I'm so sad I can feel it between my shoulder blades.
I ******* hate this place.

See the thing is
I could tell you
I love you
In 167 or however many
Different languages.
And I could hope it would suffice.
Or I could whisper it
Against your lips,
Our silhouettes entwined
In the light of an alarm clock
That reads
3:14AM.

You're addicting
like a cigarette
hanging between the balance
of almost gone
and not quite there.
Or maybe like
sleeping syrup
to an insomniac
on a cold winter night.
Or like a kiss
to someone who's
been deprived of the love
that's been offered to others.
God.
You're addicting.

You were a gun.
You spit out words like bullets,
always hitting the mark.
You shot
and you shot
and you shot
and never once
did you miss the target.
Never before
have I wanted so bad
to kiss the mouth of a gun.

Seventh Grade.
I wrote a poem about a solider
who couldn't unsee all the damage
wrought on his friends and brothers.
My mother cried.
Asked, “what have I done?
For you to write such
despairing things?”

Eighth Grade.
My English teacher tried to
“Harness” my talent,
in the raw.
Pushed me into competitions
Of which I had no interest.

Freshman Year.
I got accused of plagiarism.
After all,
What could I possibly know
of the world's tragedies,
after a mere 14 years spent here?
I was told to “stick to something
a 14-year-old girl would right. So
it isn't obvious.”

Sophomore Year.
I wrote about
the boy who held my heart.
Because that's what
15-year-old girls write about.
Or so I've been told.

You were rebellion,
you were fire and guns,
shouts of uncontrolled chaos.
You were violence.
I was peace,
I was quiet and small,
music in a still room.
I was calm.
Together,
we were sneak attacks,
we were freedom and justice,
and the laughs of those
who are finally victorious.
We were success.
And we built the world
from ashes.

I wish my hands didn't shake
when I get close to you.
I wish my eyes didn't cast downward
when I get close to you.
I wish my breath didn't hitch
when I get close to you.
I wish I didn't ache for you to hold me
when I get close to you.
I wish I had the confidence it takes
to be close to you.

I asked him if we were okay
And,
“Jesus Chirst. What are you so
Scared of?”
And he rubbed his face.
“Loving me? or the fact that I love you back?”
I look down and,
“I swear to God, it's like you think no one should ever love you back.”

I had a dream last night,
and you were there.
I couldn't remember
anyone
or anything.
In a world of things,
that can only be summed up as
"alien,"
you were
*familiar.

Call a funeral
For the sadness
That had overcome my life.
Say goodbye
To the things
That had once given strife.

They told me I'd be happy
Now finally,
They're right.

There are days
when I am certain
that there is a god.
Because,
Somehow,
I found you.

It is 4:30 in the afternoon
And I tell you
This is my favorite time of day.
You ask why
So I point to the gold
Streaming in the window,
Bouncing off the dust.
And you kiss me.
Maybe 4:31 in the afternoon
Is my favorite time of day.

When I was young,
they called my Hurricane.
Because even my brother feared my wrath.
Because “so help me god,
if you touch me one more time”
Wasn't a threat he completed.
Because Barbie never seemed like fun,
And GI Joe kicked so much ***.
“Hurricane”
Because the boys in elementary school
got punched when they called me names
And the boys in high school
Got slapped or pinched or kicked or flipped
Off for trying to kiss me without permission.
They called me Hurricane
Because if there was chaos,
it was me.

I'm telling you now
I think he likes me.
Like, likes me.
And I'll tell you
I can't feel the same.
At least not for now.
Because
I can't imagine
looking at him
the way I look at you.

I told him I didn't mind
that it was cold in there.
That the wind blew through it
like it was made of mesh-screen.
Or that the idiot next door,
he played the same beat on the drum,
night after night, day after day.
"I don't mind," I said, "that some
ranting, raving, mad woman screams orders
at the drummer constantly, either."
"I don't mind," I told him.
But I couldn't keep the place.
He just assumed I'd meant an apartment,
or a house, maybe some flat downtown.
He's silly. I'd meant my heart.

Fear constricts my throat
and holds my chest right, closed.
The gaping wound of jealousy
is a pain that no one knows.
Do I choose to turn and run
or do I sit still and stay?
Will the Monster overcome me?
I cannot really say.
For people like you and I
reality makes for a painful life.
Dying to live in Fairytales.
The real world cuts like a knife.

How dare you
let her name
escape your lips
while I held you.

Claiming,
"She'd be jealous."
"She'd be so mad."
Good.
Let her be jealous.
Let her be mad.

Because,
do you kiss her
the way you kiss me?

Next time,
if you want me to let go,
just say.
It'd be just as
Effective.
And far less
Painful.

You talk about corruption,
and you spit words of destruction.
But you won't offer redemption
or even protection,
for the youth of this nation,
the people of this generation.
Kids who know they could be better
fathers or mothers
than they have.
Who know they should be better
sisters or brothers,
they want it so bad.
They who know they need more
than a job a McDonald's or WalMart,
or some department store
because they're so smart.
High schoolers who dream
of college
but know they'll never get there
with any of their knowledge.
Who want to offer more to the world
than just a ******* remark,
but can't because they didn't get better marks
on their report card,
though they tried so hard.
But their GPAs never rised,
and they lied.
And that Grade Point Average?
It says "less than average."
But a college professor,
a "truth" confessor,
wouldn't accept "less than average"
unless it was written in binary code.
Well that's a load,
they're full of it.
For every kid who's ever taken a hit,
took a chance, but lost all of it.
Because "the nation's best" never learn,
they only care about what they earn
day after day.
It's sad,
because some of us can't afford to live that way.

