I’m going through a phase where I put glitter on everything
I went to a craft store and I bought like five different colors
And some brushes and glues so I could just paint ******* everything with glitter.
I don’t want to just paint some pencils and notebooks or some shoes and headbands,
I want to paint my **** walls with glitter
I want to paint YOUR **** walls with glitter
I want to sew glitter into your clothes
I want to sew glitter into your skin
Get a bunch of sewing needles dripping with shiny blood
Get red and sunshine under my fingernails
I want to have *** with a boy
(in his car or wherever, I don’t care)
and when we’re done, I’ll throw the ****** away and then toss some glitter in the air and cover his torso with sparkles
Because then no matter how fast he moves on
He’ll have to deal with me for just a little bit longer
And he’ll have to give me just one more thought,
at least when he’s washing the glitter down the drain of his shower.

When i picture us together
    I imagine a tug-of-war and loud ripping noises
    constant ripping noises
    nauseating ripping noises
    tendons and bones and muscle pried apart
    It’s a sick self-reliance that flows through my veins
    not blood
    and it keeps me glued together
    NO
    NOT GLUED
    it’s cement and I’m stuck stuck stuck and I am so sorry
    if I let you pry me apart
    apart from I Don’t Know What
    then I’ll crack into a million gray pieces of stone
    You’re the tendons ripping
    the bones tearing
    the nausea and the pouring ripping disgusting noises
    And when I tear you apart
    you won’t be in pieces of red muscle and fragments of bones
    I’ll tear you in two and thousands upon thousands of glass beads will crash to the floor and scatter into the grass and you will never ever get them back
    and that is why it will never work.

It’s funny how when I see these guys I know who are really tall and skinny, their bodies are such that whenever they move,
    I expect to hear some sort of clack-clack noise of their joints and arms and legs
    as if they were marionette puppets being dangled by some unseen force and they go clack-clack in and out of rooms and doorways
    But they don’t go clack-clack
    Now that I’ve figured out what noise they should be making,
    I have to spend my **** time trying to figure out what noise they ARE making.
    But I’m not really close enough to hear.

I’m sure my parents must notice the wall

I’ve built between us, brick by brick.

Is it any wonder they wonder

Why I clock in hours that turn into days

At the theatre, the school,

A plaza over I-95.

It’s true, I have work.

I know it, they know it.

We also both know (or hope)

It’s only for now.

One day I’ll come back

This summer, or post-college

Or at the time of a tragedy

And we’ll reunite

No matter what age

We’ll go back, step back to previous days

Walk on Atlantic Avenue again

Go out to dinner at the same restaurant

Watch Judd Apatow movies and laugh,

Together, not online.