digging, gorging, his swinging belly gurgles -
One man with a squirming pink worm of a tongue, tracing engorged sausage-fat lips,
Fat as his constant hunger for flesh, full of grumbling cravings as he lumbers through the room, stalking.

I run, I duck, I hide -
Only my asthma chases me.

i don't know how to write poetry without
using cliches because
i don't know how to write poetry.
i know how to write poetry about as well as my mother knows how not to drink
so it should be rather obvious that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i form sentences that wouldn't sound any worse being pushed through slurred maternal lips.
i paint images that wouldn't look any better being viewed through hooded, blurry eyes.
these jumbled sentences and images are proof enough that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i write like she speaks - in muddled messy bursts of nonsense, sometimes stopping right
in the middle of a thought before picking back up, or maybe quieting into nothing and switching
topics completely lost is my sense of direction when it comes to mapping my thoughts,
as lost as the key she's had stuffed in the pocket she's checked a dozen times already.
i'm sure this mess makes it clear, clear as her tequila, as its empty bottle, that
i don't know how to write poetry.
i may never know how to write poetry.
i may never, ever learn.
but god i hope i try.

you smiled at me
and i was glad.

what a thing to imagine!
how rare an event in the history of my life,
of the world, of the universe, of everything,
that in receiving the joy of another human being
i too felt joy - how silly a notion, that such could occur,
and to me, no less! of all the things so imagine!

except, and i'm sure you'll find this surprising,
it was not actually a thing of my imagination
and no matter how trivial you may think it,
i was glad, because such a smile was true
and directed at me, and in existence at all, actually really there,
and honestly i was worried it wouldn't have been, but no -

you smiled at me
and i was glad.

There are those who dive into bed eagerly,
Clamber over the sheets with bright enthusiasm,
Pupils wide and cheeks flushed red
They stretch out with their lovers - and enjoy.

There are those who ease into bed hesitantly,
Wriggle under the sheets with shy anticipation,
Breathing loud and lips licked moist,
They too stretch out with their lovers - and relax.

But there are also those who only slip into bed drowsily,
Fall below the sheets only with fierce exhaustion,
Eyelids heavy and dreams so close,
They stretch out only with their blankets - and sleep.

And maybe that's the way they like,
Indulging in pleasure from dreams not lovers,
The soothing touches from silk not skin,
Or if they do take company to bed, it is but to sleep -

For there are those who climb into bed quietly,
Curl under the sheets with careful tenderness,
Smiles soft and arms open wide,
They tangle around their lovers - and rest.

Teach me how to speak with strangers,
How to hold a conversation and woo them with my wit,
How to make their lips turn up and eyes grow wide,
How to fully engage them in all I have to say.

Teach me how to respond to strangers,
How to take in everything they're telling me,
How to laugh at their stories and provide sympathies when needed,
How to listen and understand and bounce right back with something of my own.

Teach me how to interact at all with a stranger,
How to make myself appear far less boring than I feel,
How to stop my wringing hands and raise my downcast eyes,
How to stand neutrally and confidently and say without a word 'I am interested-
in you.'

Because that's the thing.
Teach me how to speak to strangers
Since I still behave like he's a stranger to me.
Stupid school(girl) crush.