this is my fourth day 10.
my fourth recovery run.
but this time, it'll work.
I know it will work.

without food, and you,
maybe I will finally be beautiful

i think jensen and i have a whirlwind of fuckedupness.
he is a boy and i am a ?????
but because we are both perceived as females,
in the ******* state,
we can get kicked out of stores.
jesus,
i swear we're a straight couple.

I can't stop thinking about you. I look in your direction and it physically pains me.
2. I burned poetry about you and her, the fact that I regard you the same way as her scares me. Something has changed.
3. I burn poetry as means of destroying myself.
4. Only I can destroy myself that way.
5. I miss you but I can't. Not today.
6. I'm gonna throw up because water has filled my lungs. Water has filled the space you used to.
7. Blood courses through and sometimes I wish it flowed out but *******. You made me stop.
8. Worthless. You told me I was not and now, that's how you make me feel.

the clouds were
troubling
her again.
but like a
roof over
her head, he
makes the clouds
disappear.
but caves and
roofs and struct-
ures and build-
kings collapse
even the
sturdiest
structures will
break. even
you will break.
but breaking,
at times, is
positive.
because when
you break, you
find those who
truly care
about you.
I care abo-
ut you dear.
darling, you
seem so strong.
but when will
the pressure
get to be
too heavy
for you? when
you break, I
wanna be
there. I wish
to see your
fragile bones
snap under
the pressure
that has been
accumu-
lating for
years. almost
as an "i-
told-you-so."
you will break.
I wanna
watch you snap
and break and
crumble. you
will, I know
you will. ev-
entual-
ly. and I
will be there
to watch and
to help. even
though I want
to see you
break, I don't
want you to
break. I just
need to know
you feel in-
side. do you
have a heart?
do you feel
things? I need
to see you
break; I need
to have proof.

in the asexual community,
a lot is done to coddle the ****** interests of those who don't feel ****** attraction.
the thing is, *** negatives are often ignored.
*** positives get countless affirmations, but *** negative are pushed under the rug.
simply put, all people are important regardless of ****** desire.

I feel like she was fleeting.
her love depending on the day.
on the pick of a petal.
she loves me (keeping my voice on her phone)
she loves me (walking from lunch)
she loves me (pep band games)
but then, I go to the next petal.
she loves me not. (forgetting to text back)
she loves me not. (not knowing how to react)
and even though it hasn't been picked yet.
she loves me not. (leaving me)

did you really like me?*
you left me. you left

I.
you begin growing flowers
in a little garden,
in a *** on the kitchen windowsill,
in your hands,
in his veins,
in his heart,
in his head,
because you want him
only to think pretty little perfect thoughts.
you say that the garden
gives you something to do,
but I know that’s all he is to you.
just something to do.
just someone to make perfect.
you want to sit by
his bed and make sure that he gets
the perfect amount of
sun and
light and
water and
soil and
love and
nourishment and
I don’t know why
you and he don’t
break up; why he hasn’t
broken up with you
yet. you just want
to fix him.
that is not love

II.

you start
drinking coffee
more and
more and the little blue and pink striped coffee mug you use acquires
more and
more stains as you stay up past midnight
more and
more and “oh just one
more hour, I’ll go to bed.”
but that is
a lie.
it’s all a lie
my dear.
you say that the
coffee gives you energy,
but you said that about him
and you aren’t getting drunk on him
at 1 in the morning. you’ve been obsessing over him
and pretending that you do care, that you really love him.
you don’t love him,
you never have loved him.
you’re only using him
for your own selfish needs and you treat him
like the keurig you keep in your small apartment.
you’re with him because he
makes you feel young, he gives energy.
that is not love.

III.

you begin making hats
for your friends and
for your family and
for your colleagues and
for the **** addict two doors away and
for the homeless man you pass every day.
you say the hats occupy you,
but that's what you use him for.
you sit there with your
knitting needles
at his side fixing up his
"loose ends"
and then you give him away
to the world.
he is not a hat.
you cannot pick which perfect parts show
and make sure he is fixed before the world
sees him. he is
not a project to keep
you busy.
you only keep him so
you can make him perfect.
that is not love.

