My eyes might scan bookshelves,
but I search for Blankets.
I wont say a word,
because it's already quite warm in here.
My friends are yelling at each other,
about bad politics,
while there's testosterone on the blue screen.
I sit on the floor and flick comrades
off my lap.
Little dark bug- I was quick to slap.
It's clamorous, a broken plate,
a blame game,
then silence.
Everyone else is on a smoke break.
I sit on the sofa while we wait.
I keep looking at Blankets.
The warmth and comfort of Blankets.
You know you fix heartbreak-
by filling it up with empty cotton?
so the blood soaks up,
and the space is cramped,
so those mushy feelings have no place to stay?
I cover myself in the forms of Blankets.
I am just one soppy broken heart,
surrounded by the same on Super Bowl Day.

got some armor today,
after drinking mermaid's milk.
tastes like the sea
if it were on fire.
lips covered in soot
from kissing dragons,
those myths in disguises.
he said anti-depressants
take the edge off.
so i dropped my sword,
and clutched my shield.
waiting for pegasus
but he's stuck somewhere
as the stars in the heavens.
and that's alright.
it'll be alright.
my scales will protect me
keep my insides from emptying
into the toilet.
keep the pills in.
keep the feelings out.
deflecting the magic.

He hides his politics on the inside of his jacket,
wears two scarves and has a light British or Scandinavian accent.
I mean- he says poo-berty, for god's sake,
but the man is brilliant.
I never knew a person who can take
what an idiot exclaims in such fervor and falsity,
and let it become something of knowledge.
The concept of understanding
sits in the back of my tongue,
deep in my throat, and it rattles until he calls it out.
He knows what I'm saying when I don't.
And he knows I've got this solution
but I can't put it to words
that do it justice.
So he and that Greg kid- the philosophy major,
and the only other man I really know who speaks of feminism
more accurately than any woman I've ever come to listen to,
extrapolates my shaky speech
into substance.
And I've likened this learning into something like love
-a Platonic but true love,
of all those who know so much more than I,
and are willing to still take me seriously.
It's rare to see with these eyes,
true teachers, true seekers
truth-seekers
truth teachers
and they who learn infinitely,
inspiring me to be poo-pil.

i hear the lady in french- but cannot listen.
my heart is beating slowly. the fear has seeped in.
the snow falls steady- we’ll be snowed in,
busting secrets, let’s not keep them.
let’s not keep them.

stumble into freshman notebooks.
discover nothing fresh or ripe.
but something stewing, something rotten.
something worth it- worth some talking.
now i’m laughing.

your uninspired, murmured sleep.
my tapping toes, so off-beat.
teach me rhythm, i lose it fast.
forgot how to flirt and picked up class,
something worth it- let’s not keep it.

I bit down on my back teeth,
and let the air release from my nose.
I want to scream,
I want to break things,
but I can write fury instead.
There is a typhoon in my chest,
that is ejected from my pen.
My paper rips from the pressure.
I imagine it be like skin,
and how this ink bleeds
boiling hatred
is what I thirst for when
the adrenaline kicks in.
Because when all is said and done,
and bloodshot eyes glance downward.
The reality washes over me-
I have made
in madness.