i fell in love and it curled its hand into a fist and hit me right in the mouth.
i got up and it hit me right in the mouth again.
and i got up again.
i got knocked down into kind words, i threw love into the empty
space between them thinking that it was a drawer to store my belongings in and not just
a black hole with no edges for containment.
i fell in love and it was a dragon that breathed fire all over my clothes
and in my hair, the smoke swirling up into my mouth and nose and eyes.
when you are young, you forget that what is warm can also burn.
i get my head bitten off and lay still on the glass floor until it grows back,
and then i go back to the dragon with my sword bent
and i yell that i am strong enough to keep fighting.
keep knocking me out. keep breathing fire. i will spit my teeth
onto the floor until i am nothing but blood and gums and black eyes and
charred skin.
i fell in love and it was a dragon that i was too small and clumsy
to keep up with. whats the big deal? i'm not comparing myself
to a knight in this analogy. just one of the naive girls who fight
against forces out of her control because they don't know when
to give in. but in every analogy you are a dragon, or a monster, or a big animal with
claws and teeth that sinks into soft pink skin and can't mumble
out an apology with a full mouth. in every analogy you are
something i can't beat, something i let grab me by the throat and
shake me around like a dead rabbit. in every analogy you
are the predator and i am the prey.
i used to fight it, i used to hang dream-catchers in my room and
hold crystals in my hand and talk to the moon. i used to
tell her all about you, tell her to make you more gentle and
keep my heart safe. i was relying on the world to take care of me.
you are the dragon, the monster, the big angry animal
with no remorse and hurt eyes.
and i am not the hero or the knight or the champion. i fell in
love and let it beat me down and knock me out. i win by giving in. i win by caging
you up and putting my sword down. i win by taking my
belongings back and finding safety. i fell in love and it destroyed me. but i win by losing, by never letting it happen again.
i win because im staying down for the count.
i win because  it will never happen again.

i am young. i am in the habit of saying things i think i mean because
i have no one to tell me right from wrong. i am in the habit
of giving everything i have to every one i pass because i have
no one to tell me what is enough and what is too much. it is
all just enough, i give every piece of me to every stranger with
warm hands and it is all just enough, i fall into myself in an
endless spiral of every stranger with a gentle first touch and it
is all just enough. part of how to stop being young is learning
to choose your words carefully, learning what i mean and what
i want to speak into meaning are very different things. part
of how to stop being so young is to learn that i should not have
to empty myself into a gentle touch or a warm hand because
there is no place for me to go besides inside of myself. no one has
the capacity to contain me, no one has the ability to hold all of
what i involve in their cupped hands. i fall through the cracks
in their fingers and onto the floor like sand, how to stop being
young is learning that i am concrete, i cannot push myself into
anyone and expect them to carry me on their shoulders. how to
stop being young is learning that i don't need anyone to fill me
up, to fix me, to calm my brain, to keep me kind or save me.
but i am young. i am in the habit of wanting what i can't have,
i am in the habit of wanting to love so hard it kills me, and that
being said i miss you so much it hurts my skin.

there are ghosts that sing our story.
not inside of me, they surround and encompass
me and stick to me. i peel them off of me like
a wet blanket, like clothes that haven't dried all
the way through, like glue on the sticky hands
of a child. they write better than i ever could,
they wrote you this poem after i promised my
hands i would never compose another lyric about
how you left. you just left. you just keep leaving.
there are no words that can rhyme with your
descending footsteps, there are no
metaphors that can complement
the pen stain of your lips on mine. there are ghosts
that hum our story, they write about how we used
to puff cigarettes that we hated and drink ***** from the bottle
and walk around barefoot in the damp grass. they
scribble out all of our memories, like smoke tapping the
ceiling of the room with all of our remnants shelved
away. they have nowhere to go but up to the floorboards
of a chamber i can't get to. there are ghosts that keep
me awake, they whisper what you gave me and what
you took, they write you poems about how you can keep
what you have, about how i don't want it back. i would
never write you this poem. i would sit here and let the
hurt hit my face like rain, but i would keep the deluge
to myself. i would keep my stubborn arms folded across
my chest to keep my heart in its place. there are ghosts
that are not inside of me, they besiege me and they
say your name over and over. these ghosts still love you.
these ghosts know the things that i do not. they wrote you
this poem, they will write you poems like this until i forget
that your name sounds like sharpening a knife.
until i uncross my arms, until i let my
heart steady itself. there are ghosts that will love you until
the day i die. until the day i learn to love you until the day
i die, until the day i learn to exist in consensus with them,
until i become pliant, until i dry myself off, until i step out
of the rain and open doors to new places and let the
smoke of what we were never able to be find somewhere
else to go. go upwards, go out the window, go through the floorboards
of a room i am learning to unlock. there are ghosts that stand next
to me and catenate me just like shadows, they know the things
that i do not. they wrote you this poem.

