We talk about a lot of stuff at 1 AM
About cashews, and trident gum,
Melatonin pills, cheap thrills,
The shallow hills of kids like us.

How I biked away from my house, or
how you drove in circles
to meet me at the library

Because the wrong direction, at the time
seemed right. I told you “yeah, it’s on the way”
but you knew something was off

We talked about how you slept
on the beanbags, how you blushed
and became upset when I told you
how very much you meant.

I made you smile
Looking like a fool
Wishing for me

But then again,
I never got the chance,
Out of cowardice, perhaps, when you walked
To your small red car.
So much depends on a small red car.

We hugged and you sheepishly walked away.
Something rested on the edge of my lips;
You seemed like you were so close, and yet so far.

I saw a red octopus, once,
its tentacles cut off,
through years of abuse,
hardened by the teeth of liberty: of
red, white, and blue

The octopus is red now,
its limbs regrown and out-spread,
long and wiry suction cuffs
protruding from its bulbous, cruel head

It had a clam in its beak
and promised me that it wouldn't eat
as sharks had done way back
"It's shell is far too hard for me," it said,
as the shell began to crack

A million voices inside,
silenced by a sea of red

“You like too much!” she said to me.
“Make up your mind!” she cried.

An inkjet cartridge emptied of its contents
The things it could have produced, if given enough time.

She
was allowed to eat poetry, the ink dribbling down her lips,
Soaking her shirt in the black stains of abstract words,
Distracting comparisons, and personified stones coming to
Life.

She
resurrected lithograph golems,
who groaned at the consumption of their
Content.

But me?

Why does my pencil glide across the page?
I should have taken to the study of flesh and blood
unlike the girl who speaks in tongues.

Perhaps…
Perhaps she’s right.
Perhaps the world doesn’t need another performer on the world’s stage.
Perhaps… there are already far too many.

My tongue ripped out,
My brain purged and washed.
No more slicing into pages
With my graphite-knife.