Between the lines of conversation, you have the words. The fragments of thoughts that seep through letter after letter combination. Emotion and experience placed in the minute spaces within the letters. Each phrase is a cracked door. Opened ever so slightly, but enough to catch a glimpse of its contents. Between the lines of conversation, you have your Leo Tolstoys and your Virginia Woolfs. You have an idea of the artistry of living. You have the ability to keep breathing. Between the lines of conversation, you have the hesitations and the “Wait a minute”s. You have the slow, heavy “I love you”s. You have “I miss you”s and “Don’t forget about me”s. Between the lines of conversation, though, you also get your “*******”s and your “Leave me be”s. You have relentless chasing and lonely nights. Your messy break-ups and flaccid first loves. When you have a conversation, it is more than thin letter arrangement. It is response and meaning and power. Between the lines of conversation, you have the words. The fragments of thoughts that seep through letter after letter combination. You have life.

My skin crawls,
I can't help but write.
To you and her and my mother.
“I loved you"
I can't help but write

I can't help but paint
"I loved you"
Onto my head and heart.
I can't help but paint

I can't help but sigh.
Onto my head and heart,
I dispel the warm wickedness

I say "I fell in love with you"
To you and her and my mother.
I fall in love with other humans:
My skin crawls.


*16 April

Freeness, lightness, something extraordinary
Unsure, wobbly footsteps across pavement
Pressure pushing you on
Convincing

Stopping on the edge
of the field of knowing what's
going to happen next
Defying sense

Thrusting firmly into nature
Against the human machine
Nurturing the idea
Of pushing your spiritual limits

Bird-like,
Swimming,
Catching yourself right before
You fall off the sidewalk

Blind,
But with a greater sensation
The dark provokes not fright
But evaluated wonder

Fooling the gravity
Of yourself
And where your steps land,
You walk with your eyes closed


*16 April

Chills run down your spine  
Caress with a caress, tender
Breaking a physical valve, meander
Touch to touch, unkeeping of the line
Unplanned, a mystery thick as pine
Feeling, shaking like thunder
Nothing short of splendor
Heart breaking without time

Pulling away from rush
Far from appeasement
No longer engrossed, no longer heated lush
Cold like the words he meant
Stinging like fireside brush
Kisses from fervent


*14 April

It all kind of
Blurs together,
The mishaps
And "what if"s.

The well-wishes
Of old friends
Etched carelessly
With bleeding ink.

Looking through
Yearbooks, trapped
Behind cartilage cages.

When you think
About it all too
Hard, your lungs
Do a flip-flop.

But when you don't
Think about it at all,
Your skull feels bare.

"Bittersweet"
Is the name
Of the game.

We have
A pair
Of demons
That constantly
Cover our
Eyes and
Rip open
Our chests.
They wrap
Us up
In chains
And yank
On our
Throats. We
Are always
In a
Duet with
Our devils,
And they
Know every
Step. We
Trip and
Fall, but
I will
Not hide.

My devils'
Duet will
Not be
My death.

I will
Not let
Them push
Me. I
Will not
Fall down.

The duet
is over.

*I win

The brick lining
Of my fist-sized heart

Is all crumbling
On the outside.

But the foundation
Is sound.

My "I love you"s
Are solid--

Genuine--

And my "I miss you"s
Are sad.

My roof is
Shingle-less

And my windows are
Shattered,

But I feel every bit
Of us

With my soul.

Your skin is comfortable
Beneath my palms.
Tanned from one-and-a-half
Lives.

I am captivated.
I want to curl up
Within the pores.

It smells of experience
And trials;
Sad and sweet.

Your skin is soft
From years of having
To be tough.

I am in love
With your skin.
Imperfect.
Lovely.

I am in love with you.

Sometimes you say
I have oceans in my eyes.
Not once have I thought
That so.

My eyes are thin
And grey;
They are no "silver lining".

The green that lines them
Is not seaweed,
But the mold of a past
Mess.

You have told me my eyes
Are reflective.
But they simply harbor the
Colors of lonely skies
And mismatched loves.

You have described beauty
And freedom
Within my irises.


But I can't see them
Unless there's a layer
Of glass between.

I don't see the oceans.

The clock doesn't move
On these sort of nights
When the yearning
To be in your arms
Is the strongest

My arms are buried
In the lime green sleeves
Of the shirt that smells
Of your skin

My skin turns the purple-yellow
Of your affections

My affections for you
Are bottomless

Bottomless thoughts of you

trent,
I love
the way you
smile with all teeth
and your cute chuckle laugh.
I'll love you for our lives.
and your sweet smelling skin,
feeling you by me
through my whatever.
my love,
trent

My heart is a *******
Glacier.
I’m cold as ****
And I’m lonely
And my stupid head is an ocean.

I’m lost as ****
And I am trashing
Old art pieces
From two years ago.

Chipped
Toe-nail polish
Is stuck in my lungs
Because I can’t help but breathe it in.

The fumes attack
When I’m half-asleep.
And something strange
Knocks on my bedroom door.