longing
1. noun; a yearning desire
- i never used to be uncomfortable in my own bed. i knew your name before my rib cage started to sing it in my sleep. every night that has passed crosses itself off of a pocket-calendar that is stuck in the drawers of my chest. you move your favorite things into the empty spaces, you hang your worst fears up like clothes that are waiting to dry, you scratch how you love into the bedpost and put your handprints all over the walls. i can't take a deep breath without
hearing your voice in the refrain of my lungs.

yearnining
2. noun; a feeling of strong want or need
- the first time i heard your voice, it sounded exactly like what
your voice should sound like. soft, barely above a whisper, low
and confident and eager. when you spoke, i wanted
to cancel the outside noise of my breathing to listen to you. i wanted
to close my eyes and imagine that voice next to my ear, barely
above a whisper, low and confident and eager and right there
with both of our breathing suspended by its echo.

desire
3. noun; a strong feeling of wanting to have something or wishing for something to happen.
- every day it is something different. your eyes and how they
almost close when you smile. how your whole family has brown
eyes but you have bright blue ones that turn to gray as the
seasons wear on. your hands and how they look like you
should play an instrument, im saying put those hands to
good use and find something to strum. and we laugh because
you know what i mean. your laugh. it sounds like an answer
to a question i've been asking the silence.
give me someone to love like that. give me someone to love like that. give me-
like a call back from the
darkness. like, here he is in all of his glory and you
still can't have him.

girl rages war on the world after it breaks her heart* the
headlines read on a lazy sunday morning and it is used as
a coffee coaster or padding for packaging old antiques
that came from a shop that smells like the sheets your mom
uses (but only for the guests that don't come anymore.) girl
rages war on the world after it tears her to pieces, after
she walks around with glue in her hair and dirt under
her fingernails, collecting fragments of the people that used
to love her and the places she used to go to. girl rages war
on the cracks in the sidewalk, on the cracks against her mouth
by her fathers hand, every wall has cracks in it to signify how
all grows crooked. all grows upwards, forwards, east, west,
never downwards but never quite all the way straight.
girl rages war
on the world and screams to the sky, she shoots holes into the
blackness and creates constellations in the exit wounds and
melodies out of the echoes. girl makes her own thunder and
her own sequence for the midnight. she tells people who touch
her that they are in the crossfire for bloodshed, that every crack in
the sidewalk they step on is a battlefield, that every diplomatic
exchange between the moon and the tides is a reprise of her
strife.
girl rages war on the world after it breaks her heart and the
newspaper is flipped over to the home improvement ads, the
tv schedule for this week, there is a gunshot but no one flinches
or looks out their window.
after all, what does it matter what she destroys
in the crooked tantrum that all must grow towards?
she and her bullets are no match for the dirt and the
sky and the buildings that waver over her, she is no
match for the people that tower her and the places she will
never go back to.
no need to be alarmed, no need to collect the children and look for safety in empty
basements.
after all, she is just one girl.

the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like my father raising his voice.
i have always recoiled into loud noises, slamming
doors and heavy words have caused me to
flinch in record-reaction time. i fall in and in and
into myself and you say it quietly, but it
is louder than any breaking glass or screeching
tire noises in the driveway of my childhood home. i
have always chosen my words very carefully in a
world full of carelessness, i choose gentle and i choose
compassion and i choose kind. the way you told me
you didn't love me anymore sounded like the fight
where my mother said she was collecting her things.
the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like packing a suitcase and putting a for sale sign on the
glossy green suburban lawn. the way you told me you
didn't love me anymore sounded like the music my
sister would turn up to drown out the voices of adults
downstairs, or the creaking footsteps of a man coming
home late, wafting in someone else's perfume. the way you
told me you didn't love me anymore sounded like the wail
of a child after a blow to the face, after another blow to the
face, after another blow to the-
the way you told me you didn't love me anymore sounded
like something i had been waiting to hear since you told me
you loved me. the other shoe drops. the other shoe drops.
a swift, clean, repetitive blow to the face.

he says “we end nicely. with a hug and a kiss. we end before it gets bad so we can never hate each other.
and in five years i’m going to call you
and ask you to marry me. please
say yes.” and i’m laying in the bed of a boy
that broke my heart and i’m
crying and saying “in five years
i will be just like every other girl
you’ve loved. i will know better by then.”
and he doesnt reply so
eventually i say “i could have
loved you forever if you had
let me. you win. you win, you win,
you win.” and instead of
saying anything he pulls
me close for a second and it feels like normal,
like maybe everything is going to be okay, but every
inch between us is cold we
can both feel it on our skin. “this doesn’t feel like
winning. i will love you for the rest
of my life. this doesn’t feel like winning.”