shame used to bleed out of me
vulnerability an open wound
i desperately tried to hide

until i found i could stand it no longer
and buried the emotion behind smiles and laughter
acting as though i hide nothing in my heart

I cannot fathom the fascination you have with being vulnerable,
Aren’t you more susceptible to deception?

Does it not allow for more frequent coming and going out of your life?
Out of your heart?

Where is the beauty in being who I am?
I am rough, raw and rigid.

Where is the beauty in stiffness? Besides the ability to withstand itself.
Maybe the mere fact that it does not tilt or shift for no one.
But who wants to love someone as stubborn as that?

There is no beauty in being vulnerable.

You cannot continue bleeding out ounces of yourself for people who cannot stand the sight of blood.

I've found that I am unable to breathe through my fountain pen lately.

I've found that the words don't effortlessly flow through my fingertips like they used to.

I no longer seek knowledge through my compact pocket dictionary.

Nevertheless,
I long to write.

I would share your bed forever
That even in clothes
I'll always feel naked with you

"it was a long time ago" he says
as he hides his tears with a grin
she asks, "Are you okay?"
he grins, he lets out a failed laugh, he lies
she sees straight through his act
she asks, "Are you okay?"
tears swelling in the corners of his eyes, he lies
she waits for them to be wiped away sneakily
she asks, "Are you okay?"
he looks her in the eye, using all his strength he lies
she says she believes him, she breaks eye contact
she asks, "Are you sure? It's okay if you aren't"
he shakes his head, he falls towards her embrace,
"I'm sorry for being so difficult" he says
vulnerably

she says, "When are you going to move on"
and turns her back to him and leaves
as he cries alone in the dark

not florescent but covered by a translucent screen,
my tense and aching frame washed in a  
dull desaturating blue glow.
streetlights speed past neurotic eyes,
like worries of friends i haven't spoken to,
and every awful thing i've ever
said to my mother.
i think of you, of course,
the way i catch my reflection
in the bus window:
a glimpse—terrified and fascinated.
i wring my hands,
a nervous habit when they're
feeling empty.
everything i want is
always at my door,
and everything i fear
is never far behind.
why won't anyone let me hold them
from halfway across the room?
stay sitting across the aisle,
as mysterious to me
as any other tired stranger.
i see you clearly
but can never tell what you're thinking.