IV.

i begin telling you
that you are toxic for him,
you're ruining him,
you're making him
believe that since brokenness courses through him
he needs help. you cannot make him
hate him-
self even more than he does. you will ruin him
for everyone. i know you try to fix him
but you are breaking him.
he is naïve and he thinks there is something wrong with him
because you want to help him.
you make him
feel inferior by treating him
as such.
he is not a garden that you can nourish.
he is not a cup of coffee that you can use.
he is not a hat that you can make perfect.
he is a human.
treat him as such.
man, if i were lucky enough to be his,
he would not be treated inanimately.
he is a person.
love is not the same as fixing someone.
a romantic is not the same as a repairman.
your kind of love is not the same as my kind of love.
YOU DON’T LOVE HIM!!!
we all see how toxic you are
we all know what this love is doing to him.
you are so flawed in thinking
that you are actually helping him
live a better life. you are
not helping this boy
one bit.
you are harmful.
but we all knew this from the beginning.
you did this to me.
i was like a candle that
you decided
you could light whenever it benefitted
you. whenever
you needed me to be lit,
you would give me a fire, give me a spark. but as soon as
you were done with me,
you would put me out.
you cannot treat people the way
you do.
you cannot make them feel as worthless as
you do.
this love between you and he
is very toxic. you need
to fix yourself
and stop trying to fix him.
you’ve hurt dozens by
seeing them as
objects
and not as
people.

i cannot be mad because you are going to get love from a ***** with short shorts and high heels and tight tank tops.
i cannot be mad because you hang around this chick with ******* and long legs.
i cannot be mad because i am not your first choice.

i can just try harder.

you held galaxies in your hands.
blades cut on your thigh and you bled stars.
the beating of your heart sounded a lot like the birth of planets.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

you were the fabric of time and I swear when she left I could feel you ripple.
the tips of your fingers felt as hot as the sun.
the stares were as blinding as a solar eclipse.
and you kissed the world goodbye, giving me only the moon to remember you by.

I still remember the moon.

at age three, my preschool teacher told me,
"Some ships are admired for their beauty,
and such ships will sink.
Ships that are functional,
however,
will never be admired as the other ships are.
I think you have the perfect mix of
beauty and functionality."
since age three,
both my beauty and functionality
have dropped dramatically to depths never explored
by this species.
i am a mess,
too much hate runs through these veins
and somehow i am a very angry person.
but i have a talent very few possess.
i have vision.
not beauty.
not functionality.
vision.
i can see things in ways they have not been construed.
i look at a passage and see twenty different ways to interpret it.
i am a master of metaphors.
i see a flower and see what it was and what it is and what it will be.
but what happens to the ship that is not sat at docks being fawned over,
or the ship that is not the fastest?
what happens to the ship that can see the best possible path?
does it get to its destination quicker?
or does it go off track because of the amazing beauty it's chasing.
what happens to such ships?

shoot arrows with those hurtful words at me.
fire bullets with those laughs.
just know that the best marksmen never shoot at the biggest targets.

We always joked that we wouldn't be **** buddies.
Anything involving *** will not work for an asexual.
We'd be cuddle buddies.
The second we'd meet up, we'd hug and cuddle.
We wouldn't do as most long distance 'couples' would.
We'd just cuddle.
Maybe I could finally fall asleep.
Something's changed between then and now.
You've changed.
When you stopped caring, I'm not sure.
But you did.
You stopped caring about me and that's okay.
Something got in between us.
Not just distance
I still can't help but think how nicely our bodies tessellated.
Even with 1047 miles between us.

oh darling,
i'll never leave or abandon you!
I promise!

they sat at the second table from the left.
four girls; one with curly hair to her knees, one with a heart for running, and two who love basketball.
I tried to fit in.
I failed.
a poet is not a dancer.
a poet is not a runner.
a poet is not a basketball player.
a poet is a poet.
I hated this table.
it gave me chills.
I walk past the table, because they cannot hurt what isn't in their reach.

i will never feel lonely as long as your name can float up on my phone.
you are the ocean surrounding me, but i don't feel like you'll sweep me up.
because you won't.
you just gently rock me over beaches.
you know where to take me.
i thought, since i was so surrounded by you,
i needed oxygen.
so i found oxygen in another.
but after sustaining me for 9 months,
he left.
i felt panicked, because surely the water would drown me.
i was wrong.
you kept rocking me, gently swaying me back and forth.
i underestimated you, i had no faith in you.
but you never let me drown.

