As I count 1,2,3 in history I try to process that Napoleon left France kind of like how you left me. Because in a moment I felt my skin wrap a little tighter around me and it became a little harder to breathe. And as I hear the teacher talking about some ******* concepts of Metternich’s conservatism, I wonder why we need to label our beliefs. Because if you feel something there that is rare enough in a world starved for empathy and emotions drowning in a numb, blank state that we are have been swimming in for the majority of our lives after childhood.

Because we are no longer children. And we grow, we are supposed to blossom but I guess God forget to water me because I am just a mess. And the truth is that you can't always turn your sadness into a poem and sometimes it just sits in your chest and drains the life from you. So stop calling me beautiful because I am tired of being lied to. I am tired of feeling sad and you claiming that its beautiful, I am tired of feeling empty and you trying to make it romantic, I am tired of you lying to my face when you say that you love me and I am tired of re reading my old poetry after our break up, knowing that whenever you said I love you it was a lie that I held onto for dear life- a lie I breathed in and wanted to live inside of because maybe it’s not beautiful to be a mess but you always called me at four in the morning like you were on top of the world despite your insomnia.

-k.d.

What the hell is the term “sparkling eyes” even referring to? The widening of one’s eyelids? The dilation of the pupils? Or maybe it’s meant to be ambiguous to fully credit the effect of the magical phrase. But when she looked at me her eyes didn't sparkle. They darkened. And the way she looked at me, with her eyes filled with danger sent my soul in spirals, for I could feel an unbearable amount of unrest within my blood. And at that very moment I found myself walking towards her. I walked, blinded by her dark eyes, towards the oblivion until I asked her name, “Sara,” she hollered. Of course she hollered. It was very unusual, just like her entire persona.

"But darling," he whispered, at 12:34 "you are dangerously beautiful, someone not everyone knows how to love." And as his words flooded through my mind I looked into his eyes and read that there was no reason to be lost as the clock ticked 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 times. I laughed and he looked at me like I was crazy. Most my lovers do. And that's partially why they love me and party why they leave.
Because I will sing you a song, if you scream it back at me.
But this is not a love poem.
And he was beautifully unforgiving, becoming the 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 bars that once restrained his youthful soul, for he was never free after that.
Chains consisting of metal melted from every punch thrown behind scared eyes of boys and girls with cigarettes dangling from their mouths and he hit me faster than a runaway train with eyes carrying more than they should, and as 2, 3, 4 hours passed I took another hit saying “here’s to the conclusions we can’t escape.” His hand left a mark darker than my eyeliner across my face as we spent the night painting away our sadness by splashing bright colors across our souls.

There is an overwhelming amount of danger in his eyes. And there is something not quite right about the whistle around his neck. Lifeguards are meant to save lives. To care for those who cannot care for themselves because we all need a little help sometimes.  But he never took the help, and to this day he will kiss you so hard your childhood memories will surface to the top of the ocean inside you.  
Because his song is algae growing at the bottom of the ocean and you must drown just to listen to it. And as your screaming surfaces, no one hears your struggle because he is the only lifeguard. With that whistle around his neck.
It’s almost as hollow as he is.
But when I came to Rose Mary in the fall I didn’t know that. Maybe I would have in the summer, but as the seasons remind me I must keep changing, he always stayed behind. The lifeguard that spent all day under the sweltering sun remained cool as ice. Maybe even cooler.
But this isn’t about him. It isn’t about me. This is about the people who are as hollow as the bottles we drink. Because we don’t ask each other how our hearts are anymore.  And I have to sleep with a nightlight on because the darkness reminds me too much of the bottom of the pool in Rose Mary that resembles the outside corners of his dangerous eyes.

There are just some things you never forget
like the first time I twisted my fingers through your hair
And the first time you pulled mine
A little too hard.
But this is not a love poem.
I remember the first time I held you.
Terrified I would do it wrong.
And how you reminded me I couldn't because as I looked down I saw God’s reflection
Of everything beautiful in the world in my arms.
But this is not a love poem.
I remember how sweet you tasted, when you would bite my blue lips.
And how sweet the bullet I took for you felt until I saw your pretty face
behind the trigger.
But this is not a love poem.
Because if all is fair in love and war then I don’t want to play.

I know what it's like to love with every single vein in your body
and i know what its like to lose it.
And when i say lose it,
I don't just mean the love.
Because you mind your mind will go with it.
And the next thing you know,
you have spent the last three weeks eating ice cream for dinner at six o'clock at night,
going to bed at nine,
because you would rather be asleep
that consciously reminded that she's gone.
Two words that can make a fifty year old supposedly heartless veteran feel empty in the pit of his stomach that was just fed.
After all, no matter how many meals
no matter how much liquor he drank,
it was never enough to make him feel full.
But she will make you feel full.
She will make you feel filled to the rim,
brimming with beauty and excitement.
Smiling wider than the crescent moon
for teeth on the Cheshire Cat,
for she made me feel like I belonged in wonderland.
And she will do the same to you.
She will also fool your flaws,
to think that they're lovely,
And she will trick you,
into thinking you are too.
And you will stay up all night talking on the phone
for months,
(i would recommend napping),
because who wants to sleep anyways,
when you're in love?
And you will fall hard.
Until the phone calls get shorter.
And the hair pulling gets softer.
And every ******* thing you began to love about yourself
becomes the reasons that she left.
And you will wait until someone from your fifth period chemistry class who was always secretly jealous of her feelings for you whispers across the room, "She's gone."
Two words.
They hit me like a bullet too.

There are some things that science cannot explain
some things cannot be wrapped around the cerebrum
and as it unfolds
we see the earth is 13.8 billion years old.
Thrace down my 100,000 miles of blood before you tell me who I am or what I'm made of.
And although we can see
that Mercury is 799 degrees,
that doesn't help with all the physicistry.
My doctor asks me to stick out my tongue.
I ask if he can see all the pain choked in my throat,
he laughs as if I'm telling a joke,
I'm not.

And although we can produce a light
a million times brighter than the sun
we have problems saying words like please and thank you and love.

I tell my psychiatrist about the sadness that shakes all 206 of my bones
as my cerebellum pulses with ten billion neurons and flashbacks and blood cells and "Post Traumatic Symptom Disorder," because everything has to have a name in science.

So the doctor prescribes Zoloft, and Prozac, and Ability, and Paxil to numb the passion,
But she contradicts with the words,
"Life isn't supposed to make you feel good or bad,
for it is just supposed to make you feel."

Because when my hand is on my chest I feel something there,
A force pumping 100,000 miles of blood across my limbs
filled with broken iambic pentameters, and stars of lust, with music, and sleeping pills, and roses of wonder-
for there are just some things within me that science cannot explain.

And although it can explain my heart bleeding,
It can't define the meaning,
or prescribe what we are needing,
here were assigned ******* seating,
and the teacher explains my uneasy breathing,
but in my head i can't stop the screaming,
and the sciences seems to be fleeting
as they can't explain us meeting,
our minds and eyes so gleaming,
its just the feeling,
when even science can't tell if you're drowning or dreaming,
because these brain cells are fleeting
as there are just some things
science
cannot explain.