its hella hot

you left me alone.

I heard a squeaky noise
of fevered vigour.
opened to see a shocking
act of a well known figure.

For it was Mickey mouse!
******* a slice of Jarlsberg!

A dickey mouse pounding away.
The cheese isn't complaining.
So, I guess it's ok?

I don't want this to be a love poem

I don't want to tell you in ink what I can't say in words. I don't want to talk about him and my emotions or the hesitation that comes with uncertainty. I don't want to say anything about our mouths or how they're never close enough.

I don't want to talk about his hands

I don't want to tell you how I've looked at them and imagined, not simply them touching me like I've longed to be touched, not them belonging solely to me, but perhaps intertwining our fingers sometimes. I don't want to say that I have the strongest abhorrence to seeing those hands touch anything else. That isn't fair. He isn't mine.

I don't want to talk about his eyes

I don't want to tell you what color they are, how they shine. I don't want to give you metaphors and compare them to landscapes much bigger and things more consuming. I don't want to give you a road map to how I last got lost in them. I am not a starry eyed romantic, even if in the right light he looks like one.

I don't want to talk about his hair

I don't want to tell you about the others running their hands through it, or how it irks me. I won't tell you about how I look away or pretend to be busy. It isn't fair to be jealous of what I fold my hands in my lap not to touch. It isn't fair. I'm being fair.

I don't want to talk about his voice

I won't tell you how it's transcended music, that if he spoke for hours I would never be bored. How it is comforting enough to lull me to sleep... me! The most distrusting person in a room at any given time! How it pulls at me to respond with words I've never offered to another soul. It isn't fair. It isn't.

I don't want to talk about him

I won't tell you how he makes me want to paint walls with his likeness,  waste time and ink and memory to write and store poems that won't see the light of day. I want to keep this close. I don't want to share what I feel with anyone. I don't want to share him with anyone.

I don't want to tell him I love him

I don't want to lose him. I don't want to share what I feel but I don't want to share him with anyone. It's a Catch 22. A lose-lose scenario. There is no happy ending. The doubt I feel is realer than the hints he leaves, it makes the fear larger than the possibility of happiness. This is the cycle, this is the life I live.

I don't want this to be a love poem.

I hate love
It never leaves you alone
Clawing, whispering at you
And it, in its full glowing form never stays long
But its ghost never leaves.

A song creeps onto my speakers
And I’m there
Brushing your hair off your face
Grossly in love
Holding you so close.

And I can’t exorcise it
I’ve purged you
Deleted your existence from my life
But I can’t delete that love
And its lingering too long.

And I’m exhausted, haunted
By something long dead
That I’ve buried
I’ve found out
Love’s flame is eternal, isn’t it.

Your fingertips graze my chin
You smile down at me
A gentle kiss on the forehead
Remind me of all we could be

The slight shift in the room
As soon as you walk in
A bright smile and warm presence
Forgive us and all our sins

You're kind and gentle
And I'm damaged goods
But you hold me like I matter
So united we stood

I'VE HEARD OF SHANGRILA - THEY SAY
THE HOTEL IS  NOT TOO FAR - JUST STROLL
IN, ORDER YOUR MEAL AND THEN I'LL
TELL YOU ABOUT THE DEAL : FIFTEEN
THOUSAND POUNDS FOR TEN PEOPLE,
SOUNDS A BIT STEEP AND I'LL ASSURE
YOU IT'S NOT AN ERROR - FROM SHARKS
FIN SOUP TO ABALONE, MUST BE BETTER
THAN HOME-ALONE OR IS IT? GROSS
OPULENCE FOR MOST OF US - ANY TRAVEL
PROBLEMS - WE'LL BUY THE BUS - A MERE
SNIP FOR MR. ABROMOVITCH - WE WOULDN'T
WANT TO QUEER HIS PITCH, PERHAPS IT'S
TIME TO PAUSE AWHILE, JUST TO SEE MY SICKLY SMILE.

And I'm lacking all affection
Even though you believe we have a connection
I can't take it back
I feel like I'm under attack
I didn't imagine it this way
So now here I lay
with my mirrors facing down
because looking at myself I frown
I'm not me anymore
I just feel like an easy *****

simply put: i feel like people hate me.
it's this paranoia that i can't talk about with people because they won't understand.
they won't understand the way my lungs feel like they're on fire, and the way that my throat feels tight as though a noose is wrapped around it. they won't understand the way i try to stay as quiet as possible, try not to make a peep. try not to cough, try not to sigh, not a peep.
i am good at keeping quiet even though i am full of words. i don't speak because nobody cares enough to listen anyway. i wouldn't want to waste anyone else's time.
simply put: i wish i was happy.
simply put: i don't want to be the failure kid anymore.
simply put: please help me.