I am enough**



…



aren't I?

body bags surround me like crop circles.

The saddest part is, I know I'm not going to any of those funerals.
I went to a funeral once, before I had begun.
I don't think I ever left.

& when I said I knew what you meant,
I wasn't lying. I understand every pulsing vein,
every chipped tooth,
every one night stand.
Not because I can overuse another phrase and say,
     "been there, done that"
but because I feel what you feel,
and whatever you're made of
(whatever makes up your rythmic
b r e a t h s
and zig zagging mind)
and what I'm made of,
is the same.

I cannot say that I have lived my life peering
d
o
w
n
the side of a mountain,
or that I have looked death in the eyes,
but just because I am not as familiar with the smell of Jack or the sting of  *****, does not classify me as boring.

I do not need your petty, objectifying poisons to feel like I'm on top of the world.
All I need if you.

I wish you could say the same.

When I climbed into his bed, all of my joints popped simultaneously
(he said it was the loneliest, prettiest song he'd ever heard, and I told him the orchestra was just tired, but that's another story for another poem),
my hollow bones trembles, pressurized into diamonds.

Every particle of our beings is recycled stardust,
and astrologers recorded our flesh as a newly discovered zodiac sign.
I always write about constellations because somehow humans have found a way to connect giant ***** of fire that are literally galaxies away from each other and create art.

*That should tell you everything you need to know about mankind.

Did you know that if the entire history of the universe was condensed into a single calendar year, writing was invented fifteen seconds ago?

The only thing that keeps me from floating away and imploding in the Milky Way was unheard of at 11:59:44 PM.

When I read this, everything made sense for the first time in twelve years.

(Twelve years ago, I was six, and six year olds don't have thoughts that cause them to question existence and the purpose of anything; seven year olds, however, can and do.)

I don't know about you, but for me, 11:59:45 PM is prime poetry reading and writing time. And that time slot doesn't close until you go to bed and wake up and do adult things and carry on emotionless throughout the day, so if you don't ever go to sleep, you can achieve a state of transparency, and consumers love seeing right through you.

This is my theory, and it's 4:56 AM right now.

i googled "is it too soon to say i love you"
(at 11:52 pm on december 18th,
64 days after i met you)
countless combinations of 26 letters behind the glaring screen
all spelled the same warnings
it's too soon
it's just lust
it's infatuation*

but i knew i loved you the day we sat in your car for 4 hours and i listened to you talk about your 1st  and only girlfriend and the countless days you wanted to **** yourself and where the scars on your back came from and how you were figuring out that nothing really matters

but even though you want to, i know you don't actually believe that
because tonight, when i collapsed completely under the weight of knowing i wasn't good enough, you were there
you let my tears stain your flannel and you repeated the same words that wouldn't mean **** if they weren't coming from you

"Amelia, everything is going to be okay."*

b e t w e e n
the 1 am drives
the office marathons
the weightless highs
the salted wounds
you became the answer to every question i'd ever asked

you left behind pieces of yourself in every corner of my subconsciousness and i couldn't escape even if i wanted to.

connect the bruises on my hips
from your suffocating grips
you can see our love story, concise but enthralling

this is the first time i've felt breathless but alive

so **** menshealth.com and cosmopolitan for telling lost, hopeful idiots like me to sit around and wait as if tomorrow is promised and keep an unmanageable, starving beast locked in my ribcage.
by the time you read this my soul will be as open as a business on black friday and the simple fact that i trust you enough to not trample my fragile self is enough of a sign that yes,
I love you.

I didn't mean for this to happen:

for you to make my name a habit, a safe word
when you go overboard &
no one's there to trace your scars &
kiss the memories left on your wrists.

I didn't mean to become routine,
comfortable in your mouth,
your Sunday morning
after the substances weren't enough to **** the demons.

They're branded on your eyelids,
so you never want to sleep, unless it's
with me; but I always give in
to your desperate pleas.

I just want to replace
the bottle in your hand
the lines
the bathroom sinks
the fog
those things behind the mirror the doctor said would help you
& fix you.

But you love being broken more than you love me.