You look at me,
salt stung eyes full of lies
you cannot bear to hear.

The rippling emotion of our love
has never had enough power
to break the barrier of their words
and your sapphire veins bleed into
more bodies of water than even the
most skilled scientist could ever discover.

Your body hovers above mine like
a moon lacking enough gravity
to bring in the tide and I wonder if
you can see the words written in
my mind like unsent love letters
sealed with the eternal promise of
a kiss that could never be properly executed,
even though we could have been-
because people didn't agree with our love,
still don't agree with our love,
and days like this,
sometimes you wonder if everyone ever will.

They see blasphemy in the beauty of our
fingers intertwined and speak hatred against
the connection we never thought we could find.

They put oceans between our instincts,
built dams around our feelings,
tore us down to nothing,
and called it religious necessity.

They have taken our love and
put it under a microscope,
held a gun against our heads,
and a knife across our throats.

We never called our love conventional,
but how the hell is this "unnatural?"
They are standing with armies against
our weaponless bodies and claiming to be
offended because I asked to hold my lover's hand.

They deny us our rights holding the book
of God in their hands, forgetting that not
everyone follows the scripture that not
even they can understand.
This God they speak of is not the God
I would like to know and even if He was,
I wouldn't be afraid to show the world
of my love  - just like they do with His.

I do not wish them a fraction of the curses
they have laid upon me and yet,
no one is asking them to put down the book they read.

Choosing my battles carefully
should be more of a metaphor
than it is a reality and I'm beginning
to question the possibilities-

No, I will not let them win.
I will not down to a God I don't believe in,
I will not sacrifice something beautiful
for the sake of your agreement -

**I will not allow them to pretend they are Him.

I was sitting in the den of our apartment with my LSAT study book and a steaming cup of Moroccan mint tea by my side. I had left work - sometimes too many hours of serving rich, inconsiderate people got the best of me and my middle-school self kicked into gear, faking a cough, sneeze, or whatever it took to get me out of that hell-hole. Luckily for me it was Labor Day weekend, so I was stationed at home waiting for Sam to get out of class, our bags packed by the door for a surprise weekend at the lake in celebration.

So when I heard the front door creak open around one fifteen in the afternoon, I was no doubt confused. Sam always came home around four or five, sometimes six at the absolute latest. At first, I panicked – grabbed my tea and nearly broke the mug when I dropped it, threw my LSAT book across the room, and scrambled to spread the rose petals that I was saving until the last minute out of fear of them wilting- “I’m so glad, I’m so happy,” someone burst out laughing. Strangely, that someone didn’t sound like Sam.

I tiptoed down the hallway as quietly as possible until I reached our bedroom door. I didn’t know how I should feel- scared, surprised, suspicious, shocked, maybe all of the above. I lifted my hand toward the door and with a flick of my wrist, pushed the door open until I could see two figures under a single white sheet in our bed. Our bed.

---------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------

I paced the streets of San Francisco aimlessly, waiting for Sam to call me, text me, anything to pacify the emotions arising within me that I had suppressed for so long. I left the apartment without her even noticing I had been there, she was obviously too busy with the mystery man to realize. I walked into the first neon-sign-bar I saw and inhaled the musty smell of smoke and sweat, familiar but not familiar at the same time, my own personal forbidden fruit.

I sat down at an old wooden table that had leather stretched across the top of it, metal bolts lining the edges to hold it down. I nodded to the bartender for a drink, “anything,” I said. Anything to take my mind somewhere else.

Looking around the decrepit bar and the people within it, I was immediately transported back to my early 20s. The sprawl of Chicago, the low-key streetlights, the hustle and bustle of a city in its prime, the late nights (or were they early nights?) that began it all, the first girl, losing my grip on reality, pawing the ground for traction and finding it coated in metaphorical baby oil instead, and finally, the move.

The waiter set my drink down on the table, donning a grin that was lacking a few teeth – like a puzzle with missing pieces that you try to solve, becoming frustrated with your own inability until you realize that it isn’t your fault. But everything is your fault. “Stop,” the waiter turned around as the word slipped out of my mouth. “Uh, sorry,” I manage, picking up my drink (a Waldorf?) and saluting him.

He looks confused but forces a smile nonetheless and walks toward another customer, a young woman with crescent moons of mascara underneath her eyes.  She’s a portrait of lost innocence with her yesterday’s curls coming undone and trembling fingers grasping her drink as though it were life support. Sam. Sam was the kind of innocent you had to admire from afar out of fear of corrupting it, but I was always one for unconventional living.

I looked down at my drink and sighed - to drink or not to drink, the burning question to my seething desire.  “**** it,” I knew there was no turning back the minute I raised the glass to my lips. The liquid ran down my throat like a fire, destroying the three years of sobriety I had accumulated with a single match that ignited the thought to drink even more.

