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.

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.

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.)

There are few words of substance to be said.
I won't reinforce the violence.
There are some terrifying acts
I could concoct when I'm thinking of her.
But I have taste.
Class.
Shame, even.
I can't fall into her category of betrayal.
I won't stoop down that deep.
I'll keep it to myself,
and dump out the stew.
With everyone I embrace, I'll forget about you.
Conscious.
What does it mean any way?
Friendship.
Who needs the glamor?
I stammer when I say your name-
but realize that your claim to fame
was a ******* child-
you couldn't be a good father.
You held your music like a baby
but tossed it out like a bother.
Uttering this, as you called her.
She called you.
You kissed her.
No, she kissed you.
You don't love her.
But she loves you.
This isn't the last one, I gasp,
and take the card and cookies that you gave me,
on the day that we turned two
drop tears on them
like suicide bombs and
toss them in the dust bin.
This just in,
this trust is
demolished and disgusting.
****** with ample shine,
Like the muck thats left behind
when a porter-***** by a tree is cracked,
and all that's done to clean it up-
is the dumping of icewater.
Washed us away for a bit-
but there's still this ****.
I feel it seep into my soils.
I wont let it reach my roots.
I need to grow and shoot
up to the sky away from you
and her
and thoughts of you
and her
I can't seem to get too far from you
and her
My branches reach up to the clouds,
hold me once again "doubt."
Let me be your baby,
let me stop and shout.
I keep falling down.
I'll rise again, then drown,
in this filthy water.
No-
There are flowers in the future.
I can smell them now.

Online deals are the best distraction
for the leaky feeling in my chest.
Every click wipes a drip.
A shopping cart comprised of sale items,
the pair of oddly patterned socks,
suspenders no one will ever wear,
men's sweater in an extra-small,
an obscure band shirt-
all unwanted sitting in a 20 dollar cart.
I want them.
5 more dollars and it's free shipping.
Throw in unpopular shades of makeup
and a friendship bracelet.
Looking forward to the delivery man.
So involved in the next best sale-
the pain of neglect is removed with mail.
i am in the clearance section-
waiting to be reconsidered
my emotions are overstock-
please pick one up half-off.
Sometimes I never complete my purchase.
Imaginary carts of imaginary feelings.
Dump them away and forget their existence.
Someone else might see their worth
and make me wish I bought them first.
Rainy day
a broken package.
my leaky heart
drenched in mud
wash me don't
leave me
don't forget me in the
mailbox by the door.
Only 5 bucks.
don't return me
to the store.
It was free shipping.
i promise i can be
more
Fine, I'll take it.
Months of dust.
i am sitting in the drawer,
wondering why you even bought me.
just because i was on sale-
now you never look my way.
Off to goodwill.
Consumer's guilty pill.

I refuse to relate her to the sunrise and the sunset-
as there are already far too many things that remind me,
but I'll have you all know-
I think of her every single day.
This morning I bit my tongue in fear that maybe...
I am in love.
I thought that
there could be no other explanation
for why someone who isn't even present in my life
consistently
rips herself into my mind.
But that is only I shining light on her once again.
Like I've done so since we became friends.
No. I am not in love.
I am
I was betrayed.
And I have not
can not
forgive.
My trust began to vanish
when the hot air of her whispers
tickled my ears
and fear swished inside of them.
Her pleas for friendship
were seasoned with 1-up mushrooms,
and she always saw the bigger firework,
dreamt the more vivid dream,
had the better taste,
in self-righteous scream.
Love?
I politely decline your offer, miss.
I don't care to love you, miss.
For the last time
Goodnight.