I hate and love my bellybutton at the same time.
It's half inny, half outy -
as if playiNg coy.

I'm down to my socks and knickers.
I'd describe them, bUt you don't care.

I choose a flattering filter on my webcam
and strike a pose
as the countDown begins:
Three - two -
on**E.

I want you
in the                                                                                                                                                            worst.
                                                                                                                                                          possible.
                                                                                                                                                way.
The kind
of way
that I
ought not
say
aloud.

How tacky.
                                                                ­                      Tacky.
                                    ­                                        Tacky.
                  ­                                                 Tacky.

*****.

I'm flattered
that you find my words worth stealing.
But I hate you.
And think you're
                                        Tacky.

Pathetic.
Taking credit
for something that belonged to me.
I hate lairs.
So I hate you.
I'd say it wasn't personal,
but then I'd be a liar.
Like you.

You'll never be a poet.
"Thief"
Is a name far better suited for you.

******.

I think a lot of people find silence scary.
Is is because we're afraid of ourselves?
I wish I hadn't removed my blindfold.

I've been told I'm cynical
by  a hippie with dreadlocks.
No, I don't want to try molly with you.

I've been told that cuddling is better in the cold
by a boy with an enviable smile, wearing a striped sweater.
Let's make a book of comfortable sleeping positions for couples.
With the bed as the office, and the sheets for a desk.

I've been told that I'm too old for hugs
by the contributor of half my genes.
I love you too.

People tell me things
and usually I don't listen.
But sometimes I do.

I'm painfully aware of your eye contact.

Let's use the rain as an excuse
to stay indoors.

Give me the right words
so I don't say the wrong ones.

I haven't always been this shy.

I want to use somebody
Like an object.
Their lips
At my disposal.
Their words
At my command.
Their heart
As I so desire.
I want to use up their love
So I can replenish mine.

He was a quiet boy
obsessed with death.
Some said he was depressed.

And his smile.
his smile was worthwhile;
his smile was.

But the boy was not right.
His demons dressed in their Sunday's best
to keep from being caught.

He knew all the nice things people would say
at his funeral.
That he was smart,
inventive,
affectionate.

This poem is for that boy.
The boy that never got to hear all the wonderful things
people had to say
because he is dead.

I decipher your ever word
hoping to find some hidden message
entangled up inside;
That you miss me.

You were thinking of me.
That much I know.

I was thinking of you too
as I sifted through old photos
of us at your sister's wedding.
My favorite is the one of us kissing.

I'm scared I'll never forget you
but I'm more scared of being forgotten.