hot summer raindrops boil
like memories on my skin,
and i remember when
the wind helped destroy
the power surge within me.
i am pure electricity
and i hope i am strong enough
to cause a blackout
in the place
we stole small caresses:
the eye of the storm.
thunder booms and
i am consumed
more and more
with my loud tongue
and vapid thoughts;
not instinct,
but rather, taught.
i seemed to have forgotten
or lost the notion
that someone else could want me
in your sultry words,
sparked with lies.
i will keep the narcissism,
but you can close your eyes
against the onslaught
and get the **** out;
and no, i do not care
if you get soaked.
i have had enough
to know i do not
need you anymore
and that this
is only a joke to you.
i am a thunderstorm
and you will only drown
in the downpour.

I want to be
feeble and ethereal,
my presence a silent grace,
like a long forgotten goddess.
I want the prowess
of a ****** hunter
bubbling under my skin
so strongly
that I will burn up
and create a new sun.
Is it so wrong
that I want to drop
everything
and run?
I want to gorge myself
on the fruit of the earth,
like Persephone,
and doom my heart
to a half realized death.
I want to starve my body
of the world
until I am frail and small,
so I can hide my
paper thin fingers
in the pages
of books,
hoping to take root
in imagined heroes
that do not regret like I do
and did not wait
too long.
I want to stay
with what I know
and
I want to vanish into
thin air.
I want to be
everywhere.
I am a living, breathing
paradox.
I do not care,
though my heart flutters
at the idea
of packing a suitcase
and getting on the next flight
or staying here
another night.
All I know for sure
is this:
I want
to feel alive.

I was attempting to lull myself into shaky sleep, bitterly listening to quiet ballads of stories that’ve gone much better than mine.
Soft, sultry voices sang about being in love with your best friend and how it feels divine, and I scoffed because they forgot to include the part where it’s a living hell if they do not return the sentiment.
I was trying to forget about your face for five **** minutes but escaping this purgatory is turning out to be harder than I thought, because I meant to tell you how I felt a million times, but kept it bottled up.
I do not expect you to react positively when the words finally pour out of my lamenting lips like *****; but your response would be easier to stomach if I knew it would be contempt and indifference, instead of a sick, complementary sympathy and a familiar softness around your mouth.
What I’m trying to say is that I cannot spend another day pretending that you’re thinking the same thoughts, when it’s obvious that you are not; I’ve fought with my emotions for far too long and decided it’s time for that to stop.
So, I’ve made a compromise and put it into words: I’ll say it.
I’m in love with you, simply put.
Now, if you even care enough to reply, don’t.
I can’t bear to hear what you have to say, my love.
You’ve torn me apart enough.

My lips
are chapped and brown
with dried blood,
so I crawl on the rug
to the bathroom
and to stare at myself
with self loathing for
the third time this hour,
while echoes of
"you lost him"
resound through
my pounding head.

I slowly climb
into my empty bed and cry
for the first time in months,
because seeing you felt like
a punch in the
******* stomach.
The consistency
of your detachment
was comforting like
mismatched socks;
awry, but slightly less
than this.

The pain is new and fresh
like a ripped off bandaid:
it felt kind of okay,
but then you took it away,
again.

Emotions are not my friend,
and apparently,
neither are you.
This is nothing new,
but it seems I had
convinced myself otherwise;
because like you said
with a bored yawn,
though I am bad at most things,
I am good at lying
and doing everything wrong.

It has been four days
since we talked.
I do not mean to gawk,
but I have been staring
at this empty screen,
tearing at my thinning hair
with nostrils flaring,
looking for a sign
that this is not
the beginning of yet
another falling out.
We are going through
a drought:
things to talk about are
few and far between,
and there is a lot of
"I don't understand
what you mean" and
"You're only fifteen,
you wouldn't get it anyways."
You are my dry land
and I am drowning
without your hand
to pull me up to the surface.
I can't pretend
that I am your best friend,
though you are surely mine.
I'd like to know if
you think it is the end
this time,
but I am so nervous
that I can't
take my shaking fingers
and ask the question;
I am much too desperate
and the suggestion
that I could be the reason
we don't even chat anymore
lingers like a bad tattoo.
I need to draw the line
between when it's
time to move on
and being perfectly fine.
I know I'm lying to myself
and I know I'll try to mend something
that might be irreparably bent
with only my own desire
and a bit of twine;
because I could never say goodbye.
Especially not
if there's a chance
you're still mine.

I discern obsession
like warm blood
in the back of my throat,
rising with the choking bile
of what I can’t be for you.
It’s true:
I will always listen
while you rant
and lick your wounds.
When I said it,
I was not lying.
Still, I feel like crying
when I can tell you’re trying
to give me what I yearn for;
but by now I’ve learned
you can’t make someone
feel something
they don’t.

This morning tastes like
my nervous tongue
running across
the back of my teeth
every night this week, when it's late;
and I think about how
I know that it's fate
and how I'm never right.

Times between us are tight,
and we both feel under
the weather that's
seeping under my skin and rotting
love letters I wrote,
but put back.
Soon, things could be better.
So my stupid idle dreams
will replay
as I whisper "I love you,"
and you walk away.