Summer was only a whisper
away, I could feel
the honeybees on my tongue
when we ditched class
and followed the beaten trail like snakes
in the grass. High sun, high eyes, you
always liked them. What a drive, you say,
pulling into an abandoned lot where
foxes rule like kings and weeds are
becoming.

Too easy, you skate across the paths
like it’s winter and this is the pond
in my parents’ backyard. Same trees,
same sky, sure, but as we walked
beneath the looming canopy of branches
and nests, I felt celestial,
like an unwelcome guest
who breaks down your door and
marches on all your pillows and antique
breakables. They say a cave collapsed
millions of years ago, fostering
this grand gulf, a dwarf Grand Canyon.
We scaled down the side
of a thorny rose cliff, hummingbirds
surrounded us like crop circles.

It was in that moment, me taking a seat
adjacent to a butterfly on a daisy,
that indebtedness gripped my shirt collar
across the dining room table, saliva foaming
at the corners of its mouth, and slapped
me across the face. Cheeks burning, eyes
welling, I recognized the purity,
I recognized the sublime.

Everything I faced was part
of a divine process that no man could ever
effectuate. The gulf that could swallow
me whole with one slip, one tumble,
was designed by water, shaped
by the sandy wind. Without me or him,
it would flourish,
the vines would climb so high that not
even an angel could bring them down.

On the drive home, in his passenger
seat, all I could envision was green:
the specks in his eyes, a singular
leaf on an elm tree, the feeling
you get when you think too hard
and too long about being manmade.

Please don't ask me any questions.

I will not be honest.

summer
is only a
whisper
away
I can
feel the
honeybees
on my
tongue

your mother remembers the
day you fell from the sky

"my shooting star," she said

but she always knew you would burn yourself out

your skeleton is the kind
that leave archaeologists begging for
more

remember to dust off your ribcage
every now and then
polish it with kindness
and let them rest

your heart is tired
of being bruised
it is worn
it is messy

hang your heaviness on the coat rack
leave your map in the passenger seat
and bury your sorrow in the garden

home is not another person
it is within you

you are a bonfire
a haunting flame
licking your own wounds
burning yourself out

you are a paradox
tough as nails
but
weaker than words

you tell yourself
its okay
to barricade your diaphragm
like your ribs aren't doing their job

im here to tell you
we are on your side

we lay in the grave next to you

dying to live

this winter
remember to kiss your scars
like they're your long, lost imaginary friends
but they're very real
(don't forget that)

im here to tell you
there has never been a better time
for healing

the air is heavy
and so is your heart

the world is not your enemy
that's you

"it's all about character," i said
"like cartoons?" you asked
but that's not what i meant

i mean the way you panic before a test and take baths when you're sad and say you're going to do something but you don't.
you never do.

promises are empty and so is
the chamber where i keep my sanity
so i make my own characters:

these
right now
strumming words and
lacing sentences with
passion and complexity
because simplicity is overrated

i crave tangibility and this lined paper is about as close as i can get

my hands are numb
my wrists are sore
be the relief i need to get by
be the astronomer who connects these dots
and gives a name to the constellations
that mean nothing to most
(but i think they're beautiful even if they are burning out a billion miles away)

i just need some character
and you have plenty to go around

the body of a poem
my body on your bed
your body gently falling down
our bodies fine like thread

we intertwine like sentences
syllables fall like rain
these literary elements
help me fight away the pain

i hate the way this sounds
this format makes me itch
im writing this for you
to help you climb out of the ditch

it's so muddy
it's so deep
it's made for eternal sleep
it's not for you
it's not for me
it's for dreaming endlessly

trust me,
that's not as great as it sounds.
eventually you'll be lost,
in your thoughts you'll start to drown.

The rear view mirror
Landed in my lap
Where you used to rest your head
And say you weren't sure which way was up
I told you to follow the stars
And you laughed in my face
But I wasn't joking
So I rolled my eyes
Until I couldn't stop
And they got stuck like that forever

It's a shame because you always said my eyes were the second prettiest thing about me

There's a boy
(isn't there always?)
with eyes so deep
that I couldn't tell you how many galaxies
I've counted when he looks at me.

