We were only ever
moving through..


A transient
encounter pinked
in sprinkled serendipity

had synchronised
our step

and having met
before the bested peaks
of all that seemed unlikely
we stayed close.


Through
needless plays
of problematic metaphor,
we laughed and wept,
deplored enforced morality,
embraced a great unknown,

explored the cultic
sympathies, arrested
in our infancy
and swore an oath
eternal to the greenery
regrown..



..while knowing
well, the day will come
when one moves on
alone

That which is of the heart,  capable
of making its stand  in the world
  calling "good", that which it sees  as good..
and then bleeding  from the inside
on its behalf;

  This beautiful Art..

This magnificent creature
This one who  is capable
of raising from the dead
    That, which has fallen:

In to despair
In to the Blackness of the pit--

  An un-supported suffering
  An Un-loved, grieving
A fallen-one
falling between the cracks

--Until,  with a Kiss
and a hand-chosen
prairieflower,  gifted--
Bringing,  back to life
all things..  once, dead

in the heart of a little boy
in the heart of a little boy..

I don't want to be   p u l l e d
in  to  your  world..

My hope is to  become  able
to lift you out of  your world
    until you find your  
                   true,  own..

  Instead of the one  you
  have  fallen  in to

I've always kept my jealousy
locked in a box within my heart,
and since the day we started dating
only I've held the key.

My jealousy innocently simmers
inside like a *** of water,
but explodes red-hot like
the lava inside a volcano
if put under pressure

I wish I could let you open up my little box
and let you see the real root of my jealousy.
Let you see that buried underneath my smile
lies a deep, etched frown.

But I know you wouldn't understand.
You see me as strong and as cast-iron hard
as the box encased around my heart.
You would break if you saw
your sturdy rock crumble.

So instead I'll shut my little box
and throw away the key,
in hopes that if I bury these feelings
deep enough inside of me
I'll forget they ever existed
in the first place.

Drawing lines on myself
with a knife in place of a pen,
wanting someone to see,
anyone to see.

Because no one sees
that my tears are a cry for help,
that whenever I make suicide jokes
they're less of joke
and more of a fantasy.
That I don't just wear sleeves all the time
because I'm constantly cold.

So I'll finish my sketch
and display it for everyone to see.
I hope everyone likes it.
Not everyone likes abstract art after all...

My first experience with love
felt like touching a hot stove.
I would constantly have to hold back
to keep from getting burned
by your hot temper.
I walked into my second relationship
with those same standards,
with 3rd degree burns
snaking up my arms and legs.
When my boyfriend saw my scars he
wanted to crush your heart in his hands.
And even though that sounds violent,
I know he would never smash a spider.
He would never hurt me.
He just wants what's best for me.

And that isn't you.

Since I was little I've always had a lot of friends
that were with me wherever I went.
Furry friends that had paws and tails,
but were not alive

They always greeted me
with sewn on smiles
and glimmering glued on eyes,
and though they couldn't say hello,
I was proud to call them my friends.

I met my best friend on my fifth birthday,
a brown dog with
a cheesy name and an easy smile,
and every year since our
two halves became whole
we've celebrated that day ever since.

Every year of my life was a
new year for new friends,
but as my friend circle grew
so did the judgement.
No longer was it considered cute
to tote around stuffed animals like a toddler

"You need to make real friends," my parents would say,
when I had reached middle school
and never had so much as a sleepover,
unlike my sister who always
had people swarming around her
like bees to a hive.

Little did they know I had
tried to make friends,
tried to act normal without any luck.
If people wouldn't even accept
the facade I had put up
what reason would they have
to accept the real me?

The other kids they laughed at me,
calling me a mute because my anxiety
often stole the words off the tip of my tongue
before sound could carry them out.

My furry friends let me cry into them
when I'm upset,
won't call me weird or stupid
for the things I say.
Whenever I fall apart,
those stitched on smiles
put me back together,
telling me everything
is going to be okay.

My stuffed animals are the
biggest influences in my life.
I'll never go anywhere without one by my side
and if other people can't accept that
and think I have a problem,
then they're the ones with the problem