I can hear the wind
passing beneath my feet and
I can see the clouds roaming by my head and
I can taste free air on my tongue-
but I can feel the turbulence is increasing in my heart the further away I get from you
and I am reminded of why I love
planes,
flying,
the window seat,
but hate traveling.

She got a new job in a new neighborhood
with new apartment neighbors
that looked at her strangely when she
wore the same pair of sweatpants every day
for 43 days straight,
new neighbors that saw her
do laundry every Thursday around 7:12 p.m.
of women's whites and darks
but yet continued to wear baggy clothes that sagged
and dragged
and new neighbors that questioned whether she was sane
when they saw her practically stripping
with every stairway step
leading to her apartment
leaving a trail of clothes that were foreign to her
and new neighbors that were greeted every day before she tried to sink back into her old life,
drowning herself in his packed-up wardrobe, ready for donation,
to get into his sweatpants for the 44th day,
into the same pair she used to wash for him
every week around 7:12 p.m.,
the pair he used to lounge in everyday after work after greeting her,
the pair he swore
were made for her,
the pair she will want to live her whole life in,  
because she knows there will come a Thursday when the scent of him
will be as foreign as the feeling of wearing jeans.

you are a candle-
you might melt at
a single flame,
but give yourself
time,
air,
you'll harden again.

The stars are lonely
on the edges of the universe-
I am not alone,
yet further away.

As the sun rises
my crusted eyelids
will break
and my chapped lips
will part,
my rested mind
will open
and you will still linger
on my mouth

I went on a two hour run one day
after my step-father told me
that no man would marry me
if I had a tattoo.
I never asked for a husband,
I never expressed want for a
spouse;
I want a tattoo.
I laid in bed for two hours that day
until he came up to my room
and "apologized" saying,
he was "joking"
and I "clearly took this stuff very seriously."
I take the world seriously.
I try very hard to emphasize just how little I care what others think about me.
I want to be sarcastic.
I want teal hair.
I would like to ink my skin.
I want to run out my frustrations, not
"get a good body for bikini season"
I eat fruit to feel good, not so
my legs will "look good in that dress"
I want a tattoo
because my body was not made for you to look at.
My body is not created every single day
for men.
I want a tattoo-
a circle just below my knuckle on my left-hand ring finger,
a reminder that I belong to me
way before,
always before,
I belong to anyone else.
I never asked for a husband,
and I certainly never asked you.

snow falls, yet not everything gets hit
nature knows some will bear the load

bark hovering over gentil leaves
nature knows some cannot survive in the cold

every
day
is
a
lifetime
and
the
night
is
taking
so long
to
arrive

It's 1:54 in the morning
where I am- in bed
and I know, even though it's 1:54 in the morning
where you are- in bed,

you are not writing a poem
for me
in the dark
under thin sheets

you are not shading in an outline
of my skin
in the dark
*******, in sweaty underwear

you are not thinking of me
in the dark
under thin sheets
*******, in sweaty underwear

like I am, of you.

maybe
if I write a poem
that encompasses
all of
my thoughts,
I can finally stop thinking

but
since all my thoughts are about you
I don't think
there are enough lines
or words
or letters

so I think
I will continue to write
all my ideas and poems
and all it-
until you finally
think of me too.

"please be happy"
she said begging,
pleading

"no" came the voice in reply,
deep within herself

It started with him,
Not so long ago
A moment in the past where
My feelings were confusing.

It started with him,
I wanted to read him over again
And analyze him,
And take notes
Figure out each phrase
And memorize themes
About him
I wanted to learn about
Every aspect
And inspect every former draft of him
And figure out why there were
Modifications and changes of him

I wanted to write him down,
Soak pen ink in his name
So I wrote poetry.

I fell in love with him
I fell in love with destructive poetry.

And then I realized one day
My metaphors were getting more passionate
But he was not,
I spent more time on line spacing
Than planning my space around him
I became wittier with words
While his jokes were getting old
He became ideas
That were better expressed by me

So I continued to write
Better poetry
And it’s not ending with him
But now with
Lovelier things,
About lovelier people

Like me-
Who I have learned about
Who I have seen more of
Who I am not afraid to change
And correct
Because of mistakes and errors
Who I have written of
Who I have written.

Singed ink in my name.

Because poetry started with him,
But it’s ending with me.

I know he is a good poem because
I want to read him over again
and analyze him
and take notes,
figure out each phrase
and memorize themes
about him
I want to learn about
every aspect
and
inspect every draft of former him
and learn why there
were
modifications and changes of him

but-
I also want to feel him,
without looking too closely
to just take a glance
and know
who he is
to connect
and love,
and preserve how he is read
because at first sight,
I knew I would memorize him
like that one truly good poem.