He tells me about the suicide note in the bottom drawer.

Whispering about not belonging in this world is our ***** talk,
and I kiss his words before they
shatter on the floorboards like
the Sunday I drove too fast around the corner.

I have whiplash from both.

i woke up
my sheets were
laced like spider webs
between my shin bones
i could see my breath
like the fog on the
road behind my house
the sky was
paler than my skin
and rain kissed
the window panes
like everything it had ever lost had come back to it.

it is friday
and i am having withdrawals
from lazy sundays
in room 308

Resolutions are
supposed to be
constructed from broken staircases and
antique chandeliers to
sand away the rough patches on your
wrist bones and
the scabs on your elbows;
they're meant to
declaw your demons and
file down your teeth so you
stop ripping the Band Aids off the
wounds that have been trying to
heal since the day you
gave up on
morality,
they're meant to take what you have and
polish it until it's
pretty enough to put behind the
glass in the living room where
strangers can
"ooh" and "ahh" and
pretend like they actually
give a ****,
they're made to fold you up into a
paper crane as a
reminder that
everything can be art if you
strip away the titles.

However,
my New Years resolution is to
write a poem every day, to
finally post the
For Rent sign that's been
gathering dust
in the attic, to
staple my heart to the
bulletin board in the
bad part of town.

Is it more ironic that I'm digging up the worst parts of myself to make my art better, or that I think writing some ****** metaphors is considered a resolution?

Before you licked my windshield clean,
I kept hitting every ******* curb.
You laughed at me and said all of the cracked bumpers and shallow dents could have been prevented;
I blame it on my lack of automobile knowledge.
"It has nothing to do with cars, Amelia."

I hate poems that rhyme
almost as much as human's concept of time.

****.
It's already 4:48???

I'm sorry that my poetry has become a tangled mess of love letters (and the regular letters), I'm just searching for an outlet -
literally, because an electric shock might be the best explanation, and
figuratively, for obvious reasons -
as a way to explain my inconsistencies and fault lines
when all I want to do is love you the best.

I've never been the best at anything, though, only an in-between.

Then again, I never actually gave a **** until you rolled around like the smoothest stone I've ever seen.
I, however, am covered in algae,
but I'm okay with that,
since you said the way moss feels between your fingers is the sole reason touch is your favorite of the senses.

The floorboards ached like the countless bruises you trace with your lips.
They sound a lot like the process of falling in love with you:

I'm not sure where they came from or when it happened.
One night in the shower, they just lined my skin.
I don't know what exactly caused them,
and I didn't even notice they were there until someone pointed them out to me.

They cover my limbs, but on the upside,
they contrast wonderfully with my paleness.

spread me open and lay me out on your table like a blueprint (I'm just as hard to read)
nail me on the wall like a laminated world map (put pins on all the places you've been)
oil me up like your old, squeaky boxspring mattress (you remember the one)
give me life like the cpr dummy in middle school health class (mouth to mouth, get it?)
tell everyone how beautiful I look like a dead body in an open casket (we all know what you really mean)
wreck me like the abandoned house behind the railroad tracks (what a shame, it has so much historical value)
wrap me up like a reopened wound (oops, my bad)
bite me like the hangnails you get from chewing your fingers (it's a nervous habit)
drill my pieces together like ikea furniture (you might just have to wing it, I lost the instructions a long ******* time ago)

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.

There was something about the way
you clenched your fists and bit your tongue,
the way you pleaded non-guilty every night
I let my secrets pour out, but you had all of your
flood gates open and it was a sight to see.

I carved your initials into my sternum,
and cried every time I saw your face on the news,
lost and begging for sunlight when all I am is rain over the ocean.
They say the sea is just a reflection,
so how come all I can see in the rip tides are the love stories you wrote me 2 years ago?

