“I hope one day

somebody loves you

so much…

even if sometimes
you are growing sideways

that they do not waste their time
trying to fix you.”

Even if fixing you would make you a better grey,

maybe it isn’t fair of me to try.

Maybe i’m supposed to let you have an alcohol problem,

to treat everyone around you like ****,

to walk around with your ******* superiority complex.

Maybe I’m supposed to leave,

not fix.

Maybe I’m supposed to let you change only on your own accord

and hope that you do.

I’m known for changing the character of one in particular,

so drastically that the entire class noticed.

“You wrecked him.”

“What did you do to him?”

I left.

You were doing me the favor of a lifetime,

I mean that quite literally.

If I had only known then what I know now,

if I had seen it for what it was,

and you for who you are.

“You’re not who I thought you were.”

“I know, I changed.”

Dripping with irony, so ******* ironic.

I thought you were so selfish, so cruel,

but you knew better.

If given the chance, would I know better now?

Would I learn from this?

Look at my track record.

I think they say

girls' tears lower boys’ testosterone levels.

Something to do with pheromones.

How about the other way around?

I have this boy, this friend, this ex lover

who cries a lot.

*****, right?

“Boys shouldn’t cry,”

I used to tease.

But I swear that was before he started crying all the time.

Now I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him cry more

than he’s seen me.

Now I don’t think it’s weird,

I don’t judge him.

If anything,

it makes me love him more.

I wonder if they’ll find that

boys' tears make girls fall in love.

something to do with pheromones.

I wanted to run till my chest burst,

I wanted to leave everyone in my dust.

Sometimes I think I could go days without talking, or eating, or sleeping.

Sometimes I’m so clouded I’m not sure why I even bothered getting up that day.

Be an adult.

No, be a child.

Is there a difference?

**** your talent,

**** your dream.

Is there a difference?

I could spend thousands in a day and feel my happiest in months.

I could break your heart and not feel a thing.

I could call you crying and feel everything.

“I worry about you all the time.”

People have no idea how to express love.

You think I’m cold?

You think I’m withdrawn?

Maybe it’s not me,

though it probably is.

Or maybe you’re all too ******* stupid.

Hemingway once wrote, “Nobody ever lives their life all the way up but bull fighters.”
An alluring career path,
but I know bulls are color blind.
They can’t even see the red,
and that kills it for me.
Hemingway also said, “Write drunk, edit sober.”
I can drink myself into a state,
but words don’t flow as easily as gin.
I’ve taken a liking to martinis lately;
there are 13 different ways to order one.
There are a million better things I could do with my life than google how to order a martini,
but I’m no bull fighter.

Plagued by a flagging heart at the very mention of Brazil,
and the poor habit of scrolling to Capricorn at any and all astrological babble.
Meaningless and heedless whether together or apart,
tyros or hedonists,
perhaps both.
A volatile amalgam any way you slice it.

My best poems are about you,
my worst thoughts too.

Don’t listen to them when they say **** won’t ******* up.
Don’t listen to that stupid tove lo song and think it’s meant for you.
Google long term depotentiation and get back to me.
While you’re at it, bring all those memories I lost back to me too.

I can remember the time on the mountain, numerous hotel stays, your fish sheets, your bedroom, your socks, your bracelets.

I wish I could forget the time I had to call an ambulance, your parents, and mine.
I can recall the time security was called, my window banging, how my hand stung, and you promising it wasn’t when it obviously was.

I can remember the first time we said it, and maybe the last time we meant it in my backyard.
It’s almost as if you knew right then you were going to **** it all up.
I can’t imagine why else you cried so hard.