A million blades
of grass- yet so few to have
ever walked on them

A million blades
of grass- a few million
yet ever walked on

A million blades
of grass- a few million
yet to see, to grow

There is a small room
in the corner of my heart

where all your favorite things
and all your quirks are stored

where your time and affection constantly occupy

and I know that if you were ever to lose yourself-
to yourself, or to others-
you will come knocking on my body's door

as my heartbeat
until I, to your's.

every love poem I wrote,

I wrote for you

my muse,
one ode for everything unsaid
and a skew rhyme for the reasons I fret

every line
and all this



                                           space,

every word:

for you.

writing poetry
really isn't that hard:
you put down the words in your head
and you

break
up some
lines,

you can even try to rhyme
from time to time
but,
writing good poetry:
poetry that moves
and poetry that inspires
and poetry that is a blueprint
to your personality
and all your desires
where the lines
are smooth, slick with rhythm
where the phrases
are greedy of attention
like war and prison:
those kinds of poems
are going to be hard to write

but, in the end,
are so worth the writing

In chemistry
I learn how everything can be predicted:
how equilibrium
balances unstable situations
but I have yet to see
how I can use that in real life:
so school is pointless

In French
I learn how to talk about relationships
and how to say
"We are engaged" in another language
but I have yet to see
how I can use that in real life:
so school is pointless

And I can say with certainty
I have not yet learned
an essential skill:
a skill I need in order to survive,
I have not yet learned
how to make you love me,
so everything is pointless

I wish
I had someone
to show my teeth to
late at night
after I have had a
good cry,
but mostly
I wish it
was to you
I was
smiling.

we talked about
multiple personality disorder
and how people
change into other versions of people
and I thought that maybe
for a couple of hours,
for a vacation of sorts,
you could become a segmented part of me.
and I would come to you
when I became utterly sick
of myself
and needed to forget
and you would start a whole new me
someone that I knew nothing about,
a naive stranger,
whose only background,
only indication of any past
was you.

If you are looking to love me
please do not become me
because it is fact that I do not love me

I do not look at me with affection or see me
being a perfect parent

I do not wish to look at a reflection
day in and day out
of someone that is repulsive,
someone that makes me want to change me

and I hate waking up with that gut feeling,
the rush of knowing what I have become
and who I am and
I hate morning-me

and I hate afternoon-shy-me
and depressed-insomnia-me-at-11
and


I do not wish to be haunted by me and
I certainly wouldn't wish that
upon anytime-you.

I guess you could say
I am a skeptic
of the notion that
"nothing is perfect"
because a few days back,
you opened your timid mouth
for the first time-
and you
laughed.

the saddest love story
I had, I had worshiped you
but you did not see me,

see me for what
I could be, could be every other
thought I think, I think of
love with you

of love with you, with you,
you make me the saddest.

oh God
the world,
how heavy it may be
weighing on your shoulders-
just lighten it:
chisel the bump
off my crooked nose
and skin the fat
off my hilly hips,
the muffin top
munched away by
little creatures in the night.
You and me
both would be
a little lighter-
happier to know
that I will not
beat myself up
on the inside
by the big things
that overshadow
my cute little
being and the world
a little lighter.

My nights: you are Love
lovelier than anyone-
loving me as well.

If I had to do it all over again
I would have snuck out
of my bedroom window
and done poorly in school
when it didn't really matter.
I would have been restless.
Endlessly hopelessly romantic.
I would have covered my room
with pictures of my would-be favorite
punk 80's rock bands
and told my dad off
when he offended gays.
Gotten my belly button pierced.
Rebelled.
If I had to do it all over again,
I would have been myself
in the beginning
when it all mattered.

even you seem like the most distant
of dreams
at 4 a.m.
when drugs control my mind
and
everything is in my reach.
even my mind cannot comprehend you and me,
when
my fears are fog
and love
a possibility

Some of the lowest leaves
that face upwards,
that reach towards sunlight,
never fall to the ground.
Some of the highest flowers,
heated from the warmth,
never to become roots,
always face down.

It's kind of strange-
How we'll be sitting
at a gas station
and see these passing cars going north, south, east, west
and in those cars are people
with destinations and appointments and errands
and they have son-in- laws,
and pregnancy scares,
and they have shoe sizes and-
They live their whole lives without us.

We just see them in that
fleeting moment.