But of course
I don’t answer it
Because I’m a ******* chicken
With goosebumps ripping up
My spine.

i have seen the silhouette of me, the shape of my charcoal black outline, tripping over sticks and stones, not once staying down. i have seen myself push people away only to beg them back in. i have seen the shell of me damage herself, tear herself apart, repeatedly all because someone made her feel like she deserved to hurt.

i have seen the silhouette of me and she’s long long gone. it’s me now, my insides pouring over, revealing even the slightest charismatic piece of evidence that maybe

just maybe

she isn’t so terrible after all.

I’m not going to miss anything about this place. Its yellow grass, prickly plants, beating sun. There’s nothing here that I will genuinely miss and I don’t know how I feel about that. Everything here is brown—not a casual, descent brown. It’s a murky, ***** brown that has become the representation of everything I detest. The weather disgusts me and the people are even worse. The sun has become an enemy and whenever it comes out, I want to die. When I think of Arizona, of my hometown, I think of depression and my weight issues and my disgust with my body and who I am. When I think back on the houses and apartments I’ve lived In or the schools I’ve attended, I can’t help but fall into silent, stinging tears because it’s all been everything I’ve never wanted. I think of my first grade and I get angry because I didn’t ask for my anxiety. I remember all the soccer games I played and I realize that I never wanted to feel ‘big’ in my own body. And when I talk about all the empty tea mugs and bottles of health drinks lying around my room and in desk drawers, I always come back to the lighters and ash that have littered my very core. I’m not going to miss this place because all I’ve gotten out of it is sleepless nights and shedding skin. Summers were never my element and every day I continue living under the canopy of despondency, is one more summer I have to face. I’m a burning building. And Colorado is the only thing that will put me out. I don’t understand why people correlate fire with self power because whenever I think of fire, I think of the hunger that the flames feel. The hunger for something more than what they are already getting. So maybe I’m just the fire. Not the building. My hunger lies within every atom of my being because I need more than what I’m getting. If my life is only made up the ***** brown of the Arizona buildings or of the first grades and soccer games, then I don’t want to live anymore. Somewhere inside me, though, there is a hope –a very small piece, but hope nonetheless –that my life hasn’t entirely begun yet and I’m just going through the rituals of some sick god. But still my vision keeps getting clouded by yellow grass and burnt out cigarettes. And my hope gets buried again.

My cracked lips and dry

throat greet you.

My mind sails away

from the physical

claim of self.

I’m against the wall

of the solitary confinement

of feeling.

A glass of red water

is sitting on my bookshelf.

Books are piled

on my soul.

Bigger perceptions,

simple tools of the

brink of creativity.

My veined eyes

greet you,

are calloused

with night of

dry-heaving.

Juxtaposition of an

orange in  my

throat,

keeping the words

down like medicine.

"Don’t keep it all

in there,

you’ll surely die.”

But some days,

some times,

I stop caring.

You’re my reason.

I greet you with

pale hands and

shaking knees

cracked lips

kiss you.

All of the sad

and distress

pour into the body

I most love

to hold.

Sweaty palms, face up,

Succulents and cold coffee,



My eyes are drooping

Crusts of oldish paint--

My tea has long since gone cold



Where are you, my dear?

I love

the sound of the ocean

when you brush through

your short hair.



I love

the murky peridot

***** sitting beneath

your blackened eyelids.



I love

the gray things,

the soft things,

that fuzz up my image

of him.



I love

the dusk

and how it outlines

your coming.



I love

the cold ice

in your sunflower glass

that's long past melting.



I love

the spirit's breath

that keeps every time

you go.



I love

the subtle

confusion

wrought by

your evening curves.



I love

you

and your casual likeness

and how





you have accepted me.

I wish I could hold

that baby behind me

in the grocery store checkout.



I wish I could keep

the poem you typed up

on your typewriter for me

that you lost on our first

meeting.



I wish you could grasp

the soft embers

that glow beneath my cold cheeks

whenever you say

"ace".



Sometimes

if the modd discovers my cowering,

I wish you could hold me





and whisper.

Connect the dots

that are the freckles on

my skin.



Close the lids

that open things

are in.



Hold the books

that my eyes never

end.



Learn the rules-

the fragilities-



of a broken man.

Green fingers

stroking broken heartstrings



Loving you

pulls at the edges of my fabric



and



Lots of moons

float across the

crystal blanket



You're wrapped in it,

grasping a bottle of

undefined knowledge



Blackest coal



of your outline

Closing the day, going back to remembered dusk and your heart on a spoon,

Dreamland is a little too far among the gray things, but

you see the day's tears like the end of a dream, its kind

but sorrowful temperament. You seek out

the loss written in the head's tears on the silk flowers

of June's permanent pair of spectacles.

The beauty of her remembrance clouds the outline

of the far body of chlorophorm that

fills your lungs, making the dusk less obvious

and your heart jump to your throat. So now

you're sitting on the closing of the deep things that kept

you so broken for so far and your dusk is Dreamland again and

the lids above your dark regards drop slowly over,



closing.

