Waterproof eyeliner is a shield, soaked
black hair, like charcoal, pressed against
frozen numb ear lobes, holding in place water-damaged plastic buds,
once blasting melodies of black and blue emotion,
with hands clenched in fists of futility.
The jagged edges of her beauty have
the ocean boiling again, and the clams
spat out bursts of fire.

It was a late weekday moon,
the beach was silent but the sound
of their heavy breaths swooped across the sand,
and their laughter rose like the waves.
“Killin’ that bottle to get smashed.”
She was convinced so eloquently,
before downing a gulp of bittersweet liquid
before drowning in a gulp of bittersalt sea.

Sarah Rose Sedwick.
Swallowed by the waves.
The icy Pacific Ocean water
claiming territory
in her lungs,
dark, salty deepness chilling to
the core of her soft bones.

A memory is written
on a clean blank sheet.
Nothing now but
a paper boat
in the wind.

Please understand.
I am someone who started with a plan and ended
with a mission; I have seen you in your raw beginnings
and I hope I won’t live to the day the sun expands and expands
until it bursts into a million little pieces and takes
you with it.

Treat me
like your lifeboat. It is
not my job to cross-examine your every
move yet the woodpecker
in my heart frantically rattles away
when I am unaware
of the places you seek
to find refuge: a blue hoodie understands you,
acts like armor to defend you. And who am I
to take that away?

I have to take things away, I am
trying to shape you with these hands,
hands accuse you and choose to
make you do things that will at first
feel like whiplash. It is involuntary, a
knee-**** reaction, but I promise you,
I will make sure it all ends okay.

So let me help you.
Closed eyelids cannot read thoughts.
And rejection still stings even if
you expect it. I am not supposed to
understand you, I am out-dated,
like the mix tapes that still speak to me.
I reach out to unblinking faces and
disappearing validation. I leave my
arms in case you fall.  

And aren’t there times when
I’ve tried and tried, and want to
pack my bags and leave it all behind?
Never finish the laundry, put the dishes
aside, stop counting all the hours all the time,
rest these weary hands, and learn how to fly.

But patience
is a virtue, and I’ve had my time.
Now it’s yours. You are ivy, I am
the fence you grow around;
I will bring you closer to the sunlight
and keep your roots in the ground.

I.
you’ve never felt
this small
before and you’re not quite sure
where to begin.

II.
“we are only a blink
in the timeline of the universe.”
our existence, our planet
is turning every minute.
i drag my feet walking
down side streets.

III.
tick tock, tick
tock.

IV.
so maybe you think
time will pass in an instant,
but on my cosmic calendar
we’ll be together
for weeks.

V.
i am stuck in a moment,
your being is all i need.
your existence is greater
than you think; more than just knee-deep.
and my heart swells with the space
that you occupy.

VI.
you tell me life is fast --
faster than cooking the ramen noodles
we used to eat together in the park
on Sunday afternoons -- faster than
anything I have ever seen before -- faster
than I can comprehend.
and what’s the point
if you can’t stop
and smell the rose bushes?

i picked the thorns off for you.

VII.
i am trying to find you,
blinded by the miles between us.
and i feel vulnerable when i can’t see.
and you feel as numb as a dozed
off limb.
but even the feeling
of pins and needles will subside;
blood flow returns, like i will
to you.

VIII.
you are not a cosmic insignificance.
you exist in so many ways—
do you really think i could so easily
forget the taste
of sweetness?
you make
vinegar taste like apple juice;
i drink cup
after cup.

My dad used to tell me
That waking up in the middle of the night
meant missing the old house that we once lived in,
although I never remembered exactly
the bricks lining the windows, or the carpet
I set on fire when I was six.

I don’t know what I was thinking back then.
I can never remember too much of my past.  
The trees, and the bees, the fleas on my neighbor’s dog:
All memories buried, gathering dust, hidden in the fog
of the here and now. Like a haze, it filters through my vision
and I am not fast enough to see anything as it flies by.

I remember the bird that you caught in your hands, the flapping wings
and the sound of its echoing rang through the cul-de-sac and my ears.
I remember closing the glass door on your fingers, and I remember how I cried too.
That night I tried to talk to you through the vents, like how we used to, like how
we combined our efforts to catch a glimpse of real magic, of Santa Claus,
of me by your bedside but you thought it was a dream.
We dug up rocks, and sticks, and hid in the shed that broke my front tooth.
And that wasn’t the last time I’ve bit my tongue.

I said, “I did it on purpose,” but I lied.
I didn’t know what it meant back then and
I wish that you would believe me. I wish the memories stuck,
like the pieces of tape you pressed against my skin,
preventing the fake wounds from reopening.  

Can you see me now, in your lucid dreams?
Or am I just a shadowy figure floating between scenes?
Excerpts of memories will find me like déjà vu.
And when you’re thinking of me, know I’m thinking of you.

he told me that we were
as crossed in the stars as suicide love;
and to be honest, it's starting to feel that way.
that day, Hope, I couldn't avoid her-
clutching only to find her bleeding out
on the bathroom floor.

this is how it always starts.

and here i am again,
feeling inadequate about my poetry.
my words are lined like trees: unforgiving,
wooden.

what if you could see me now?

now, with a purpose. i know i make
you nervous.
i remember when you told me you feared God
and i used to think you were so **** poetic
looking at me, so **** pathetic looking at me.

he told me he was addicted.

the way people can be addicted
to sadness is like how the body tries to maintain
homeostasis. but for me,
the potential of change ignites in haste, yet-

i am sick of recycled air; i am sick of the taste.

i could say i was sick of you but
we both know that'll never be true.

the days you couldn't get out of bed
were the days he was full of birds
in his stomach; fluttering wings and
sharp beaks pulling for validation.

and the hummingbird in your heart never stops going off
when you've trained it this well, because even a bird
can fall in love with its cage
if it's beautiful enough;
stockholm syndrome in its raw disgust.

impulsivity never came naturally
for him, perfection was
his answer to thoughts smelling
like recycled air and suffocation.

but you,
you would rip all the sheets off
and you could always tell when there was something off
when there was something i've lost,
and never knew that it was you
growing around my bones like moss.

or maybe more like poison ivy
by the way you expected so much from me
and i couldn't stop the both of us
from falling off the rollercoaster you
refused to get off of.

so now that i know,
i won't let you become my demise
because a ******* once told me;
"Anticipation is always stronger
than surprise."

Some things I cannot resist; I blame my own self worth.
I got shot in a dream once...it didn't hurt.
The apple is never as sweet
as the whispered words that slither out of your mouth.

Still moonstruck, still insane,
You throw me straight into the flame.,
and I like the burn
enough to go back for seconds.

Because even though I don't owe you anything,
I feel an obligation, like muscle memory
it falls out my open mouth, gasping
to remember the last few fragments
of the nightmare you woke me from.

So here's to biting off more than you can chew,
and having no regrets about finding yourself
cracked beneath the covers, and disarrayed
among the reflections of mistakes already made.

Maybe I needed this
reality check. I'm on my own, I know.
The temporal frustrates me, the birds
fly south for the winter, I fly...nowhere.
Permanence is a dream as fleeting as
its own contradiction.
It makes no sense, but what did I
expect from you?

Do you remember the nights
we laid across each others ankles
to see if either would break under
the weight of the other?

These fractured bones
don't mean a thing. (promise)