this is to my old mister:
i saw that you deleted pictures.
it spread relief through my veins.
it hurts you, too, still, to see my face.
are you angry? or is she jealous?
am i still pretty? how're the fellas?
do you miss me? you still a coward?
pushing petals off cut flowers.
candy with nuts- your special garlic.
i eat them whole and push you farther
than you can move or where you've settled.
for the worst, you've won some medals.
for the best, you've let me better,
but why did you send me that short letter?
there's no time bomb in my belly,
for sometime I was unsullied
of thoughts of you, thoughts of she,
thoughts of them, thoughts of we,
don't know why, i'm still vindictive
since from my heart, you've been evicted.
i wont respond, you get none,
no more of you, from here on.

the whirr of the fan, a flash of green in my belly button,
comic books on the nightstand, they might stand for real,
the way you steal a glimpse while we're all laughing at nothing,
the pause when we sit in your car after hanging with our friends,
circles the rain makes in puddles, rapid yet placid,
the subtle way you brush my hair away when it tickles you,
while i'm tucked under arm; a fond pillow,
when i curl up alone knotted in my sheets,
slipping my cold feet in the crooks of my legs to warm,
the only song that's been my alarm since you,
these are the things that make me miss you.

My immune system can't keep up with my emotions,
I've broke and shed tears, learning to be kosher.
I've been sick for a month but sick of you longer.
If my resilience is strong, my resolve can be stronger.
I won't talk to you, what's there to say anyway?
Hey
What's up? You hear Deafheaven's new album?
No? Yeah, it's not out yet.
I know you're not even giving this a second thought.
But when everyone's around- I still wonder why you're not.
Even though it's brief and in passing
and maybe I'm relieved; disenchanted.
I don't have to address the silence in a drunken stupor
amongst all of these new faces, I'm super.
I can talk to whoever and not feel like a loser
swiping on tinder, wearing away my finger
prints, a repetitive motion syndrome since
that night I decided to get to stepping for my dignity.
I refused to be an option that's just in your vicinity.
I've bought one too many beers that I didn't drink myself.
I've sat shiva one too many times on your bottom shelf.
So now I just wonder if we could ever be cordial,
I've been rubbing panacea on the sofa-bed sores,
I've acquired these last few months with you.
Hey
what're you up to?
Hope you're alright
Congratulations
I bid you good night.

Now that I'm settled into another night
of this unsavory gloom, impending doom,
well-marinated in the bitter songs my ex wrote about me
I can start thinking of all the little ghosts of men
I've washed off of myself in the powder room,
some of which still linger in my sheets and in messages,
in empty whiskey bottles and cups of sour wine,
and some of which I keep around to remind myself
how lonely I've managed to remain.
My ex-lover's voice is straining now,
but in spite of the comfortable familiar sound of his wailing,
I only miss the parts about him I've made up with silver lining.
And I'm deadly close to making up solid bodies to those little ghosts, too.
Most of whom should stay swirling deep in the toilet,
or covered in latex in the dustbin.
But I take a pill every day and ignore the many messages.
I hug a soft loneliness and hold seances on the weekends,
bury my dead feelings in a pillow as I scream their several names,
swallow them whole but dribble and fill lines at night
only to cleanse myself of their remnants in the morning.

I hope you know that I think of you so often,
that I worry and hope to feel you in my pocket.
Every now and then, I'll think that I have lost it.
I wear my attachment enclosed in a locket.
Because I never want to ask too much. (that's too much.)
But lately I could use your touch. (let's touch.)
I wish you could just read this, but we're all just so busy.
I know it's not deliberate but "read" leaves me in a tizzy.
I'm blue when you're not with me but I will not make this heavy.
I'm scared you'll take advantage, can't bear to be so naggy.
Deflect and reflect a lack of true affection.
Poly isn't for when our hearts need protection.
I am not just an honorable mention; another soft option.
Nor do I expect you to get up and just drop ****.
Just wish to be valued and treated as such,
But I never want to ask too much, is this (too much?)
Too bad, lately I've been too much (that's too much.)
I'll sit here debating if I've enough (that's enough.)
While I'm really just waiting for your touch (let's touch.)