Maybe they are wearing sunglasses that are one size two big
or we see they have a seven year old soccer player stinking, covered in stains
but they go home and lay the glasses in the granite island
next to the rejected dadoption papers
or wind up the washing machine
that hasn't been working properly in one too many weeks.

We will never be a part of someone's lives wholly,
and we will never know their middle names or their deepest secrets
It's just strange-
is all.

I want to be
in sync with
another:
our arms swaying
with our steps
with not much
to talk about
because
our minds are already
in the same place,
thoughts stuck
to each other
absentmindedly
communicating
through silence
and smilies and the
whistling of wind
through our palms

You want to talk about beauty?
let's discuss your lips
and how they
move with such wild
passion that I cannot
tear my eyes away and I notice
you noticing my intensity but I
cannot help it-
and your hazel eyes so bright
that they send me off onto
an oblivion so vast,
I can't help but think about
you when staring
into space.
You, my day dream,
you cannot be-but you are.
You are
the only person I will ever
consider to be beautiful
and it makes me mad, just
downright spitful of this world,
to be considered your friend, never a potential lover
So instead I will talk about that
petty, boy I cuddled
with last night,
whose fingertips were grazing my waist
and tickling me.
But if they were your hands,
I would have dreamt of lust and beauty
and not of hatred of this mad, cruel world:
let's talk about ugliness.

"Him", her mouth says

and he looks away

before he could see
her eyes screaming
"you"

and she tried not to show
just how she hurts

but it's hard.

He knows it too.

I have a sixth sense,

so I know
when it is going
to storm.

But I
did not have
an inkling
that you were
forming clouds
above my head,
moving in my range,
ready to fill my ears
with your cackling
after I
had seen shadows form
in your light.

you have
no idea
how it
feels
to be in love
with you.



you lucky *******.

I don't just want
your hand in marriage

I want
your laugh to
be always connected
with me.

I don't
want to
feel your tounge

I want to
see it move
at 2 a.m.
swirling,
"The baby. Your turn"

and I know
that may
just
be
too
much
to ask.

I just hope I find
the courage
to ask.

my lack
of speech,
I could
not fathom
spurting random
words from
my mouth
when my
mind was
filled with
"I want you"
"I want you"
"Oh god, you don't want me"

Your mind holds
the answer
of a question
I seek inside of me,

give me the permission
to love you.

I do have
midnight cravings.
but sadly,
I cannot
go down the stairs
and find
you
in my pantry.

I think I found the
meaning of life,

to be happy,

but no one seems
to agree with me.
They think its

to make money
to be sucessful.

I guess I don't really understand.

there are two parts of me
that are constantly at odds:

one that loves you,

and one that hates you
for making me
love you.

one wins battles,
the other- wars.

Silence,
You creep and you rest
You shatter and break
And to be in love with you,
I love what that takes.

Seeing you as you are
A wonder
A flame, a conversation starter.

The power of mindfulness,
Like a problem
You stay.
But you are not deadly and
You are not bad

You are holy.
A moment of you, for those lost
You, for words cannot express what it will cost.

You are made when irritated,
More influence than movements

You are white and crisp,
Like air, flawless.
Never confusing.

You never hold yourself against me.
A strong hesitation,
You make my deep soul think,
For words do no such thing.

Oh that smile-
she's a tricky one.
Between those
black slits of pure white
is saltwater
the same that
runs from her eyes
onto
the floor.
Those shiny gums
lined with pink
that moves in
her veins
through her pale scars
onto
the floor.
That tongue
how it works
its way through words
deceiving
the very people
that gave life to it
"I'm happy" it says
as she falls
onto
the floor.

You can probably tell when I am mad
or sad
Any woman can hide it all,
so true.
But only the real ladies leave it
on the table
to see who will be there
through and through.
You might leave me,
but at least it's for
the real me.

Could it be
that a life without you
would be the end of me?

Yeah. Probably.

I once recieved a fortune cookie message
reading
"You are a lover of words. You should write a book"
Then I thought
well
everyone should write a book.
I thought everyone loved words.
Different types of words.
curse words and greetings words
cute words and lover's words
You love them.
unnessasary, sassy,
trendy, vintage words
You love them.
cards' and poets' and moms' words
Even if they are cruel to you
do not break up with them.

This is my canvas.
Just like you have seven colors
I have twenty six letters.

I have a finite number of ways to get you to feel.
I have boundaries set up by history and grammer.
I have these inhumane words to work with,
but
I can elicit a sad feeling
without having to use blue.
And I'm not so sure
that's something you could do.