If the sun
fell from the sky
and burned the whole world,
would it be my fault?
If the moon
spun away, dancing in
some distant galaxy,
would it be my fault?
If I told you
I have eyes only for you,
would it be your fault?

You have given me
all these promises,
full of false hopes.
Promises full of
the future
and what it could bring.
Promises
about you and me.
But in the end,
promises are just words.

Don't
Tell me
I'm broken
When there's
Nothing
You can
Fix.

You burned my mouth
like alcohol-based rinse
(No sting, guaranteed!)
All I wanted
was to swirl you around,
taste you.
Give me that brand new feeling.
(Fresh and clean,
or your money back!)
I was so afraid
to swallow you up.
(Contact Poison Control,
Immediately.)
And when I spit you out,
you left my lips numb,
and my eyes watering.
All that remained
was the lingering taste of you.
(Strong taste all day!
Or your money back.)
You know what?
I think
I want my money back.

See, my hands do this thing
when I'm nervous
bored
upset.
They tend to play,
to pinch and wiggle,
to rub my clothing together.
I bounce pencils,
I click pens.
And, please,
don't even get me started on
tapping.
Now, these are all bad habits,
carried out, unnoticed, by
restless hands.
But my favorite bad habit
is running my fingers through your hair
or maybe down your arm
or holding your hands.
But they aren't bad habits,
not then.
In those few moments,
my hands are doing
Exactly
what I want them to.

I carry the grief of you
between my shoulder blades.
Like stones in a heavy backpack.
I feel like I've just jumped into a river.

She wore one
Red sock and one
Yellow sock
And he said
She looked like a sunrise.

Red.
Like parting lips,
Shushed kisses.
Like high school varsity jackets.

Orange.
Like the shirt you wore
The day we met.
Like my least favorite color.

Yellow.
Like the lemonade,
So sour we spit it out.
Like summers we spent together.

Green.
Like minty gum,
Newly freshened mouths.
Like the grass I lost my innocence on.

Blue.
Like the pen I used
To write your love letters.
Like all the times we've cried.

Indigo.
Like bruises, covered
By jeans high on hips.
Like the nights we stained with lust.

Violet.
Like every single thought
Led back to you.  
Like even the spectrum had thoughts of you.

I want to lay down
Under the night sky
And watch the stars
With you
For so long
We notice them spinning
To the sound of our heartbeats.

It's like he's the Sun and she's the Moon.
He's bright and perfect and
every friend he's ever had probably couldn't live without him.
He's Mr. Charisma
and he's always warm.

She's quieter and a little less harsh.
She's clumsy,
because she's always spinning.
She has few people who'd die
if she didn't exist.

And they dance circles around eachother.
They flash smiles and faces across the universe
and across galaxies like classrooms.
The other stars and planets look on and wonder
Why aren't they together?
Every once in a while,
they'll hug, because
they only can every once in a while.
They're so close.

But the Sun has his eyes
on a pretty little number in the next
galaxy over.
And she likes to tease him.
The moon is stuck here,
still spinning, feeding
off of whatever light he
gives her,
trying desperately to magnify it.

We fell asleep in the sun.
The next day, your hand was still outlined on my back,
but you were gone.

“Your laugh
Is the second best
Sound I've ever heard.”
“What's the first?”
“Hearing you say
You love me, too.”

My mother used to hide *****
In the freezer,
In the back behind the peas and corn.
I decided to try it.
A sip and a burn
And my lips went numb.
That's what it felt like to kiss you.
A gulp, or two
Or three
Or seven, (who's counting?)
later I got a head rush and
that's what it felt like to kiss you;
The burn and the numbness.
The release of realizing
You were far more intoxicating.

I know I send you messages
That say,
“I miss you.”
A lot.
But that's because
It's my only thought
When I can't hear your voice.

Sometimes,
words hit like bolts
of yellow and blue lightning.
Erupting from their
bottled container,
spattering bits of
charred glass
and gore of the
words that have been contained for far too long.
Reckless in their nonconformity
with what is expected,
what is,
and what needs
to be said.
When they spill
out of painted or chapped lips
like liquid fire.
Fire and lightning
that burns and singes
and electrifies
everything they touch.
Almost as painful
as the real thing.

You may treat me
like a puppet,
or a little marionette.
You may
pull my wires,
make me dance.
I will flit across
stage and set,
until my strings
are gray and frayed.
Maybe,
I'll be a real girl.
Someday.

I like the way your name looks,
in Times New Roman,
in Comic Sans.
I like the way it looks in
Thames, Condensed,
and Arial (bold or italicized.)
I like the way your name looks
scrawled across papers and note books
and I like the way
your name looks next to mine.

In a world of
black and white,
you were colour.
In a world
without sound,
you were music.
You were everything.
You were
all these things to me,
and I don't know
what
I was to you.