I don't have a lot of optimism left,
Had that trampled out a while ago.
With good for nothing people and crushed dreams.
Again and again stomped upon.
I don't have memories left,
Of good times i once had.
Write it off to disappointment and heartbreak.
I don't have much left,
Having had everything wrung out.
Look at me as a shell.
Holding a vacuum within.

One.

When I first saw you I forgot you the next second. The next time I saw you I forgot you after a minute. Then after that when I saw you, I never forgot you.

Two.

When I first talked to you I didn't give a **** who you were. The next time I talked to you I thought your eyes were beautiful. Then after that, I was never able to gather enough courage to tell you.

Three.

You remind me of someone whom I loved in my past life, when I was young and stupid and had no idea what love was. You remind me of heartbreak. Of my pathetic attempts to stitch myself back together after being broken in half, of the stars I always wished I was part of. You remind me of cold nights and cold days, when no amount of heat could penetrate the chilling draft enclosing this empty shell. You remind me of waking up in the middle of the night and feeling incomprehensibly lonely and miserable, seeing how big the bed suddenly was.

Four.

I want to be away from you. I want to be somewhere, everywhere, anywhere, as long as I can't see you, as long as I can't feel my skin prickling with awareness telling me, "He's right here." I want to abandon everything I've built here because I don't want to see you anymore, I don't want to hear your voice, I don't want to feel its rich depth resonating in my chest, I'm sorry, I just don't want to be near you.

Five.

I write about you. I write poems, songs, stories about you, and when silence is screaming in my ears each one of those words sing a melody to me, carving my flesh out, gorging empty spaces inside me. When the rest of the world is talking so loudly all I can hear is my mind yelling, my heart squeaking, each one of the letters I wrote weave in and out of my mind's eye, and each wasted ink, each drained pen, taunts me. Why am I writing about you?

Six.

I am not the kind of girl who normally says things like this. I don't want to say this. What I want is to burn these papers and all the dancing strokes of all these wasted ink, to watch this inanimate funeral pyre send its smoke spiraling towards heaven, to scatter the ashes into the vast ocean so I can never see this again, so I will never remember you, so I will forget I wrote anything for you. And maybe if I tried hard enough I can pretend I never met you. Maybe I can pretend you never meant anything to me.

Seven.

I hate you.

Eight.

I hope you burn in hell.

Nine.

I hope I'm not in love with you.

Ten.

She's a lot better than I am. Eleven. I will never be as beautiful as she is. Twelve. Don't worry you won't have to make a choice, because I will never be able to say this to your face. Thirteen. If you ever realize I'm talking about you, don't speak to me again, because I'd rather disappear, I'd rather run away than face you. Fourteen. I'm sorry I'm an idiot because--

Fifteen.

I'm in love with you.

While having a heart to heart one night,
My friend informs me that as a straight person, I will never understand what it's like to be closeted.

That there is a reason people understand the term "gay suicide" without context,
That love looked like moth wings that would flutter away or wither at touch,
That the secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.

That same friend once asked me if I've ever thought about joining a nudist colony.
She said that the comfort I find in my own skin and my ability to separate naked bodies from beds was admirable.
I told her, there was a reason I never read her my poetry.
I told her, I don't wear make up at Wal-Mart.
That I turn off the lights but still let him love me.
I read to estranged ears.
That bareness was something I would never grow into.

"Darling!" I told her, "there are some things you just aren't meant to see."
I have been truth-or-dared to strip naked, and its not as easy as you might believe.
There is a little something that sits at the back of my mind I like to call "modesty."

Modesty can be defined as the quality or state of being unassuming or limited in the estimation of one's abilities.
"Darling," I wanted to tell her, "You have no idea what these hands are capable of."

There was a time I was proud of that.
They were small and feeble, but holding a blade firm they became strong.
They became what I needed.
My skin became less of a barrier and more of a costume. When I slipped it on, I became original.
I became identified, if only to myself.
The scabs were a serial number the First World girl who was a little too white,
a little too straight,
and a little too doubtful could call her own.

But I was a little too weak,
and a little too lonely
and had a little too much time on my hands to wrap around the knife.

They became my drug. I became a liar.

My skin became an apology for everything I thought you should blame me for.

There was a time I would have done anything to show you, but I have always been a performer.
No one ever asked to see the curtains close.  

My friend told me that I would never understand what it's like to be closeted.
That secrets and shame are like locks on the door from the outside and you realize that there is no one out there with a key.
The tally of every moment I'm locked in is a timeline of my mistakes, visible on my own skin.
There are some things you just aren't meant to see.

