there's a boy in my class who's sick
and his hair has already fallen out in chunks
and his eyebrows are thinning
and his skin has turned to flaking paper.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and he doesn't come to school as often anymore
and though he used to be gifted, his grades have dropped
and his eyes are just two empty pools of water.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and i wish i knew him more to offer comfort or aid
and decipher if that smile on his lips is fake or not
and tell him I care. because i do.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and my cheeks used to flush whenever i saw him
and i used to write poems about his blonde locks
but i never confessed because it doesn't even matter anymore.

there's a boy in my class who's sick
and i worry that one day
i'll never see him again.

the overwhelming chlorine enfolds itself unto my skin,
the fluorescent lights paste themselves to the back of my eyelids,
the cold salt-less waves lap against the harsh brown concrete,
over and over and over again.
every monday.
every thursday.

it's one thing to be plunging in the water,
shuddering and choking on that awful taste,
falling behind since elementary because--
no matter how hard you kick or how intently you listen,
you're the slowest one there--
and--
you. can't. get. better.
that's all fine.

it's another to stand on the deck,
awkwardly shift your body to look smaller, fold inwards,
smooth out your eyebrows until a few fleck into your fingers,
dig your nails into your arms (but, careful! don't be obvious about it),
try to smile and--

every monday.
every thursday.
i go back to that awful awful pool deck
that reeks of chemicals and humiliation
that always makes me retreat into my cells

and

every monday.
every thursday.
i reconsider the possibility of
drowning myself,
in the pool.

i guess all those nights i spent studying
just weren't worth it.

and the hot flashes of nausea that kept me from sleeping
were just warning me of my incapacity.

and my cuticle-less fingers that dripped blood on the exam paper
must not have been wanted it enough.

and my stupid brain was foolish enough to believe that
i'd "done my best"
(was it? was that all i could have done? ever?)

god what was the point of it.
god it's not even that big of a deal.
god you're just stupid and you're inefficient.
god maybe you should have just done better
god you just can't get it can you
god if this is hard, imagine college
god stop! stop hitting your wrist against the table, it's not helping!
god google it, can you lose your academic gift?
god imagine their faces when they see your score
god how will you hide it now
god help me i can't go back don't make me go back please please
god wow you really thought you did well you thought you earned it
god what if you didn't care about it, then it wouldn't matter
god imagine that, you don't study, and all the expectations are gone
god imagine that, you don't try.

you don't try.

oh.

maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore maybe i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldnt try anymore i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shoudn't try i shouldn't try i shouldn't try i shouldnt try i shouldnt i shouldnt i shouldnt i shouldnt

to love is to suffer
to suffer is to love

so when you reach your hand down my throat
and rip my heart from my chest,
when you curl your fingers into fists and
beat them against my face,
when you smile tauntingly and tease and mock and humiliate and manipulate me,
when you curl your fingers against the stitches that i restitch
every morning, every afternoon, every night,
and yank as hard as you can until the blood flows like red peonies against my skin

to love is to suffer
to suffer is to love

i don't mind.
it's okay.
i don't mind.
i don't.
because i love you.

to love is to love
to suffer is to suffer
or was it something else?
because i can't tell anymore

would you rather--

wake up lazily,
dark clouds rolling above the hills outside,
soft plip-plip of the rain pattering against the window,
leaving the warmth of your nest,
you head to the kitchen to grab a *** of scorching coffee,
and it's bitter and home and complete, just like you like it.
and as you're swallowing, humming an old tune to yourself,
you realize.
it's gone.
you don't know where you left it.
where it is now.
but it's gone. dear god, dear god, it's gone.
you rush to the corners of your mind
pillaging memories and experiences
because where did it go?
you had it--you had it, I know you had it--but now you don't
you can picture it, so clearly, in your smile, in your eyes and--
now it's missing.
and you empty and discard those boxes you'd so neatly stacked up
and exhume those bodies you'd so categorically buried
and--and--it's not there. or here. or anywhere.
overnight, it disappeared.
like the memory of sitting in your grandpa's lap.
or those french revolution dates you memorized not long ago.
it's gone and you're not sure how
but everything feels kind of numb
and it feels like...this is it.
snap.
the end.

wake up with a pounding in front of your eyes,
he's lying next to you but the blankets are cold,
and his freckles seem dimmer; his eyes more brown than green
neither of you is smiling,
and the dishes are piled up in the sink,
and it's been like this for a while.
the hugs turned into lingering gazes,
the lingering gazes into cold awkward tension.
you couldn't name it for the life of you;
that acidic pit at the bottom of your stomach
that numbness around your twined fingers
the dialogue that dies as soon as it leaves your mouths
like a joke taken too far or a poem meant for another day.
it's a slow death.
the i love yous' absence is so strong you constantly hear it in your ear
buzzing, ringing, reminding you of a feeling that once was.
in the middle of a crowd, your eyes don't go to his anymore,
no more shared grins, eyebrow lifts, mouthed words.
dancing, and waltzing, and spinning around the truth
because it's gone.
it hurts (or maybe, it's supposed to)
and, either way, it's gone.
and now, you're just waiting for the crows to pick at your corpse,
pick at it and declare it dead.
because someone has to.

and i am scared

do i hold weights in my hand
that bound me to Hell?
or am i sinking my nails into a rope
that saves me from the plummet of death?

will i let go,
and will i find you?
holding my hand,
kissing my neck,
stroking my cheek?

or will i fall into the arms of a drunk stranger who shares your face?
who dances and sings and paints like you?
but doesn't remember me?

i can't tell.
some people can,
but i can't.
and so i'm terrified
to even breathe differently,
because i don't know if
my lungs will stop entirely,
or if
my fingernails will lose their blue tint.

maybe,
i'd rather not know at all.