here’s
what they don’t tell you in sunday school.
no matter if you make it to heaven or hell,
you could still be sitting next to the elementary school shooter
depending on whether or not he prays
to the right god.

my father always said
that if he meets jesus, he’ll apologize.
“sorry,
man I didn’t know. if it’s any consolation,
I believe in you now.”

two weeks ago
a friend grabbed my steering wheel
and she turned me into the next lane.
she believes in god
more than she believes in saying sorry.

if I ever prove her wrong and
meet god, I’ll ask him
if he watches over malala
and why he had to let
those three children
get hit with a semi truck on the way home from the fair.
giving their parents triplets
of the same gender as before
wasn’t good enough
even if oprah called it a miracle.

we always tell each other
that the murderers are going
to h-e-double hockey sticks.
is this wishful thinking?
are we just incapable
of picturing adolf with a pair of angel wings?

even if I didn’t know it then,
these thoughts
might just be the reason
that I used to get panic attacks
when I thought about heaven.
I’ve always been a restless soul
and being stuck somewhere forever
was never
my style.

I hope that one day, you are fortunate enough
to have people in your life who will
drive you past your ex best friend's house
at midnight in their red pickup truck.
revving their engine loud
even though they know she can't hear it.

whatever you do, please remember
the sound of your little brother’s voice.
it’s not going to stay like that forever,
no matter how much you want it to.
record it. save his voice mails.
do anything you have to do.
because that’s what’s going to
make you feel at home when it’s
three in the morning and you’re alone
in a city that no longer belongs to you.

here’s
what they don’t tell you in sunday school.
no matter if you make it to heaven or hell,
you could still be sitting next to the school shooter
depending on whether or not he prays
to the right god.

my father always said
that if he meets jesus, he’ll apologize.
“sorry
man, I didn’t know. if it’s any consolation,
I believe in you now.”

two weeks ago
a friend grabbed my steering wheel
and she turned me into the next lane.
she believes in god
more than she believes in saying sorry.

we always tell each other
that the murderers are going to hell.
is this wishful thinking?
or are we just incapable of thinking
that we’re going to share our heavenly space
with somebody who stole lives.

even if I didn’t know it then,
these thoughts
might just be the reason
that I used to get panic attacks
when I thought about heaven.
I’ve always been a restless soul
and being stuck somewhere forever
was never
my style.

keep your head up my love, and remember that
if it doesn’t work out, your best friend is still
willing to share custody of a cat with you.
you can still move into that apartment
in New York with the windows that overlook
the pale city lights. it just doesn’t have to be
with him. there are others who will love you
much better than he did, and he will build you
a window seat next to that city view
so that you will be inspired to write poetry.
just live for yourself, sweet girl, and all will be well.

I read once
that the true mark of maturity
is trying to understand
where someone is coming from
when they hurt you,
instead of trying to hurt them back.
I guess I'm not as mature
as I thought I was.

the worst thing about loving
the sound of someone’s voice
is that you end up looking for it
in every room you walk into,
even though you know that voice
will never wake you up in the morning.

you know you're in
a heap of trouble
when he gets a haircut
and a new pair of glasses,
and you still think he's
the cutest creature
to ever walk the earth.

on monday mornings we used to grab each other’s arms
and trace lines from the wrist to the shoulder,
trying to guess when we got touched in the middle.
since our eyes were closed, nobody
had to see my fingers.
pick, rip.
there’s always a name for what plagues you
and mine tasted the same
as charlie brown’s unrequited love.
the only thing that tasted worse
was the word that we couldn’t say out loud.
but on sunday bright and early
they’d grab us by the shoulders
and stare into our eyes until
we repeated those universal truths
what goes up must come down,
don’t swim right after you eat,
even satan knows
that there’s something out there.

two years later, I can finally
listen to our songs without
thinking about us singing them.
that's what they call progress.

I don’t know if I believe
in love at first sight,
but I definitely felt something
when I first saw you.

most of my house is contained on one floor;
my mother can't move like she used to.
she can never keep the moles and gophers
from eating her garden, but she tries anyway.
the look of accomplishment painted on her face
when she picks her own tomatoes is worth the struggle.
it makes my best friend feel at home.

my father buys new kitchen appliances
and turns to home improvement when i'm out of town.
I always joke that these things fill the void.
he has a wine cellar and a bar in our basement
that we use once a month because he likes to show his friends.
it's just another way to prove that he knows everything.

there's nothing worse
than being deemed uninhabitable
by the people with the power
to light fires in your soul.

you told me sophomore year
that you left him
because he was too nice to you.
it was only a matter of time
before you left me too,
so I ran before you did.

my aunt told me that the good thing about pain
is that you can remember it after it's gone,
but you can never recreate the feeling.
I think this is why I kept going back for more.

baseball games and lingerie
will only keep him around for so long.
sooner or later, you're going to have to give him
something that he can hold with both hands.
but for now, you'll bide your time;
coughing up your own ****** lungs
like there is some sort of return policy.

