My mania tells me things and I obey
Like:
You should dye your hair three different colors in one week
Like:
You should stay up all night finger painting and call it art
Like:
You should organize your bookshelves
based on sensations instead of genre
Like:
You should give away everything you own,
you don’t need it anyway
Like:
You should text all of your exes,
ask them when the feeling faded
or if it was ever even there
Like:
You should ignore all of your phone calls
and alarm clocks
and all other sounds
that make your skin crawl
Like:
You should cover your windows with black sheets
and pretend that life is one long night
you never have to sleep through
Like:
You should distance yourself
from everyone you love
tell them you’re okay
you just have to go away
for awhile
Like:
You should tear off your layers
expose the wounds beneath
wait for the sting to turn numb again
Like:
You should shatter yourself to pieces
pretend they can be lost
and found again
Like:
You should hide anything that hurts
in the space between your ribs
forget they’re growing
forget they’re spreading
forget they’re waiting
all winter long
to bloom like flowers in the spring

I wish for the day we find someone who doesn't have to play pretend,
who sees my scars,
and softly presses their lips to every single one,
not to erase them,
but to simply accept the parts of me I am not proud of,
as they are,
as I am,
and then last they will take their lips and rest them on mine,
not to erase me,
but to colour me for the rest of time.

"Nadia"
"Hope," it means.
"Beautiful," they say.
"Kind," she is.
"Caring," they are.

"Nadia."
She is the ever-hopeful,
The triply beautiful,
The very kindhearted,
The infinitely caring.

"Nadia"'s.
They are the unendingly positive,
The unfairly lovely,
The unduly affable,
The unfailingly kind.

"Nadia," oh, how she shines
So brightly, so comfortingly.
"Nadia," oh, how she loves
Without judgement or favor.
But I am not "Nadia."

I am Nadia.

This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.

This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.

Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.

We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.

Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.

They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.

I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.

Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.

She kissed me
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

We fell in
love.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

We made
mistakes.
Not because
we wanted to
but because
we could.

We thought
we were
perfect.
Not because
we could
but because
we wanted to.

I vomited in
the bathroom
of a
Baltimore
7-11
because
sometimes
you cannot
hold it in
much
longer.

Her hands shook
as she held her
mirror
because
sometimes
your reflection
can only
tell you
so much.

My body shook.
Her body stiff.
And when
the bodies
move
the hearts
stop.

She lied some.
I drank words.
The veins
in hands
are maps
to imagined
consciousness.

Really,
it's just
a
*******
*****.

Music to
my ears.
Nervousness
between
blinks.
Noise to
my brain.

She said,
"I love you"
not because
she wanted to
but because
she could.

I said,
"I love you, too,"
not because
I could
but because
I wanted to.

She was only a child, 

Tranquil in the distance,

Didn’t know a thing about love.

You came, and with just a subtle effort,

She let you in.

Innocence became thinner,

Established a lot of 
firsts.
Every action led to a downward *****.

“At last! Someone loves me,” she thought.
You made her want to see every light of dawn.

She thought wrong.

She was just a child,

Tranquil in the distance,

Didn’t know a thing about love.

That’s why she never got the chance,
To differentiate receiving someone’s love,
From feeding on broken trust.

Blinded by her feelings,

Fooled by your words,

Suppressed her senses to the inevitable,

Confined herself in the “us” world.

She was still a child,

Yet, you ruined her tranquility.

She didn’t know a thing about love,

So you gave her falsity.

You came and made an elusive effort,

For her to let you in, 

Then left her to wonder,

“Did I love you wrongly?”