I fully hate you.
No questions to my detest.
Why am I here though?

we spent our summers in a daze made up of sugarcane and promises lost in the wind
the heat soared above us, free and untamed
we didn’t ***** our fingers on the thorns
we swung till the sun pierced our skin
sunburnt and snakelike peeling specimens
we danced in the ashes, a feasible effort
baked in our button-ups,
American flag wielders, Jesus lovers
half deceased in a pile of audacity
dresses on girls with the actual embodiment of the word
we were outright outliers on the brink of independence
we were broken, but we felt like stained glass
a beautiful portrait of veneration
they showed our faces to the president and he sighed with relief
some days we laughed until we got sore
under water fountains and jet blue skies that made us forget our melancholy
and sometimes we swore we would never speak again
the sun was burning holes in our soles
we breathed in the smoke, it felt holy in my lungs
we regretted to regret if we would ever lose this charm
but i guess we all figure out, you have to pretend until you’re gone
we were still indigo sparks in the Fourth of July sky at midnight
we saw the statue as it beamed for opportunity
and we smiled back in common courtesy
i even showed my teeth
in the summer we were folk songs
word of mouth enchantresses
flying high above the canopy
we remember when the piano started to weep
the sweat on our brows used to slide down our cheeks
for sore eyes they would’ve looked like teardrops
though time has passed
through a narrow mindset
i still remember how the roads got wet on a Saturday morning
and the sprinklers quit
because their jobs were fleeing
it’s crazy she’s dead now
summer dreams only fade
we lost the look in our beady eyes
i missed the last train to freedom
hearing my name be called by you was like having my heart ripped out in front of me
but for summer she doesn’t recall such a memory
i would’ve loved to hold your sweaty red hand for the last time knowingly
as the season set and invited the breeze
for now it’s just like a reverie
a hazy afterthought
splitting through the atmosphere like a comet
it wasn’t glory, it was gory
the summer sunset stuck in our frizzy hair
we lost the feeling we chased for so long
behind an alley that smelled of redemption and cinnamon
an island lost in legend
a girl with loose intentions
whose fists fight hyperbolic battles
sweaty recollections of a faint moment in space  
a storm weathers
forgiveness is flowering in my palms
and we used to be so good at that

now my veins are coursing with blood
taste it on my tongue
i can’t slow my pulse

he took my spine
and broke it in half
skipping heart inside my skin 
pounding
pounding
pounding
loud drums

the water towers i see from my bedroom window
to the storms you awaken in me
like bathing in chemicals
burning my skin
from within
why are his eyes so disjointed?
why do i sweat from my hands to my feet?
shuddering with anxiety
i’m so sick of having to give that disclaimer

do you feel my worry protrude from my speech?
the stuttering, the contemplation
i’m terrified i might say the wrong thing
so i don’t say anything
and hope the end passes
softly and—
i may have acted too hastily
shaking hands and paranoid and scared to bend my knees
cause someone might see
me
struggle
and then i’m ******* forever

and this attention, i’m not used to its hold on me
it feels threatening, can’t see the opening
at the end
of the tunnel,
vision is blinding me
what is a good moment to just say “no” out of the blue?
paralyzed with fear
maybe then you’ll know, it’s not worth it to even try with me
i hate hurting feelings, but this is hurting more than that
emails you sent me, just ask for my number
i could’ve given it,
but then i never would have texted
so you’d be
alone with yourself
and you’d have to be witty
i can’t see the future,
possibly
i might not want it to happen
so i try to push away
good things,
like they are mosquitos in the desert winds

but what are you attentive to on me?
for others have more than i do,
i’m poison ivy, i’m sticky glue
although once you have me,
i don’t want you
it’s like a burden, yet not how i treat you
is this too redundant or straight forward?
i’m sorry if this feels like torture to you
it feels much worse to me

maybe this is why i hate physics
the weird attractions
that happen
when you don’t even invite them in

picture the luminescence  
cheekbones flexed
a flare of light
a bit of strength

you always inhabit the areas that reek with filthy phrases
ecstasy bleeding out of your weak bones
cause you follow the crowd that drowns in submarines
and coughs out their black lungs

picture the seaside town
its cliffs beside sandy beaches
the rapture  
illuminated by the irises of the world