I've been in my own hometown
for a couple of weeks now,
and slowly, you've started to
creep out of my mind.
I had a dream about you last night,
and now I'm right back where I started.
it's a cruel and unusual fate,
not being loved in return.

you know that it’s really over
when you can’t remember
their phone number anymore,
even though you’ve had it
memorized since the third grade.

Some people say that Vincent van Gogh used to eat yellow paint
in order to make himself happy.
Others say that he was shot accidentally
by two teenage boys.
So maybe he didn’t need that yellow paint after all.

The scholars and the experts say that
these things aren’t true.
Maybe it doesn’t matter.

Maybe van Gogh liked the color yellow because he was
on a prescription that made him see the world
through yellow glasses
every time he opened his eyes.
Maybe van Gogh liked yellow because
it was everything he wasn’t.

Maybe van Gogh just liked yellow.

I watched a scary movie
the night silver girl ran away
because I knew nothing could scare me
any more.

you made me feel
extraordinary things;
things I didn't even know
were possible until
you held my hand.
it's a very strange feeling,
not knowing you were
breathing until
you're gasping for air.

my mind keeps going back to the night
that we danced on top of the parking garage,
screaming at the city
because it wouldn't let us see the stars.

if I believed in luck, I would think
that I had the worst of it.
I seem to bring bad weather
wherever I go.

love is carrot launching off the third floor balcony
replacing underwear with oranges
sitting in a circle ten wide playing Mafia
dancing to Steely Dan in the kitchen
pool rafts and cousins and DCOMs
father’s day watching golf on TV with oldies music dance parties
everything but the kitchen sink trail mixes
popsicle parties and two different colors of eye shadow
photoshoots with best friends and “Elephant” on vinyl
secret sharing with sisters on bunk beds
your best friend writing you a poem called “Sail On Silver Girl”
dancing to “Round Here” in the living room when dad came home
matching t shirts and coming home
barefoot drinking black coffee with the windows open
October air and the smell of apples with a hint of cinnamon
singing “rivers and roads” by the fire on the beach with the fireworks
your dad’s friends handing you beers because their own daughters wont drink them
holding hands with somebody you’ve never met before at church
tri-state Netflix movie nights
your grandpa noticing that your eye makeup is different
hearing “poor man’s son” live and acapella
the movie Fired Up and how it never gets old
love is the sound of laughter and never saying uncle .

when I was nine, my brother Tommy and I used to walk by old South Bend Sammy on our way home from Sunday school. I used to give him half of my allowance every other Sunday, because I figured that was what God intended.

Sammy would send me inside of the neighborhood grocery store to buy him some sterno for a buck 50. I always wondered what he could possibly have to cook, with him being homeless and all.
I never asked him, but every other week, as promised, there I was delivering the sterno.

when I asked my daddy, he told me that old South Bend Sammy was cooking his insides. “that stuff’ll **** em one day, so don’t go wastin’ your money on a man like that,” he said, but I did it anyway.

when I was eleven, old South Bend Sammy was found dead on his corner. He died on Christmas day. Bobby Richardson, who was in the eleventh grade, told us that he saw the body before they carted em off. Said his uncle killed em accidentally when he threw his cigarette **** on the ground by Sammy's feet. Poor old Sammy was burned like someone was fixin’ to make a barbeque.

but Lisa Jameson’s daddy was a cop, and he said that old Sammy died from an old fashioned case of a heat poisoning.
“I didn’t know that heat could poison you” I asked my daddy later that night. “darlin’, it can if you drink it.”

I’ll start out by saying that my parents don’t like us to label ourselves.
They don’t like us to share them either.

As a child it used to take me at least two hours to fall asleep.
Thoughts would race through my head like boxcars.
I would repeat what I was excited about the most
until my brain would get tired enough to let me rest.
Some doctors would call that insomnia, but that’s not what I had.