It's a "thing" Not a relationship.
   That'd be too easy, right?

Too easy to just let me know how you feel.
To just double down, grab my hand and say "I like you."
That'd be way too easy.
So it's just a "thing"

A "thing" where we hang out every day.
And you grab lunch with me.
And we text when we're bored.
And you tell me I'm pretty.

A "thing" where I listen to your problems.
And you listen to mine.
And sometimes we kiss when we're drunk.
It's a "thing"

A "thing" you won't put a label on. Despite the fact that this "thing" suddenly has BOTH our friends asking what we're doing. Are we dating? Just friends? Why don't you take this one lover?

What is this "thing" we've got going on?

Do I tell them how my heart swells when you call me babe?
Do I tell them how you love the way I tease you?
Do I tell them how I wish you were mine?
Or do I tell them it's just a "thing?"

She Looks Like a Tiger
See how she places her paws so lightly, so as not to be heard.
Silently, she moves through the crowd, head held high, today she doesn't want to hide.
Depicted in peach coloured stripes. No red, no brown, no blue, no black.
Today, is the first day she felt it was safe to show them.
Asking for the first time in her life, for the world to continue doing what it's always done
Lean on her, sing her our our sorrows so she could sing them back and pretend, that we could not see her scars.
She has always been the brick wall.
The concert hall
The shoulder to cry on.
The logic you would chase after with your pedestrian problems and she was the designated driver.
But when it looks like you're a casual on bridges over troubled waters, there 's no one talking you down from the ledge.

She would never have asked you to.

Hannah, your name sounds like a semi-permanent tattoo.
I hope that's what this poem feels like to everyone who hears it
So that every time they think they know broken,
they feel cold lines crisscrossing their body and can honestly wonder,
was this feeling your blueprint.

But I think you look like tiger.  
And I know, I shouldn't give time to some little boys who refuse to use her real name because it fits her to well.
Callin' her some emo, weak hippie freak.
she's just looking for attention.
Because when you're the first person to make it through Hell and back alive, you're a liar.
A hitch hiker piggy backing on someone else's problems.
But her arms served as straightaways for razorblades for nine solid years,
and its no thanks to people like you she's still here.

You think, she should be ashamed of herself. As if scars are a ***** in the armour.
Like she was peer pressured into self-destruction and couldn't resist.
No one asks you:
"Hey there, wanna cut? Wanna, self-mutilate?"

Just like I won't ask you not to hate the idea of someone being that low
That every beat of the heart feels a little like ****** assault, and cutting was the best way she could find to say no.

She looks like a tiger,
and she didn't earn her stripes. People rarely do.
But she has earned the right to wear them for what they are;
Battle scars.
Things she's long overcome.
Her head is held high again.

And I know, I shouldn't be wasting my time on people
Who refuse to use her real name,
but Hannah is still Hannah inside out, upside down,
Backwards, Hannah is still Hannah,
Even with her insides out,
Hannah is still Hannah.
She's still here.

Stumbling and mumbling like a bumbling idiot
Feeling like a toddler who is barely learning how to speak
The first steps, tiny baby steps
Into this territory called "love"
"Kiddy crushing, puppy loving" --
That's what they all call it.
Tongue twisters, tying my tongue into tight knots.
These feelings puzzle my brain.
Questioning every movement, every moment
Waiting patiently for everything to click together
Two halves of a whole taken apart
By those who think they are better than us
Word goes around and around
But never seems to land on the truth
Avoiding all the right answers
Even if it was right in the center,
Bolded, capitalized letters, and highlighted
Just for you.
It will slap you in the face and tell you,
"Get your head out of the clouds!"
Because you need to realize that real life is not a fairy tale,
Not a story straight from the classics.
It is not told at night before your bedtime,
Before your parents tuck you in and kiss you goodnight.
It is something learned from experience,
Something that walks in at all the wrong times.
It'll walk in through the doors when you're crying
And it could walk in during breakfast while you're making your favorite morning coffee.
It even walks out, sometimes unannounced
Even during your happiest moments.
Because that's what love is:
Unpredictable

There she was
with lollipop legs
and cream soda curls
as she kissed the crown
of her camel 99
and a cascade of carcinogen smoke
drifted up from cherry red lips
and she looked at me with neon blue eyes
and the liquor on our breathes
spelled both our demise
as we played cat and mouse games
under beaten black and blue skies
When it was all over
and I had tasted those cherry red lips
and felt the alabaster sway
of her marshmallow hips
she said it wasn't very often
you felt highs like this
we both let out a sigh
and then parted with a kiss.