I sit in math class
thinking why y=mx+b
I start thinking about life
and how I could put it into this problem
y would be you
mx would be your and my ex
and the +b would stand for me

y stands for you because
when I decided to take you on
I knew it was gonna be me plus our ex
and I thought it could work

mx is our ex's because they both
just team up together to try to ruin
the happiness we built and so they
are multiplied together because they're
a team.

the +b has to stand for me because
I'm in this situation too and I stand alone in it. He wants me but he could go back to his ex.

I'm so confused why he can't just cancel out the mx and just keep b.
Is just the 1 of me not good enough for all of him?

Crystal White Pearl paint,
red racing stripes,
MX-5 traced
on the side

Lightweight aluminum
alloy, seventeen inch
wheels wrapped in
205/45 summer
performance tires,

Limited-
Slip Differential,
rear wheel drive,

Six-speed manual
transmission, weighted
shift ****, perfectly
palm-sized

Black sport clutch
bucket seats, seamed
racing red stitching, a clutch
worked with a snap
of the heel, a flick
of the wrist.

Crystal White dash panel,
red racing stripe
MX-5 traced lines
match the stripes outside.

Piano Black
mirrors match
bucket seats
and the cloth
soft top

unfolds on summer days,
spring nights, fall
mornings.

Heaven/
Nirvana/
Happiness

found
now
with a snap of the heel
& flick of the wrist.

i am leading an undefined life
on a kite string
full of fake faces, staged greetings,
and smiles
that don't quite extend to the eyes.

it is as full as a predated diary kept until now.

my childhood went missing in rose gardens
and the space between
the goals.

i had a chalkboard that wouldn't erase.

i have read between the lines of love notes
i have read emotion in only seven letters
i have read passion in fourteen keys

i thought i was untouchable
              ...and i was...
                         but not unwillingly.

i got caught writing nursery rhymes
on my desk
           in the middle of an exam.

and now, at eighteen, i have seen
the carriage stop, and slowly drive away.

i have heard the beauty
in john cage's
four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

i don't know why, but i have chopin's
nocturne in E-flat major
stuck in my head.

i hate not being able to say the right words
          when i need them
instead of when
                i find them.

i love the woven metal
embracing my finger;
       that makes us almost sisters.

i've lost a heavy golden crucifix
     with an anchor as its back,
and a tiny bundle that tore me up inside.

i'm looking for a fireman
named greg
just to see how he's doing
since 1997.

i wish that everything i wrote would become truth,
    because then
          i could make people come back.

and my heart is strong.

The mathematician never finished his work today

Which is weird because it was the most important project of his career.
Working on the equation for the perfect person, left it halfway done.
The other half lost in this numerical mind.

But that's what we are, two halves of an unfinished project.

A slip atom
A half of a binomial theorem
A parabola at the apex of its' focus, ready to fall right back on its' feet.

Because apart we are imperfect, we trip, we fall
But when multiplied we are a product of perfection, able to point out that mistaken branch before you have time to brace yourself.

I'll take those expanded arms and wrap them around me, feel your acute angles against my obtuse curves.
Put my hand on your neck, not to feel your skin, well: to do that too, but also to feel your pulse.
Knowing it beats at the same intervals as mine.

And no one know why the mathematician never completed the equation.

…maybe fell asleep…
                                       …maybe distracted…
                                                                              …maybe he just forgot…

But I thank him.

Because perfect is lonely and you...you are everything.
Without him the  Y= to my MX+being would never be linear.

And I'm not good at math, neither are you, but I'm pretty sure we don't need to look in the back of the book for any answers.

Academic conversations about consent are a pure form of agony,
Listening to students and Professor toss around the word like it's a hypothetical commodity,
As if there is question that autonomy and dignity belong to every living thing in that room.
We are asked to dissect the most intimate of physical safeties as if this is a lesson in biology,
Solve 'consent' like a particularly challenging calculus problem,
Pretend as if this didn't happen in the confines of my body.
It's excruciating to have to take an equation,
We'll start with y=mx+b,
And calculate which variables determine basic human decency.
I was young, female, gay, autistic, bipolar,
Clinging to his professions of love like they could stitch the gaping emotional wounds,
And somehow that didn't make me human when he did the math.
I don't know how to argue, Professor, with which philosophical tools,
Professor, that I was a person, Professor,
When he decided to **** me.

La prima volta che vi ** visto,
Vi ** amato con ogni cellula del mio essere.
Questo sentimento mi ha diviso il cuore
E ** avuto bisogno di proteggervi!

Quando ** tenuto la mano
Il calore della vostra pelle
Mi ha dato un sorriso
Brillava come le stelle!

Dal momento in cui avete l'aperto gli occhi
Avete vissuto nel mio cuore
Poi quando ** sentito il pianto
Volevo prendere il vostro dolore!

Finché Dio non ci separi.  
Mx