I lost myself and I found myself.
I lost myself and I rebuilt myself.
And when I did not like what I had made, I rebuilt myself again.
I carved out, and uncovered, and restored, and outgrew.
And I, and I, and I.

And I still don’t have it perfect.
I’m still not who’d I’d like to be.
And my shadow still comes out more often than I’d like her to.

But I, and I, and I will continue to try.

I found a bunch of my old writing today.

None of it seemed to move me the way you used to.

Knock knock.                     “Are you home?”

Text chimes.                         “Are you alone?”

Phone calls.                       “Are you alright?”

Face the signs,              “Let’s call it a night.”

Back to back.    “We never said it was love.”

Drawing lines.                “But maybe it was.”

The scariest thing,
That I wish I’d never done,
Was give you those words.

the god of small things let the lights be green and the hair look perfect and the clothes fit right.
the god of small things smiled at me in the grocery store parking lot and offered to take my cart back for me.
the god of small things left a daisy on my car today, so that I could think of you.
the god of small things said yes when the answer was no and told me to go instead of stay.
the god of small things did not carve mountains with rivers, but did let a stream move over rocks.
the god of small things let me fall asleep in your arms with a lullaby on my lips.
the god of small things said, “this is what we have, and this will be enough.”

Brown eyes,
reflected in tide pools of blue.

Nostalgia covers you like a wave,  
and warms you for a moment.

But when it recedes,
it only leaves a cold reminder of its absence.

There’s a lot of questions I want to ask.
Did you love her as much as you claim to love me?
Did you ever really love me at all?
Is convenience and accessibility a foundation that prevents doubts, temptations, and storms of life from dragging you back to a sea of discontentment?

No.
I don’t believe they are.

But you’ve made the choice.
You’ve chosen convenient and accessible and you’ve committed to memory the tender moments when love felt genuine.
But soon the winds will shift. Maybe I’ll be the one to float away from my own poorly constructed foundation.
And you’ll be left asking,
Did you really love me? Or was I just convenient?

It's the first night in a long time that I don't want to live.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would wrestle it from your arms.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would store it in a bottle and throw it out to sea with a note that says, “please don’t open me.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would place a bookmark before your least favorite chapter, and let us come back to it another day.

If grief were a tangible thing, or a wound, easily seen to the human eye, I would be able to stitch you back together with something other than the words, “I’m so sorry.”

If grief were a tangible thing, I would wipe it from your eyes, like the tears that fall.

If grief were a tangible thing, I would be the first to hold your heart while we tie it up neatly with bandages.

If grief were a tangible thing, if grief were a tangible thing. If.

Nights spent laying in a twin sized bed.
Stories are swirling, filling your head.

My arms around you, as our breathing slows,
Together we drift to the land of unknowns.

Nights spent laying - freckle to freckle.
Your eyes are bright blue, filled with dreams and a speckle.

I whisper I love you as we lay there together,
And I know that my life couldn’t possibly be better.

I’ll hold you for now - while you grow up too fast.
I’ll soak up the moments until they are past.

Thank you twin bed for the space to hold on,
To the boy that I love while we sleep until dawn.

I didn’t come tonight,
Caught up in thoughts of you.
Your lips pressed softly against someone else’s neck,
Your arms tight around their waist.

I didn’t come tonight,
As hard as I tried,
I couldn’t muster up the energy or enthusiasm.  

I didn’t come tonight,
Your mouth, praising someone else’s name, worshipping.

I didn’t come tonight
And you didn’t make me.

You came to me at an interesting time in my life.
You came to me when I chopped my hair into the style they call “butch.”
You met me when I moved out of my parents house and began paying bills and buying
my own cold medication.
You came to me when summer turned to winter, bypassing the fall, and I bypassed the
transitional stages of adolescence straight into adulthood.
You met me when I was faced with the decision of whether or not I would stand up, or
stay face down.
You met me many nights, when I sat alone with the pills and contemplated the dosage
that I’d need to either feel okay or to feel nothing at all.
You were there every time I put the pills away and went to bed instead.
You’re still one of my closest companions.

Every day it seems you come to me and say “Hey butch. Things will get better, including
your awful haircut.”

we’re circles and synonyms,
dancing round and round,
never getting to the point.

when i was young, we played in the garden behind my house.
you chased me as i chased my brothers and the wind tugged at my braids and freckles stained my cheeks.
you were there as i giggled as my father spun me around and let me dance on his toes.
you came to me in the summer, with endless nights spent skipping rocks at the river.
you came at christmas every year until recently and you came when my mother learned to laugh again, after that dark day in May.
you were there.
you made saturday morning cartoons with uncombed hair the highlight of the week.
you started coming less and less the more i learned about the world, but you were still found in things like chocolate oranges and butterfly kisses.
i find you now, in the phone calls home and the care packages filled with sweet notes.

i've realized that you come in the form of people and places rather than exquisite actions and success.

I’m a little out of order.
I am slightly out of sorts.
I’m done trading thoughts for pennies,
When they’re worth so much more.