I will never forget how we wanted the Rocky Mountains and a small wedding,
and I don't know about you
but I meant every syllable that slipped through my thirsty lips
until you replaced me with the need to feel like the old you;
the chase wasn't enough.

Xanax won't **** all of the pain,
only push it deeper inside of yourself
only push the few left who actually give a **** further away.
I can see the you that I love inside those glassy, cyan eyes
and you're beautiful, yes, but I can't save you if you keep
pulling the trigger on yourself in this exhausting game of roulette.

I didn't mean to write about you, and I'm sorry, but I always do.

She asked me if I missed him:

i miss him like the last train leaving from the station
with no money in my pocket,
just this long-winded poetry that has left its claws in me, in us.

he is everything i can't quite mold into metaphors
or syllables below the surface.
you were right when you said i was in over my head but i've been
checking these walls for a way out since the day i forgot how to feel
and he came to me like footholds carved in the cement.

i miss him like reading my favorite book for the very first time, i miss him like childhood and holidays and the longest day of summer, when the temperature rose like the fever i had broke when i was sick with butterflies and cheesy love songs.

Do I miss him?
The answer is yes.

She asked me if it was worth it:

i'm reminded of the passenger seat of your car
where you taught me it was okay to be  happy for no reason,
to be in love with the life you were given simply because there's things
like the smell of a memory and homemade pizza and the 20 questions game.

the way your eyes can tell stories
and your hands can plea bargain
and I knew from that day on that it takes true lovers to be silly.

If I could trade days of dreaming for seconds of spooning I would do in a hummingbird heartbeat because a day without you is like a year without rain, &
I'm living in a drought.
But the very moment your chest welcomes my shivering lungs, I can feel myself exhale, and the weeks of hydration suddenly become sacrificial.

Is it worth it?
The answer is yes.

It's not the way you are, dear.
It's the way my emotions reach their peak at 2 a.m.
when I'm alone with my blank canvas and endless list of fears
and you're going on the adventure I so desperately want to join you on.

It's the way my cobwebbed thoughts and overzealous daydreams intertwine
like my collarbones ache to be danced on,
while you're being the kind of free I've written about for years
and shedding your past of broken promises and disappointments.

It's the way I constantly grasp for a firm hold on a spark,
any kind of sweet nothings or a flick of an eye that tells me you want this
as bad as I do.
You're terrified of the future and I'm terrified of my past.

There's galaxies between our faults but inches between our lips
for a weekend, and it's the happy ending I crave
but it's only salt on my wounds when you have to pack your bag
with work clothes and every stumbled over "I love you."

This X marks the spot of where I used to feel okay
and your birth mark has lipstick stains from my rituals of
fixing this but they're fading every day I don't get to
bury my face in your sweatshirt and wrap myself in you.

This is my failed attempt at getting used to being attached but alone
At being at my most vulnerable state
And being in love with someone who will never understand.

Tell me, then, why isn't this working if opposites attract?

When you’re on the train to forgiving and forgetting,
take an atlas.
There’s buried treasure and 80% of the ocean is pure, untouched.
Mark the places you've seen
and circle the ones you felt,
because that’s where I want you to take me when the stars align
and you know it’s okay to be yourself again.

Don’t rush, though, dear. *You have so much to do.

“are you happy?”
and all I can do is grind my bones and pinch the pale skin of my wrists and say,
“what kind of person would I be if I wasn’t”
But if I allowed myself to be real
I would tell them it hurts more than it should
because I’m far too invested
in this tangled mess of a romance novel
to ever be happy again.

I became a different person
the day I was tricked into letting myself
become vulnerable enough to be
revised and rewritten,
and you would never guess
that I used to be head over heels in love
with change and spontaneity
until I gave myself to the first boy to call me
beautiful.

Don’t let the idea of isolation
frighten you away from self exploration.

Don’t believe what they tell you
about needing someone to lean on
because I can scrawl the truth
on your eyelids deep enough
for you to see the reality of trust,
and you can’t rely on anyone
to make you a better person.