She pushed you to this point. “I know she did,” when I realized I was talking out loud, I lowered my voice, “I know.” Are you going to let her get away with it? “Stop,” I threatened, even though I knew it was pointless. The whiskey flooded my veins and fueled the fire, the voices, the thoughts. You loved her because of her innocence, you know that. I knew that.

Her innocence is what drove me to her, you didn't find just anyone with that fleeting virtue that escapes too many of us too soon – I envied it, even. I hadn't had that innocence since I was young. It was taken from me by force and I grew up believing that free will was nonexistent. But it isn't. You can do whatever you want, it's okay. No. It isn't okay. It wasn't okay, even when I tried to convince myself that it was.

I slammed my drink back, letting the ice cubes collide with my teeth as I kept the last gulp in my mouth, allowing it to burn my cheeks and bring tears to my eyes. You wouldn't have started drinking if you didn't want an excuse. “I don't need an excuse,” I said, too loudly again. The portrait of lost innocence glanced over at me, forcing a smile and offering me false comfort.

She's the type you love. I know, I know she is. Now Sam is just like her – just like all of them. I found myself grimacing into the reflection of myself in the bottom of the empty glass. I raised my hand, but the bartender was already on his way after he noticed I was dry.

“Another Waldorf, sir?” He looked at me with his sunken green eyes, expectant.

“No, I'll just take two shots of *****,” I responded, smiling, “nothing else.” He smiled back at me, uneasy.

More? So you really did miss me. I'm ignoring it, I'm not going to listen. Yes you are. No, I won't. I refuse. Just wait, you'll see.

The bartender came back with my shots, one in each hand. I took one after the other and set a twenty-dollar bill on the table, “keep the change,” I said as I got up to leave. The young woman eyed me as I was walking out and I flashed her a quick smile - that was always how you drew them in.

I decided to skip the bus and walk home instead, hoping that the rhythmic beat of my steps would help to clear my mind. It didn't. When I walked in, I still felt the whiskey and heard the voices. I'm here to stay.

---------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

“Saaaaaam?” I yelled, waiting for the click of her heels on the wooden floor.

“Hey babe, I'm in the bedroom.” Her voice was honey – sweet. Sickeningly sweet.

I walked toward the bedroom, “so how was your day?” I would be innocent for now. Come on, cut to the chase.

“It was good, I had a long day at work. I just want to relax. You didn't want to go out tonight, right?” She looked at me, her blue eyes glistening under the fluorescent light.

“No, I didn't. Actually, I wanted to ask you something,” I tried to sound as casual as possible. Yes, yes, come on.

“What is it, sweetie?” She moved toward me to reach for my hips. I flinched away. She knows.

“I- I know,” I stammered. “I know what you did earlier, with that guy,” I slurred my words together, partly from the alcohol and partly from the nauseating feeling in my mind. Yes.

“Oh,” that was all she had to say. Oh. A single syllable, the most effortless word in the English language – that was all I meant to her. Oh.

My blood set on fire and I released the floodgates, I didn't care anymore. “So who was he, hm?” I wasn't afraid anymore. You know what you have to do.

“Actually... it was Dominica,” I heard the words come out of her mouth but they didn't seem to match up. I must have heard her wrong.

“It was... a girl?” I tripped over my words out of disbelief. She must have accidentally said the wrong name, maybe she had been drinking, too.

“Yeah, you got a problem with that?” She had the audacity to ask me if I had a problem with her cheating on me. I had nothing left to say at this point, I was void of any feeling. Jacob, listen to me.

“Well give her my ******* regards,” I had reached my boiling point. She looked at me, her ocean eyes beginning to pool with salty tears. As she blinked, a torrent of them rolled down her cheek, leaving a faint line where the makeup came off – a scar, if you will. I think she half-expected me to apologize for the harshness of my voice, the way I always used to after I realized the effect of my tone on her fragile composure. I didn’t falter - this time, I had no remorse. Good.

“Jake, please,” was all she could manage to say. She pushed her jet black hair away from her face – strands had begun to stick to her cheeks from her tears. Even in her seemingly delicate state, she still held her nose to the sky, as if her dignity and precious reputation were resting on the tip of it – an invisible string connecting it to whatever ******* aristocracy she liked to think she was a part of.

Thinking of this and then back to the entire situation at hand, I couldn’t help but laugh. Hoarsely at first, but then louder and more pronounced – I was completely taken over with maniacal happiness. Scare her. Do it, Jacob.