Since the age of six, I haven’t believed in god.
His existence always felt like a fairytale
that adults never grew out of.
Some people would call this atheism, but that’s not what I have.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been worried.
Every event in my day was cause for panic.
I would string them along like paper chains
with no rest in between.
Some doctors call that anxiety, but that’s not what I have.

I can’t remember a time when I didn’t pick at my skin.
I’ll rip off pieces until my skin gets mad
and bleeds red with anger.
Some doctors would call that dermatillomania, but that’s not what I have.

Since middle school, I’ve been afraid of germs.
I won’t touch my face without washing my hands first
which makes it take twice as long to put on makeup.
I can’t eat without sanitizing my hands
which makes people skeptical to get to know you better.
Some doctors would call that germaphobia, but that’s not what I have.

When I was fifteen my throat used to close up
every time I thought about death.
Sometimes you don’t realize you’re breathing until you’re gasping for air.
Some doctors call that a panic attack, but that’s not what I had.

I’ve been on antidepressants for three years
in order to calm down my brain
from running too many marathons.
My heart was never able to catch up.
Some doctors might say that this is because I was depressed.
But that’s not what I have.

My therapist told me…
— ****, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that.

Somebody told me to come here today so that
I could be honest to myself and others
about the problems that don’t have names.
The words that I can’t say out loud.

I’m hoping with this discussion
I will someday be able to say that
I used to not be able to fall asleep for hours.
I used to not believe in god, I used to worry all the time.
That I no longer pick at my skin.
I’m no longer afraid of germs.
My throat used to close up,
and I’m no longer on antidepressants.

Because I have problems that can't be labelled.

the storm in my mind has put out my fire.
I keep trying to light it myself,
but I cannot find the matches.

I could have written
much better poems about you,
but you didn’t give me the chance.

complacency will be the death of me.
run full speed ahead as I catch
the northbound bus to Portland,
whispering "aha, we meet again,"
as a way of keeping me on my toes.
get my adrenaline pumping,
use your british accent
to make me lose control.
I need to inject some excitement
in through my arm, and you'll be
the one to do it.
these things can be done cheaply
and they can be done often.

if you make me feel better
about striking out in whiffle ball
or playfully cutting in front of me
in the cafeteria,
I will not accept responsibility
for falling in love with you.

I could write poems
about your point of view
and songs about your smile,
but you won’t give me your time.

my mother used to say that I
brought bad weather wherever I went.
"now, i'm not saying that it's your fault,
but every time you crave a change of pace,
the weather won't have it.
once you get comfortable somewhere,
the gods want you to stay."
it's funny, because you said the same thing
after I left. I guess my mother was right.

a hot shower might drown out the sound
of her screams, but it won’t drown you.
you tell her that you’d sooner march
straight down to hell than feed the liars in her soul.
through tears, she replies that even though they say
that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice,
you get her every single time.

sometimes,
you don't even know
you're in hell
until you catch a glimpse
of heaven.

in the center of Jersey, I think of his breath.
how his chest expands and contracts
and stops moving all together when he thinks of her bones.

all the girls with the monogrammed backpacks
and their cookie cutter smiles
were plucked from galaxies,
while I was dug up from the ground.

he’s taking her like she’s medicine,
and people aren’t made that way.
there she sits, idle.
coughing up her own ****** lungs
like there’s some sort of return policy,
I can tell. after all, that girl was once me.

things are not at all like they used to be.
I know that I am selfish,
but I never wanted you to go through this
without me.

when we left for the summer,
I suffered the heartbreak that is
associated with a break up and
a type of sadness that is only
associated with death.
I’m not sure how I got here.

so it seems
you have carved your name
into my tree of life again
and I just want to grow out of it.
so high, I can't even see it anymore.
but you are my whole tree,
and i'm not even a branch on yours.

my cousin started hoarding all of my things.
she has my old iphone cases even though she's six.
she almost took a necklace from me, but I stood my ground
for the first time in a long time and I told her that
that stupid piece of jewlery had sentimental value.
she helped me search my dresser drawers for a new chain.
she can't quite see over the kitchen counter, but **** is she smart.
she's the kind of girl who can tell if you're bullshitting her,
but she still believes in fairytales.
she will hug you on the couch when she knows that you need it
and watch your favorite childhood movies with you,
even though she makes you fast forward through the scary parts
and I am so lucky to love her.

when I was five, I met my best friend
in the back of a kindergarten classroom.
we have matching clothes even though
she was morally against that until I came along
and she will cater to your musical needs
even when she's the one who's driving.
we want to **** each other when we go on road trips,
but ****, is she smart.
I don't know if she still believes in fairytales,
but I think that she might be my soulmate.
she will buy you lipstick that she thinks will look good on you
and makes sure that you get home okay,
even though you've only been separated
for ten minutes anyway
and I am so lucky to love her.

