I self-conciously fussed with my hair
hoping you wouldn't notice the state of it
and you just took my hand, readjusting the ring on my finger
I hadn't even realized that it was crooked
and I want to tell you that you look beautiful
but I know it would be unfair
and the city looks different when I forget you're in it
like the lights in the distance shine only for me, not us
I think I could drive on this road forever
gas light on, but I've never heeded a warning,
at least not one so glaring
an empty tank has never discouraged me
and I'll take my eyes off the road,
fix my hair in the rearview mirror,
still so worried about how you'll think of me,
still pretending I've never known fear

ive spent most of my life wishing i was dead,
but i always fasten my seatbelt when i drive
and the turbulence of the plane never fails to turn my knuckles white.
and i often wish that you had killed me
and maybe you still will.
see, i am starving and you don't notice,
the stars behind my eyes,
the creaking of my bones.
and i know that you're tired,
because i am too,
though you have been sleeping since i was born.
and when you lay me to rest,
i hope you finally get the sort of quiet you deserve.

Would it be easier to love me if I were a boy?
Would I be easier to love if I just lay there?
Not moving, still, unchanged.
There's nothing left for you here.
Tell me what you see when you look at me,
am I still yours, am I still pure?
I fear there's nothing left of me.

when the sun rises
I can’t help wondering if you miss me,
if you remember the feel of my eyes lingering on you for a moment too long.
did it scare you? the way I took you in as if you were hanging in the Louvre,
how I followed the movement of your lips like I was at the ballet,
when I traced your path throughout the room like a hunter to her prey
all when I thought you wouldn’t notice.
could you hear the pounding in my chest, incessant and telling, as I fought the urge to tear my eyes from your ruthless gaze?
I withered under the bright light. it is in my nature to cower from intensity such as yours.
when day breaks, will you think about the quiver in my voice and tremble in my hands as we said goodbye?
I long for you to remember
but we are nocturnal friends, accessible to each other only after the night has fallen.
I am but one forgettable body in a sea of memorable ones
and in the morning sun I shift into someone unrecognizable,
the mystique and beauty bestowed upon me by the moon now revoked.
if you are to remember me, let it be when I was bathed in the moonlight
and not as I was when the sun began to rise.

I want to love without the consequences
I want to be held without the heavy lifting that’s required
I think I read too many books, watched too many movies
My mind plagued with pretty scenes of romance and effortlessly witty exchanges
I do not dream of you; I only edit my preexisting script to fit you neatly into it
I wait for you in all the wrong places,
Wandering through the supermarket,
Looking for you in my rearview mirror,
Thinking that when our eyes meet, I’ll feel as though I finally have a purpose
I do not want to love, I only want to be saved
For someone to hold my hair back as I sit on the bathroom floor
To hold my hand as if we were made to be forever interlaced
To hold me together from collapsing in on myself, like a long-condemned cave that even the most adventurous had given up on
I love the idea of you, but I’m not so sure I could love the real thing
Always too close or too distant, too much energy and far too many expectations
I am messy. Rough around the edges. Sharp, venomous, and never quite sure about anything.
I am surrounded by a cloud of grey, made up of my morals and my desires – and what means I use to get them
I’ve proclaimed myself the tyrant of the lives around me
So I’ve decided it’s a burden to love and to be loved
And it is a Herculean feat to endure one without the other
I’ve decided that you deserve the world and I deserve to be trampled by it
Yet I still long for you to be trampled alongside me

I am from sleepless nights,

from Diet Coke,

and from endless stacks of books.

I am from the pine trees,

bare feet toughened by the forest floor,

and from the lingering smell of chlorine,

fingers shriveled like a candy wrapper lost in a back pocket.

I am from the bristles of a paintbrush

and from scattered eraser shavings,

for I make no mistake twice.

I am from ticket stubs, postcards, and Polaroids.

I am from the ancient scribblings of poets,

who are cherished friends.

I am from late night joyrides,

from spontaneous trips to Wawa,

and from the back of a pickup truck,

where the ride is smoother than you would imagine.

I am from scattered family

and from battles with unknown aggressors.

I am from movies at midnight,

rants about the universe and it’s hypocrisy,

and from monthly game nights,

where the house never wins.

I am from Tchaikovsky

and from classic rock at volumes too high.

I am from the earthworms in the backyard, the prancing deer in the forest,

and from the birds circling the night sky.

The scenery in the rearview mirror looks different than it did yesterday.
The air around you feels heavier,
like it’s saturated with the weight of some secret that only you don’t know about.
Those who you know so well have a new jaunt when they walk, a new pitch to their laugh, and a new sparkle in their eyes when they talk.
Your world has shifted so dramatically that you wonder how you can be the only one who noticed.
You look down at your hands, flex your fingers to prove that you’re still in control.
You look at your palms, which you’ve carved the slightest crescent moons into with your finger nails just to prove that you can still feel, to prove that you are still here.  
With every step you take a new pair of eyes is born, made only to brighten the searchlight pointed at you.
Sleep is impossible because you know the enemy is around the corner, always just around the corner.
The voices tease, they whisper the secrets of the universe just below the volume of what you can register.
They tease, a sort of cat and mouse, but one where the mouse is already dead.
They pull you along until you’re spending your nights racing down the highway with all the windows down,
or lying in a field in the freezing rain as the worms start coming out of the earth,
or with the TV turned up to the max as you stare into a bowl of soup that’s been cold for the past 5 hours.
Then they make it all normal again, make you forget that anything ever changed for a few months, just until you start to get comfortable.