Glancing up, I could see the look of bewilderment encased within her eyes. You're doing so well. She had been sitting a few feet away from me the entire time and upon seeing her fear, I leaned in until I was close enough to taste her cinnamon gum and whispered, “boo.” She jumped. I guess it did work like that, the way you’d see in the movies – push someone to the edge of their mental cliff and a simple syllable could force them off. Don't let her off the hook.

The rest of the act came easily.  I had performed my part too many times for it to go awry and had scared her too badly to even move, let alone run. You know the drill from here. I watched as bewilderment turned to fear and fear to desperation and I swear, if I could have taken a picture at the exact moment that her eyes begged for me not to, I would have. It was in that moment I realized it wasn’t me she wanted to run from, but herself, and that was exactly the way I wanted it to be. It makes the guilt easier, something I knew from experience. It's just a play, Jacob, that's all it is. Play your part. I did. I played it well.

It didn’t look like she would be speaking again anytime soon, so I repeated, “give her my ******* regards” and winked, a smile creeping across my lips as I walked away.

A couple feet from the door, I looked back at the lifeless figure laying under a single blood-stained sheet in our bed. *It was supposed to be our bed.

slam poetry
like the way the shore
struck the tide like a storm
stuck on something they couldn't
seem to form sentences about
because dreams are as fleeting
as yesterday's promises sinking
into excuses that transform into
nothingness consuming the ground
until your poem begins to fade into
the foam that recedes with the words
and the rhyme and the wit and the
prophecy of tomorrow
that began all of it.

what if
in four days, I discover
that I can live without you?
what if
in four days, I realize
that there's someone better?
what if
in four days, I see
the truth of it all?
what if
in four days, I muster
the courage to leave you?
what if
in four days, I decide
that I never even loved you?

worse yet,
what if
in four days, you conclude
all of this for yourself?

speakeasied nights haunt us like
the ghosts we conjured through your
old ouija board that we balanced between
the space that separated us and I remember
I thought if we were any closer to one
another I might as well die happy and
you could summon me instead with the
planchette underneath your trembling
fingertips as you cry above your head
begging, begging, begging for me
to "just come back"
and I would try my hardest to come
into contact with your silky smooth flesh
just to see if you would think it were me,
but instead I ended up trembling
underneath your fingertips as you
raised your hand to the heavens as I was
begging, begging, begging for you
to "just relax"

Honest to god, I love people. As a teenager, you might catch me saying otherwise in times of frustration or lack of hope for the human race, but in all actuality, I love people. The sheer fact that all of us are immensely different yet so innately similar never ceases to turn my mind upside down and possessing the ability to fall in love with strangers has made me, in turn, fall in love with writing about them.
Walk down the street and find somewhere to sit, now observe. You see an old man pass by, walking his jubilant puppy and almost instantly, your brain is making judgments about him. Maybe his wife passed away and the puppy is his only company and now he is walking her trying to calm her down but it isn't working because she's a puppy, and well, energy is an expanse for them. But wait, now an elderly lady approaches them and kisses the man on the face. Strike one. The dog lifts up a leg and leaves its scent on a tree. Strike two. Now, the dog lays down and is panting like crazy, but from here you can tell that its fur is already graying. Strike three. You thought you knew everything about him, when really, you didn't have a clue.
That's the beauty of mystery - the guessing game and the eventual strike out. You're amazed at the fact that you know so much about humans, and yet, at the same time, so little. All of us are walking contradictions and labyrinths within ourselves. It's a shame, really, how most people don't explore their own personal mazes - but there's one thing all of us do love to do: explore everyone else's.

I am the smoke
curling from your lips.
I move into every shape
in an attempt to gain your
attention, and hear you say,
"look at that, so beautiful"
with that expression of
admiration in your amber eyes
as I slowly fade away.
I twist and writhe
in the wake of your trembling
breaths and hover in the air
around your body
as if I am holding you,
even though I am too far
to do such a thing.
See, the smoke and I,
we are the same in
many ways.
The difference, though, lies
in the ease of how the
smoke can escape.

If there is something
we all have in common,
it is that we are in love
with the stars.
We strive to reach them,
wish to be them,
and love to admire them.
When we find out that many
of the stars we are seeing,
are actually no longer there,
we refuse to believe it.
Like a widow with her
long-lost husband,
we imagine them alive
and well.
We project our ideals
and base our goals
off of these beautiful,
beautiful corpses
that we call stars.