fire escapes and lurid streetlights
the buzz of electricity

don’t forget the beauty amidst the demolition


but
you tell me this is fog, although i’m inhaling smoke

what if i never marry?
what if i put on my wedding dress for a hologram?
what if i never find you?
the you i see on tv, the you i see in my dreams?
what if you died long ago and i’ve been searching around every corner for your soul?
what if the songs i write can only ever be for me?
what if the life i wished to lead up and left me?
what if the movies i watched made me believe in love that never happens?
what if the ring doesn’t fit my finger perfectly, or the bells refuse to ring at the ceremony?
what if i never marry?
what if i can’t get a house that the two of us fakers can live in?
what if the world that told me having a boyfriend makes your value increase
stops tolerating my independent nature?
what if i can’t fit in with all the husbands and wives and the cute little smiles?
what if everything i’ve been told was garbage that was supposed to be taken out?
what if i never marry?
what if i never walk across the aisle to a crying man, a diamond in the blood?
what if he never takes my hand with a willing body or a purified gland?
what if he tells me my worth is measured by the bodies i pin down and claim as my accomplishments?
what if i never marry?
what if i’m never good enough for this dramatic licentious frantic zombie nation we call the world?
what would they think of me?

i’ve watched the same show for over two weeks
and when my favorite character was falling apart,
it put a damper on my mood.
i am that attached..
to fiction.
it wasn’t even real and i still cried in my bed
with my hair concealing my eyes.
i never like to think of myself as the most empathetic person out there,
it was a sudden jolt in my nature.
perhaps i see myself in his wild eyes,
not the wicked side,
but something in him that reflects in my heart.
i’m repulsed by my poetry.
i wouldn’t even consider it poetic in any way.
i tell my close friends that i write poetry
and i like to think that they scoff at that idea.
i told my retiring teacher that i wrote poetry
and she gave me her email.
what makes her think i’m good enough to be read throughly by an english teacher of forty years?
kinda ironic since i’m posting on a poetry website.
i’m embarrassed of my efforts,
ashamed of my achievements.
see, i’ve never been good at anything
i played basketball in middle school
and my friend would always say that i bombed a shot or i needed to do something more involving.
my past crush even said i was too short to play or something.
i tried being nice for a day because my sister and mother were telling me i was too mean,
i swear i’m not.
but i tried to be nice
and bad things still happened
and i called people rude names.
i’m not good at staying prompt to journaling
like tumblr girls at their highest.
catch my drift, i have never been good at anything,
and poetry is the only thing that makes me feel like i’m alive
who cares if it’s actually well written?
it’s self expression.
i hope everyone at least tries to write one poem once in their lifetime,
it changed my life.
step one: find a muse, trust me, if you have a good one, you might not even experience writers block
(that’s an overestimate, but sure)
step two: write about anything and everything.
write about your drive to work, how the highway signs started to feel like heartbeats because they were so repetitive.
write about your dreadful day at school and about the teacher who freaked out.
step three: find a metaphor in everything.
trust me, if you look hard enough, there’s always a metaphor.
step four: see yourself in other people. capture the conversation the bus passengers had. write from different perspectives;
you’ll learn a lot about empathy.
step five: don’t listen to my advice because i’m not qualified.
don’t listen to the writer of bad poems.
there’s no use in fearing rejection,
i get rejected by myself on the daily.
you’ll never be something to someone if you don’t just say it.
tell them you like them.
tell them they make your world glimmer
and they make bad days a little more bearable.
and if they shrug, it’s ok, souls don’t have the same meaning to everyone
and that’s beautiful.
you’ll live.
rejection is inevitable.
when i’m invested in a show or a person, it becomes my obsession.
when i lie awake at night, i’m wondering what will happen next,
what character is going to get killed off next.
i want my poems to be lengthier and
luckily i can rant like nobody’s business.
i feel less anxious when i throw my feelings onto paper,
and i think things through.
no need to have to suffer through all your chaotic thoughts alone.
write.
that’s advice to me.
write when your favorite character is stressed,
write when you feel peeping eyes on your back.
write when the world churns you out of shape like butter.
write when the music doesn’t seem to calm your inner self.
the world can be wrong,
that’s a possibility.
you are allowed to critique it,
you are allowed to believe in miracles
and you are allowed to ask God if you can’t conjure up an answer all by yourself.
that’s why they say He’s always listening.
they lie about lots of other things,
but definitely not that.
writing is not for everyone,
it picks its candidates with reasoning.
i guess i was chosen
and i won’t let my muses down.
they live inside of my heart even when i wanna tear them out.
i won’t send my poetry to my old teacher,
and i won’t live another day without the benefits of writing.
i still have two more seasons to binge watch of this show
and more and more reasons to be alive.
the world is wrong,
but i never said i was right.
i have no vendettas
and writing has infiltrated my mind.
no tickets are accepted at admission.
come another time.