My heart aches for you the way my stomach growls for food.
I've skipped three meals and three months of your love.
I'm giving up food the way I gave up on you.
You skipped meals the way you skipped our dates.
If I deprive myself, maybe I will be beautiful.
If I am beautiful, maybe this crazy relationship will rekindle.
But I mean, why did we think it could ever work?
Because an asexual/******, borderline/antisocial, Indiana/Florida relationship will never work.
I just should give up.
I'll forget you eventually, I'm sure.

she's better,
but you being with her may **** me.

I cannot make this work without your help.
it's a whole lot like a school project; I'm the straight a valedictorian 4.0 and you're the sports star only in school so you can wear a jersey I am not a jersey to be worn.
when the project takes a turn towards sports you're interested but I do everyone else and I picked you as my partner after seeing what you can do I bring up the project you pale away you ignore me.
I cannot make this work without help and it hurts me that I can't have you.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.

I love thunderstorms.
I love the rain, the wind, the cold, and the lightning.
But I hate the thunder.
Boisterous. (It goes through the air like a thousand trash cans being hit.)
Heavy. (It hangs around, and as the sky gets darker it gets louder.)
Arrogant. (It interrupts conversations and plans and gets in the way and assumes it's welcome and perfect.)

Junior year was a thunderstorm.
I had rain (like the times I actually got invited to things) and wind (like the times I swore I felt her holding me) and cold (hide-and-go-seek in the school) and lightning (spinning flag in the hallway).

But I also had thunder.
Thunder. (You pulling me with you.)
Thunder. (You giving me encouragement.)
Thunder. (You asking her to prom.)
Thunder. (You avoiding me.)

Because no storm is complete without thunder.

We are both just stupid kids.
But I often forget this
and compare you to things
much greater.
My favourite thing
to compare you to
is a thunderstorm.
You seem dark and gloomy,
but you release light in times of
incredible darkness.
And I will never be
the kind of girl
who hates thunderstorms.

maybe not today,
but in our hearts,
we are one.

she makes my heart
beat
just a little faster.

i. when I was young, I was never complimented. I never felt good enough and it hurt and somewhere along the line I began complimenting everyone because I was never complimented and I never wanted anyone to hate themselves the way I did. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I want in her pants.

ii. we live in a country where a gay poet spoke at obama's second inauguration, where five openly gay senators serve, where all fifty states have had a gay elected officer in some capacity, so if I were to be gay, what's the problem with a relatively unknown sixteen year old girl from a relatively unknown town in a relatively unknown state being gay?

iii. do you want me to be gay? do you want a better, more socially acceptable reason to make fun of me? is my weight not enough?

iv. I was taught the term fluidity by my best friend Alyssa. she firmly believes that sexuality is a spectrum, like many other things. I have a different view on sexuality because I see it as a spectrum, not something that's set in stone.

v. I like making people happy, I like completing people, I apologize a bit too frequently and I was taught how to accept people.

vi. just because I call a girl pretty does not mean I like her. just because I say a dog is cute does not mean I want with the dog. just because I say a painting is pretty does not mean I am going to **** the painting.

vii. aesthetic is a very important word.

viii. there are three kinds of attraction, aesthetic, romantic, and ******. just because you have one does not mean you have all three. just because I like the way something looks doesn't mean I am going to have *** with it.

ix. sexuality is an Identity. not a YOUdentity.

x. I'm not gay, but if I were, trust me, I wouldn't go for such a whiny little *****.

a little girl, perhaps 5-6, sits in the meadow and picks flowers. she picks the flowers slowly, meticulously. she looks up and sees a beautiful teenaged girl, with a long flowing dress and short hair with splotches missing. the teenager sits with the little girl. "what happened to your hair?" the little one asks.

"once upon a time,
I picked flowers just like you.
but I picked them all."

the young girl listens and keeps picking her flowers.

"I met a boy who
promised I was beautiful
and made me feel so."

the teenager begin taking the flowers and winding them together. she grabs her knitting needles out of her handmade purse and continues working on a hat to keep her hands busy.

"he always told me
that my head was too pretty
for me to be sad."

"Did he love you?" the little girl asks, playing with her hands.

"perhaps he did, but
he never said that he did.
he never told me."

"after I ran out
of flowers, I began pull-
ing my long hair out."