Don't put too much pressure

On the things you find beautiful

They will crack



Don't lose touch

With who you've been

Because you might forget



Don't leave behind

Your friends

You might feel lonely



Don't

Stay where you're unhappy

When there's so much out there



There's a world of symphonies

And you've seen very few

Like one or two



You can do

pretty much anything



Because you're strong

Do not admit your

Innermost feelings and thoughts



Or else I’ll kiss you

the sun keeps

shining through the

thinly-paned glass

covered, caked in spots

from the rainy days where you and i were in

separate times

separate lives

i was thinking about the

spots of classic arizona dust

and how you were sitting with

other boys

laughing and living



and i received that message

on that day

we know what it said

inspired, three words



clouded skies

clouded eyes

i knew you were out there--

while i was thinking of you--

out there, you were



thinking of me too

Heart and brain are stuck,

Fingertips are freezing cold,



My words cannot say

I'll hide

Within the tea jars

And the broken whistles

Where, hopefully,



They won't think to look

I do a lot of writing

while in odd places

or waiting for the bus.

I do a lot of writing

when my heart is in a billion pieces

over a boy I never knew.

I do a lot of writing

while I try to paint something beautiful

but all that comes from my fingertips

is a dusty bouquet of dandelions.

I tried to do a lot of writing

when you told me you love me



but my heart could bear the weight

and my fingertips could not produce the

magnificence that you held in your mind.

My writings all **** now

but I'm perfectly okay with that



if that means I can keep you in my sweater pocket.

I'm sorry

that I left my shoes

under the dining room table

even after you told me

they were getting in the way

of your vaccuuming.



I'm sorry

that I missed your

17th birthday party

even after I told you I could make it

and was excited because we haven't

seen each other in a while.



I'm sorry

that my dress rises a little

too high

whenever I bend to pick up

that black furry cat that's

constantly meowing at you.



I'm sorry

that highrises and architecture

and green plants with big leaves

and little flowers

excite me on my

worst days.



I'm sorry

that I told you that

I loved you

and I would always be there to

paint portraits of aliens

and flowers for you.



I'm sorry

that I'm not so special anymore

and my hair needs to be cut



and my skin is a little dry.

It smells like rain drops

But my mind is in pieces



Separate from you

I want to feel my life

I don’t want to see it from the other side

I don’t want to be free of it

I just want to be free of all of this



I’m not alone

Although I feel it

Although I am swan-necked,

Yearless,

Unsinkable,

I have Him with me



He knows my story

He knows I’m stronger than I feel,

But sometimes—just sometimes—

I feel totally empowered,





but I’m stuck powerless

Learning things

That make you

Squirm where you sit,



And bounce off

The things that make

You cringe,



Selling your soul

To preserve your

Skin,



Mismatching your

Glass eyeballs

And tearing your hair,



Putting pressures

On the canvas of

Your brain,



The presence of

Your unorthodoxies



Clouding your ears

Sun-crested eyes

Bold, low lungs

Digging to the core

Of the earth



Towering edifices

Hesitating a little

Swooning to the ends



Of my hair

Your lips taste like

Blue carnations on Sunday mornings

Smell like

Freshly sharpened coloring pencils

From that expensive crafting store

Your eyes feel like

Dozens of swans’ feathers



Making up the fluff in my dreams

I am the pressed

rose in your book

of secrets



The shocking color that

pulses through your

veins



The grey skin that

slithers off your

perpetually dry fingertips



I am the scratch of

the pen being

used as we speak



The way the calloused

mountains look

when you drive me



home

Bad noise circling the charcoal

Around your thickly lashed eyes

Your desk is as cluttered as

Your head

Graphite scars lining your wrists

Empty sketchbooks waiting

For their own life stories

For the wind's influence to sweep

Lovely things across their pages

You say you're an artist,

But you hurt entirely too much

For your watercolor heart to not be

Don't worry about the past,
They throw their speech at you

But you worry more about the future

And how "art students don't make enough money"

Or

"You'll never amount to anything doing that"

And those thoughts are what



Positively kills you

Casting lungs into the sea

Suffocating beneath touching glances

Caress each troubled thought

Wait for the breathing to come back

Normal again



Stretch the edges outwardly

Breaking sea glass eyes

Secret places in the dark

Wait for the breathing to come back

Normal again



Defined flames

Of cascading salt

In my lungs

Wait for the breathing to come back



Normal again

Pressing coal into

Pairs of lungs          

Shoveling spoons of

Fresh-boiled sadness

Down the throats

Of wilting flowers



Clasping cold fingertips

Around the veins

Of already choking fish

That swim in your blood



Sharpen the stakes

Of an older kind of love

That burns still



Beneath you

It's not the way you look at the cleaning lady

and how her hands move while winding the vacuum's cord.

It's more like the way you ask her

what her name is.

And she answers with a tone

that tells you more than just the answer you desired.

Her story is far different from what you'd imagine,

her lungs sharing each breath with you.

You asked her for her name,

you got a lifetime of regrets.

A few broken heart strings

like the keys of an old piano—



their sound soft, but not quite manageable.

Chapped lips

And something not quite tangible

Leaning over the side of the bathtub

Nose running

Laps around my drooping eyes

Letters forming words

That slip from the thing

In my heart

And periodic cries



In my throat