It’s the color of her dress the day that you first met her
“I’m not bold enough to wear purple,” she said.

It’s the color of the smoke that comes out of your ears when her touch sets you on fire.

It’s the color of the sweatshirt she stole from you freshman year of college and never gave back.

It’s the faded color of the asphalt beneath your feet on 7th street where you proposed.

It’s the color of the dog that you share. You wanted to name him Ash, but she said that would be taking the easy way out.

It's the color of her matching bra and underwear set. Every woman deserves to have one in her favorite color.

It’s the color of the blanket that you wrapped around her when it was too cold in your bedroom.

It’s the color of her eyes if you look closely enough. Although they got this way because of old age, you still think that they are just rare enough to make her beautiful.

It’s the color of her hair as she is lowered into the ground: breathless and leaving you behind.

It’s the color of the cloud over your head when you wake up to an empty bed every morning and remember that she’s never coming home.

It’s the color of the sky when it spits at you, reminding you that life without her is as pointless as an umbrella when it’s too windy outside.

It’s not the color of your breath when you exhale for the last time. In that moment, you were yellow.

I want you to look at me when I walk in the room.
I want you to forget how beautiful you think I am,
and for me to see you remember over and over again.
I want to talk to you for hours on top
of the parking garage and if it’s too cold,
I want to wear your jacket without even having to ask.
I want to know your favorite song and why you care
about it so much. I’m sorry; it’s just that I’ve never felt this way
about anybody before. I hope that I’m not invisible to you.
Nashville brought us together, but New Jersey might tear us apart.

you always buy a $2 newspaper
from that homeless guy on magnolia,
even though you never read it.
you say, "some people need
a little more. money, hope, love."

listen here, scarecrow. that might be her sign
that she's meant to be here, and who's to say that she's wrong?
she had hell handed to her with her eggs and her bacon,
but she still believes in good karma.
girls like that will leave you praying for a cold spell
in the back seat of their range rover,
even though you're sure as **** not going to
treat her any differently in the morning.
in sunday school, they grabbed us by the shoulders
and stared into our eyes until we
repeated those universal truths:
what goes up must come down,
don't swim right after you eat,
even satan believes that there's something out there.

maybe our paths were
bound to cross eventually.
she calls it fate, but I don’t
believe in that anymore.

I evacuate at the first sign
of the storm and I will leave
you picking up the broken pieces
all alone. my heart is not your home.

I just want to get you alone
because you're the closest
thing to home I've ever known.

I've spent the better part of the last month
trying to reconstruct our last night --
the last time that the five of us were together.
I want to box up the sound of our laughter
so loud that it was probably keeping my parents awake.

I want to tie it up with a bow
and keep it in my nightstand
for when the nights get longer and the songs get slower
and I can't remember how much taller you are than me anymore.

Three years ago, I called my brother while the four of you were together.
The phone was passed from ear to ear until it got to you.
Without missing a beat, you hung up on me...
and didn't answer when I called back.

I remember thinking that
I didn't know it was possible
for somebody to make you mad in a good way.

we are the dreamers. we are the pranksters,
the pillow fort makers, and the lightning rod keepers.
we are the runners, running away from
everything we’ve ever known, but we always come right back.
we don’t know black and white, we never did.
we make each other’s lives a little more colorful.
the rest of my life, I will never have anything quite as beautiful.

I spoke too soon again,
I've changed my mind.
some worlds just aren't meant to collide.
I opened the bottle and you overdrank,
but, then again, your twenty first
birthday was yesterday.

“fear thou not,” he whispered as I put on my makeup so that I would look as pretty as I did the night that he first kissed me.

“fear thou not,” he whispered as I slipped on the red dress, to ensure that no one would be bothered with a costume change.

“fear thou not,” he said as I stumbled through the “I’ll see you later sweethearts” and the “we’re having pasta for dinners.”

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I climbed to the top of our apartment complex. sunsets always were my favorite.

“fear thou not,” he bellowed as I breathed in for the very last time, taking in the smell of the flowers that were surrounding me. Portland was always pretty this time of year.

“fear thou not,” he whispered into the wind as I fell into the infinite nothingness. but I didn’t want his pity. his right hand can’t hold me anymore.