I want to cry but to be perfectly honest,
I don’t feel like crying. I mean maybe,
I feel like I should be crying,
perhaps the girl, that wasn’t on anything
would probably be bawling her face out into her sheets,
or at least be asleep,
But here I am awake at 5 in the morning,
obviously tired.
Eyes dry and wide open,
Obviously spent
Numb-nosed and hell bent on writing something to read today
I’m typing away at this screen as if my conscience is the only thing
that could hear me if I scream out loud right now.
Enough of that,
filler angst.

I’ve been a juicy story for ya, huh?
Tellin your boys
I ended your dry spell, did I?
That’s quite lovely.
I suppose you ended mine, but I guess I find that hard to define
with a saying as simple as that, “She ended my dry spell”
In my heart, I know how to end you, but don’t be concerned.
I won’t try.
They say I’m too nice.
And when I hear that, I nod twice with my jaw tight
When I hear that, I don’t show them what I write.

I guess I don’t really feel much anger towards you anyway.
No matter what ill will I try to muster up, it’s lackluster and faded.
I mean, I guess it’s mostly me that’s jaded, so
It’s not your fault.
You’re the bystander.
And nothing is really telling you to save me.
Certainly, not I.
Hell, I’d be ****** if you tried.
I mean how much saving do I really need,
if the knots in my chest and around my ankles are this loose?
And I’m drinking this juice with free hands
it tastes sweet but not sticky

Honey, thanks for the truth,
you are a straight shooter-
and I might just be digging that part of you.
That and that we can go at it hard and forever.
That doesn’t hurt, I think.
For that, I can deal with listening to your jabber,
your kissing and telling, your “**** I couldn’t have her.”
Just pass the bourbon please, even though it's only scotch,
there’s still an urgency, to not be sober while you talk.

I don’t know.

This is what I wanted, right?
No strings attached too tight?

I like how you feel against my cheek.
Almost like you mean something.
You’re warm and I’m buzzed,
hanging off the edge of lust
It’s just oxytocin playing the cruel trick.
I remind myself you’re just that.
Oxytocin and some good ****.
But I like how you feel against my cheek.
Just ***** that you bore me when you speak.

I know when I've reached my speaking cap,
because you pull faces, sometimes shush me,
complain that I over-explain.
I tell you about how little I speak to everyone else,
in hopes that you'd cherish the words I share
with you alone, but it's futile.
So I silence myself in efforts to quell your disdain,
and refrain from speaking again.
"That's too dramatic," you say.
"It's one extreme to another, learn balance," you say.
My speech is policed, but you "only teach."
Brevity is the soul, you say.
Training me to avoid embarrassment,
obtain eloquence,
I should be thankful
that you, who know not to express your feelings
without another's pre-existence,
are patient enough with my chatter
to suggest that I truncate and omit better.
Reduce the noise and volume on this amplifier.
If I were a ****, you'd fine tune me
until you heard nothing at all.

What a task it must be
to hold a candle to me,
a stationary puddle of wax
colored grey and crimson
by twelve seasons
we've shared juxtaposed or apart.
I've found your hues on the faces of others
often impervious to my flames,
hardened with my tears.
And our marriage
demands that I believe
we will melt together
or fall into the cracks
of another holder.

All of whom you wish could witness
this shameful vulnerability of yours
won't.
They do not etch your name into their pages
in ritual repetition.
They do not reread the shameless writing
with emotional masochism.
They do not lay at night reliving your smile
in the light shapes dancing across their walls.
They do not wish for the end
because they hate what their story has become.
Not like you do, sad girl.
They do not search for you.
Your documents are scattered
deep inside their fading history
burnt and blocked
exactly how they prefer it.
They toast to forgetting their sorrows.
Their guilt is a crumpled letter under every bottle of wine
they get too caught up to finish.
They've long become bored visualizing those fingers
groping their breaths for apologies
by scribbling poorly written prose
with blood from underneath the nails.
You've bitten them raw, sad girl.
You've tasted the bitter grime
from relentlessly scraping ***** windows
They still do not see you.
They still do not want to see you.
They won't ever knock on your door
and ask to review you.
Lock up and step outside-
there's beauty in the blank last page of leaving.