I think if you just tapped me,
Or put a pen inside my hand,
Turn me off, then on again
Or tell me your demands -

Then maybe I’ll get better.
And things won’t seem so hard.
I’m a little out of order,  
But my wounds will someday scar.

So run your fingers over me,
Think of how I used to feel.
Trace the marks from left to right,
And know that love is real.

I’m just a little out of order,
It’s nothing I can’t mend.
So lighten up, refill my cup,
I’ll be fine, my friend.

I miss you most at 4 am.
Waking up from another dream of you.
A dream where you wanted me.
A dream where we were together.
Even after all these years,
My heart remembers you.
And ****. It misses you at 4 am.

You died of cancer today.
It knocked you down before we ever even knew it existed.
When we first found out it was living inside of you, and as we waited for the biopsy results, we prayed.
We prayed in our homes and our cars and our temples and your hospital room.
We prayed it would be the good kind of cancer.
As if such a thing existed.
But you can’t pray to change the nature of something that has existed in the shadows for so long.
No amount of prayer will undo the mutation and multiplication of cells that has already happened.
So now we pray for peace.
As if such a thing could be so easily obtained.
And we pray for those you have left behind.
As if they will ever recover from losing you.
We send up prayers to a god who has seemingly forgotten your name, except for the moment he called you back home.

you fill the space where i should be with thoughts of yourself.

a boy once told me he loved me.
i told him i needed space.
he begged me not to hurt him.
i hurt him anyways.
a boy once told me he loved me.
but i chose to love myself instead.

I envy you.
The poet that’s read.
The lover that’s sated.
The giver, fulfilled.

I envy you.
The season that changes.
The ocean, undeterred.
The leaves, allowed to rest.

I envy you.
For you are all the things,
That I thought I’d be.

I feel like crying and I feel like screaming.
I feel like falling back into day dreaming.
I feel like pining and reminiscing.
I feel like lying, so I guess I’ll start writing.

Imitation and replications,
Concentration on reputations.
A combination of limitations -
Fascination turned frustration

Admiration and dedication,
Morphing into a damnation.
We’ve lost all sophistication,
By giving into our temptation.

“One in one hundred.”
She says, “Those are some slim odds,
You’ll bury a child”

“One in one hundred.”
But countless are gone too young -
So don’t count the odds.

“One in one hundred”
Doesn’t provide any peace,
When kids become ghosts.

tell me the truth.
tell me i was wrong.
tell me you meant every word and i will never bring it up again.
but tell me I wasn’t wrong.
and we will never go back to how we used to be.
just tell me the truth.

It is the cruelest twist of fate to be made sick by the things I hold most dear.

The sea.
Love.
Home.

You said to plant roots,
But instead I grew wings.
You called me a wild, untamable thing.

We crossed line after line,
Before you threw up a hand.
Betrayal hurts like a punch right after it lands.

You grew thorns on your edges,
Let fear consume like a flood.
I’m not surprised that you finally drew blood.

I won’t plant any roots,
Can’t stay on the ground.
Now that we’re lost, I finally feel found.

Careful.
I’ll construct worlds and dreams,
Based on the color of your eyes.
I’ll memorize words,
That you didn’t write for me.
And with every single repetition,
I’ll convince myself your hand fits perfectly in mine,
When we are never destined to touch.
Be careful, love.
Because I’ll never recover from the idea of you.

Is it love
If it doesn’t rattle your soul
Demand the world
Break your heart

Is it love
If all it does is whisper
“I will hold you together
While you’re falling apart”

They tell me stick close,
To the devil I know.
It has to be better,
Than facing unknowns

But the devil I know
Doesn’t kiss like you do,
Doesn’t hold my heart carefully,
And promise he’s true.

The devil I know,
With his familiar face,
Doesn’t captivate me
In all of your ways.

Just one more hit,
One more night spent alone,
And then I’ll go home,
To the devil I know.

25 hour movie marathon and I am still not tired of holding your hand and feeling your fingers lace through mine. You feel like home in this galaxy.

I joined the occult,
Paid some very hefty dues,
Then they kicked me out.

Your name,
Repeating in my mind,
A syncopating rhythm when the nights are long.

Your name,
Providing solace, hope, and longing.

Your name,
Belonging to every iteration of who you have ever been, and who you’ll ever be.

Your name,
Containing multitudes of wonder bestowed to its owner.

if you're reading this,
and you're feeling alone,
if you're reading this,
and you're feeling unknown,
if you're reading this,
and you know who i am,
if you're reading this,
and you don't give a ****,
if you're reading this -
and i know that you are -
if you're reading this,
you're still the brightest star.

When the sea’s churn is endless,
And all comfort’s denied,
Let me live on this tongue,
And by its words die.

“I was a vessel from tempest.
I was your chance to transform.
Yet in the inky swells recess,
You still shied from a storm.”

No rough edge made smooth,
No dull thing made to shine.
Every ridge and harsh groove,
I own to be mine.

And to the mouth of the shell,
From whence I was spit,
I’ll parry this truth:
Some pearls aren’t worth ****.

You’re my fever dream.
Sweat soaked sheets,
Aching hearts,
And sometime in the night, we break.