"please don't end up like me." the teenager says, handing the girl the hat.

the problem is I can't.
I can't trust anyone.
I have issues going across railroad tracks without making sure once, twice, three times that a train isn't coming.
when I muster up courage to look in a full body mirror, which isn't often, I check my reflection five times to make sure a scar isn't visible.
when I read ten word poems, I count each and every word seven times.
so why would I trust him when there is no proof to check nine times?

I hate rain on Tuesdays.
Wednesdays are my least favorite days and if Tuesday's dark and gloomy how will Wednesday be?
but I love rain because the sky reminds me of my eyes and the feeling of wet drops on my skin is equivalent to your rough hands pulling me on an adventure and I want to adventure with you and I want you to take me along with you and some people compare their boys to skies and seas and flowers and moons but I will compare you to rain on Tuesdays because it all kinda spirals down but I want to hit rock bottom with you.

I like how you pay attention
to what I say.

i walk you to class, our stubby legs powering through the hallways.
i try so desperately to keep my hands on my books, although the digits reach towards yours on their own accord.
we walk, laughing at your friends.
i know i’ll be quite late to class, i always have to push it.
if i had it my way, neither of us would attend first period.
your baggy clothes would come off, the constricting binder would go on.
i’d fix up your hair and make you feel comfortable.
i’d give you a sweater of mine and i’d whisk you into my soccer mom van.
i’d drive us far away, my hand glued to yours the whole way.
we’d go out, ignoring stares and just being.
we can’t do that here.
here i can’t even call you mine.
i have to spend 8 hours without seeing you and 8 hours without holding you it’s like i’m spending 8 hours without loving you.
that’s why i walk you to class.
you go to freshmen biology while i go to college level composition.
you take french one, i’m in spanish four.
i drop you off.
super christian Abbie gives me a look.
but god, i’d love to see her face if i had it my way.
i’d pin you up against someone’s locker, preferably hers, and call you mine, claim you as me, you’d be mine.
we wouldn’t care.
Abbie’s face would contort into a sour look like someone squirted lemon juice in her mouth, her mind searching for bible verses to condemn us with, her hands already grasping markers to scrawl “god hates ****” in big angry letters on poster boards.
but you’d be mine.

i am water coursing through,
and remaining earth on you.

we either have really good times
or really bad times.
i miss the you I fell for.

the way you touch me makes my hands light on fire,
so every chance i get i touch you too.
maybe we'll go up in flames.

i don't know what to
do anymore, i'm drowning,
i'm so very sad.

if this ship will sink,
i would rather you be at
fault than it be mine.
i would rather you be on
board with me than sat
at the docks with some other
lady trying to
sell her body to you. but
with you i feel that
we are capable of great
things; babe, we'll never go down.

why are bathrooms
and t shirts and pants
gendered?

i am not a girl wearing
clothes, i am a human
wearing clothes.

i should be able
to wear what i please
and still be human.

_more than wanted_
_______less than needed______
__________­maybe just a friend.

my friends love sign language.
i always thought it a bit different and i never liked it.
until i learned the sign for worthless.
it's so pretty.
like a giant bow.
and even though it is literally worthless,
it's beautiful.
that sign teaches me that worthless things can be beautiful.
worthless things can be beautiful.
you can feel worthless,
but something about you is your redeeming quality.
everyone has something.
because worthless things can be beautiful.
everything has beauty.

i told colton, a strange look of terror residing in my eyes, that i would break it off.
i told madison, a strange calm in my thumbs, that i would break it off.
you walked into the uniform room.
i didn't even wear my socks, i was so late. i had to run to my locker to get my shoes. should've brought em sooner you said, pulling your bibbers on.
i could feel the words climbing out of my throat, hey, we need to talk i almost said.
but like i did when i was seven and with stomach flu, i shut my mouth so the inevitable flow would stay contained.
i go searching through the guard closet for shoes, my back to you.
god, how am i supposed to get this on? you asked, and i watched you struggle to get the jacket zipped. this little look of admiration washed over my face.
I walked over to you and zipped you up, laughing with you. god, i could have and should have broken it off with you right then. i also could have and should have kissed you.
you zipped me up too, and we buckled each others top buckles.

-
i could have ended it, and i wish i would have.

I love your eyes.
I've gotten attached to them.

our highs are like the
himalayas and our lows;
death valley. but all
i want is to be at sea
level with you.