It's not me, it's not me, you see.
It's not me you're questioning.
It's not me who propels this
dark side of my psyche.

Anti hides behind my friend, Hope.
Anti hides behind my friend, Light.
Anti has resided in me for quite a while.
Anti hides behind every face-lighting smile.

Anti is not my happiness,
It's all the sides of me I'd rather not see,
All the sides that feel so right
when they speak of the
wrong things to me,
So real, so authentic.
Anti's not who I'm meant to become;
a contradiction manifesting
itself into my body.

Sometimes, I feel it take over me,
Sometimes I let it win.
That's usually when people
start to not recognize me,
That's usually when I feel
my kindness freeze,
I feel my impatience
and tolerance cease -
I can no longer digest
anything around me.

I've two sides;
Anti's the one I'm not.
I start to decipher black from white,
I start to part two halves of my mind,
separating the moon from the sun,
bathing in this runner's high;
Tonight I won't say goodbye,
I'll just whisper *"Goodnight."

I wondered into garden of blossomed blue flowers today,
morning glory and forget me not,
sprinkled with dew and swaying always so slight,
tethered but not, bowing but not.
Soft as the shy maiden within' a dream,
levitated blue bell with faces within a face,
always so grounded but eye on sight for heavens,
dreaming of tumbleweeds but rooted to her spot.
The rain from last night has taken away her strength,
but she knows her best to make the raindrops shine,
stubborn to keep her place in mid air,
she still glides and dances amidst her faith's plot.
Never so lavished as reds and pinks of roses,
never so dark but never so soft,
never so layered, just holding few petals to her sleeves,
ever refusing to let them.. ever leave her heart.
There she sits, my bluebell, on the mercy of changing winds,
there she hangs in balance, between fragility and strength,
there she is again, nudging me on while I stayed,
inviting me to admire her but asking not be plucked.

I might be
“Here,”
And you might be
“There,”
Better yet,
We might be both
“Now,”
But “Newsflash!” –
The glass,
Between us,
Is just thick enough
To let me see you,
And keep you
From hearing me.

Rust my iron fist,
But let the silver
Always coat my tongue;
A wraith and wrath,
To the taste society has left –
Bitter, boiled, blistered,
Corrosive and
Nearly anti-anything
Come the cuffs around
My eyes
And the bullets burrowed
Backs.

I've got the world's best kept secret
locked in 2 AM screenshots--
her late night musings over a crusty joint, a crushed pill,
or some ***** cigarettes.

She sends me her thoughts,
fears,
anxieties,
insecurities--

at her most vulnerable,
absolutely the most beautiful.

Her anguish stressed in the digital scroll
(though she doesn't like Kerouac, I let her borrow my copy),
her stained fingers mashing all their hurt and nicotine
into the keyboard--

and her pen aches and her paper stains
with the unrequited love she empathizes with
in the somber pop punk songs that explode from the stereo
she sings loudly on cold and lonely night drives
(I shiver in her passenger seat).

And she made for me the greatest of mixtapes,
her holy scrawl expounding upon a dull grey donut-shaped
slowly fading form of intimacy,
a blank CD--

"This mix is a good time"

and when I jammed it into my car stereo I was illuminated.

She is so cool, she is so punk,
and in her clandestine drugstore car charger thefts,
broken poems,
impalpable aesthetic,
impeccable music taste,
illuminated or even further obfuscated drug trips--

I have the world's best kept secret,
and more than anything, I wish to share it with you--

                                     so she can make someone another mixtape.

A beautiful soul is my enemy, a fake smile is what I see... worsening everyday, everyway. Her eyes are always honest... always sad.
"Trust me! Everything'll be fine " I can't say this to her.
Because we're enemies.