We crave warmth
Bare touch
Sullen words that drip
drip
drip
Illuminating the dark,
we meld
Weaving our stories
Seeking solace
in a sun that's already set

Write.
Write everyday. Just 200, 3000, 5.5 million words a day. Just write.
Write something. A love story. A horror piece. Elicit moans and groans.
For goodness sakes, JUST WRITE!
Hurry.
Your ink is drying up.
Dry.
Why won’t you write?!
Unstuck the words from your fingers. Fling them on a page.
They are DRYING! These words only have once to get out.
GET THEM OUT.
Sinking, withdrawing, they shrink in fear.
The voices in your head, louder now, shouting. Shouting with a plead…WRITE!
Like a dictator commanding its people, your head commands you to write.
NOW!

But don’t write.
Don’t write now! You’re not ready.
NOT READY!
Your words are too precious, you can’t share them.
They are heavy in your hands, their weight a familiar feel.
Keep them to yourself. Soak up their beauty. Don’t share your words.  
Like a monk in a monastery, your heart commands you to keep these words to yourself.
Sacred.

So don’t write.
Don’t write cause you’re not ready,
Your heart and head are at odds
I command you not to do anything
And you’ll listen,
With a fervor,
You’ll obey
And
You
Won’t
Write
A
Single.
*******.
Word.

Don't quest, like a hunter, for romance,
Pursuing prey, cunningly, to its lair,
Eyes stung by lust,
Quiver unslung to unleash arrows
Blindly, to win a heart.

At quests end, coveted trophies are lost,
Smothered to lose their free spirit,
Or flitting away, out of reach.

Is romance not a dance of equals,
Equally paced,
Equally poised,
Equally purposed?

Two hunted souls, warily learning trust.

The hunter often catches the prey,
And yet, still loses the game.

Jolted awake,
Is that banging
in my ears
inside my head,
or out?
It's at the door,
banging so hard
and fast.

I stride through
the darkness
to my sister's room.
A hand on her
shoulder and
her name.
It does not
wake
her.

Panic builds and
the banging,
it's inside and out.
She won't
wake
up, please.

Empty
Nitrous Oxide
and spirit bottles
litter my
sight.
Please, wake
up.
Please, before
our door
caves
in.

I can write about all the ways we miscommunicate
Words and phrases and lack of response
Blank faced with no sense of emotion or displays of affection
Unsure of whatever spectrum we're on
But if we even are on the same one, we're on opposite sides
It's funny how I can bleed out through pen ink but I can't ever seem to annunciate
My words won't translate into how I feel to anyones face and yours is no exception in this case
Barriers I feel terrified to get through
The break downs are rough and like milk you had in the fridge for months
You forgot it was there but when you find it it's spoiled

Expecting to wake up,
From this dream of nineteen years.

Forever in love with
Ideas,
And surreal, seemingly impossible dreams.

THE WAY IN WHICH INSECURITY MAKES A HOME OF MY BODY,
LEAVING HER PILES OF SELF-DOUBT AND ANXIETY LYING ON THE FLOOR.
AS I CONTINUE TO STUMBLE AWAY FROM MIRRORS,
TRYING TO FIND A REFLECTION SHE HAS NOT BECOME A PART OF,
SHE REVEALS TO ME,
THAT THE MIRROR DOES NOT HAVE TO BE CRACKED IN ORDER FOR ME TO LOOK BROKEN.
I ASK HER WHY SHE HAS NOT MOVED OUT ALREADY,
AND SHE SAYS IT IS NOT HER FAULT THAT I ALWAYS LEAVE THE DOORS OPEN.
I TELL HER OF HOW I MISPLACED THE KEYS IN THE HANDS OF PEOPLE WHO COULD NOT LOVE ALL THAT I AM.
AND WITHOUT HESITATION,
SHE ASKS ME WHY I HAVE NOT YET CHANGED THE LOCKS.