You mixed two packets of melancholia
into your coffee today,
and I had to bite my tongue to resist
to say, "I thought you liked it black."
I watched as you daintily taste-tested
it from your spoon and was delighted
upon seeing your grimace of
disapproval (you're adorable when mad).
I took note of how
your veins pulsed underneath
your deeply tanned skin
and I longed to be the blood that
traveled through your delicate body.
If only I could map out your cardiovascular
system and find all the detours and
shortcuts to your fragile heart,
memorize the freeway that
encircled your figure and learn
when to avoid rush hour or when
to take the fast lane.
I found myself fantasizing about
the day you were conceived and
how you beat out all the other
potential embryos - that maybe,
you were chosen out of the thousands
for the sole purpose of being with me.

You keep faded postcards in
the back of your drawer
to remind you of the time
before love was just a four-letter
word and it was an actual living,
breathing human being that was
standing next to you. One
hand slung carelessly over your
shoulder and the other stuffed tightly
in their pocket, secure and scared
at the same time.
This feeling permeated your love
and ate away at the naivety that
your relationship first experienced,
until one hand soon joined the other
and your shoulder was left subject
to the shivering cold of February.

Your love was born
prematurely, I think.
Maybe if you allowed it
to grow a little longer
inside an incubator, it
wouldn't prove to be so
small and insignificant.
Your hearts are both still
too weak to beat on their own,
let alone to beat for
someone else and
your bones aren't strong
enough to carry the weight
of someone else's emotions.
But instead, you nurse this
pathetic excuse for love
in hopes it will turn out
to be a miracle.
*Naive little girl,
didn't your mother tell you
that there's no such thing
as miracles?

I can still taste your flesh on mine, as if my pores soaked in all of your pheromones and stored them in  safekeeping for nights like this, nights when whiskey becomes the only sleeping medicine powerful enough to soothe my troubled mind.
The memories come in broken patterns, like a film strip played on a rusty wheel, or like the thrifted records we would buy in the dozens - scratched and dusty, but still recognizable.
A kiss. A hit. An I-love-you. A shudder. They were all the same at this point.
I didn't know who else to go to but my mother.
My speech was slurred, elisions that made my words condense into one. Still, she understood. She had been here before.
She told me that days would turn into weeks, and before I knew it those weeks would shift to months, years, eternities within themselves.
I told her I didn't like the prospects of this.
She told me it would be okay, that all I had to do was follow in her footsteps.
I found the bread crumbs easily.
Jack Daniels was the only witness I had as I pulled the trigger
and I smiled in spite of the fact that until tonight, I had never believed in ghosts.

I have loved you for over
three-thousand (consecutive) days now,
and yet I still feel as if there are
two-thousand more secrets to learn
about your intricate mind.
I have a sketch of the general areas:
pleasure, pain, past, future
but I'm still a little fuzzy on the
specifics of each location.
I hope, with all my heart,
that I will have one-thousand more
days to love you.
But only you have the capability
of giving me that privilege,
and so with the best of intentions,
I let you go.
Like a bird, you will return if you love me-
if you don't, then I guess you never did.
They say this often, people, I mean-
"the other breed," like we used to call them.
We fantasized that we were different;
special in a conceited sort of way.
And I guess we were.
But underneath the facade,
there crumbled a dire misery
about our love,
and now we are where we are.

The end.

I can tell by the way your eyes react
to the words spilling out of my mouth
that we are no longer on the same wavelength.
There is not the slightest recognition
that flashes within your hazel eyes,
eyes that you gave to me like a
well-preserved replica of a masterpiece-
beautiful, but worthless compared to the original.
It's almost as if I can see my words
materialize into the air between us
and move through your body as if they
could truly personify the common saying,
"your words go right through me."
And even though we obviously aren't
on the same wavelength anymore,
I would at least expect you to pretend
that we are.
Because that's what mothers are
supposed to do, right?
Lie when necessary- it's the least you could do.

if beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
then hell, you've got to be blind
i fail to understand when you tell me
how you feel and conclude that you
must have lost your mind
i suppose i did, too,
somewhere else along the line
and that's what love can do to you,
one of the traits you will find
among others, you will see
that love itself is the hardest word to define
then, it seems love is in the eye of the beholder too,
and so we call it blind.

it is often said
that those who deserve the sun,
too often receive the rain.

but what if i said i love the rain?
that the droplets of water
upon your tan skin
beat the heat waves, any day?

would my punishment
be replaced with flames-
would i go to hell?
that's what they tell me, anyways.

either way,
i'm not ashamed to say
this is who i am

and my god, do i love the rain.

mold your shape into the piece
that matches my puzzle
so that i may rest
in the innumerable crevices
that inhabit your aching body
a swarm of lust and love
violently shaking the cores
inside me and you
now, we face the question
of which we will give into
(is both an option?)

girls that stay awake until 2 am
leave mascara scars on sheets
and write their poems in pen
i know this because i am them
and they are me
and in the end, we are we
pardon me if i don't
make much of any sense
(it's 2 am)