*Being content isn’t enough and if you’re not infatuated with who you are than change what you’re doing, not who you’re doing, cause they’ll tell you whatever makes you stop crying long enough to take everything you have.

That’s because I didn’t know preparation was required,
but it was an adventure if I’ve ever been on one,
exploring a brilliant mind corrupted with
lust
and want
and desire
and anger,
and if it wasn’t for the honor I felt being the
first to conquer your algae free heart,
I would have ran the other way
the first time you told me you loved me.
It was 11:34
and my stomach wanted nothing to do with my dinner
and my mouth wanted nothing to do with my brain.
How can you blame me for being terrified
to do anything but spit it right back?
I’m not saying I never loved you,
and I’m not saying you didn't teach me anything,
I’m saying the height requirements
were a few inches too tall
but you didn't care to
measure me up
before strapping me down
and telling me to put my hands up
when my instincts desperately wanted to
hang on for dear life.
I want to be in control again,
but I’m not even sure
what it feels like to be in charge
and I’m a little scared to be my own god
and not wear a rosary around my neck,
not having to kneel every time
you want to be worshipped and touched.
I would be a hell bound liar
if I said I didn't like it,
but I’m so ashamed of that
and being judged is something
the real God is supposed to do.

Who is that again?

as if the bruises of my self conscious's grip weren't enough of a reminder of my
harsh imperfections,
their icy stares and startling bluntness ring a brutality in my eyes that can only be absorbed
by those foolish enough to cross over into the unmapped, untouched.
it is there where I finally feel my lungs expand and my lips moisten from knowing that I am
NOT
defined by a flaw or a handful of them, placed intricately along the paper thin lining that means
nothing in the end.
but in an instant you wrangle me back into a place where the spots matter and I don't.

They say it's a balancing act.
         I believe it;
Being about feeling enough and tasting love but never accepting it,
because how fair is it to everyone you've ever used to watch you forgive yourself and let go of the demons we've stowed behind broken rib cages and promises of,
"I'll never hurt you again."
And we hate those people,  but we are them, so how can I ever let myself be loved?

It's about going above and beyond but not overboard because they are different, one is expected and one is unacceptable, just ask the graduating class of 2014- nothing is ever good enough, not even your best.

It's about being real but fitting into the microscopic margin of acceptance and hair extensions and tanning beds and a shot glass.

It's about being yourself but not too yourself. Too much of anything can make you sick, you know.

I'm selfish and I'm sorry but it's human nature and I just want to be human.

Stop. Stop trying to save yourself, self prescription never works and we all know your sole reason for suffering is to look sad and beautiful.

if you decide to leave,
just know that I will
never again take a cool,
sharp breath or feel
a petal between the
tips of my fingers,
i will be too soaked
by the backfire of my
own words and the
direct cut from yours
to sigh and release
these demons you
helped wrangle last
summer. it was a low
point, sure, but I still
loved every minute
of our struggle and
if I was given the choice,
i’d still pick the July
with you on the too
hot lake and hot nights.
it's a motion picture
in the back of my head,
so if you ever see my
eyes roll back, don't be
caught off guard. It's
just a side effect of

You And Your Touch.

I will never forget the sound of
Getting buried underneath your sob stories laced with
Testosterone, evidence left behind on my collar bones
Like waltzing ghosts.
The reminder of what could have been is far more
Suffocating
Than being 6 feet under.
Your bony fingers search through me like a treasure map,
And x marks the spot below the thin layer of happiness
I've managed to imprison ever since the day you first
Liked what you saw and threw me through the windshield,
Shattering my ribcage into blades you'd use to bleed my heart out.
Now I'm hiding under these paper sheets while you try to find the old
Me, but she's long gone and these
Eyes won't tell a soul where my bandages are
Or how long I've been walking a straight line, repeating the same line
"Let me save you."

Nestle me into the wall,
bulldoze me to sleep.
Rip out my spine and let me puddle at your feet.

I am nothing like the ocean.
I crave the day I find that buoyancy, that flaccidity.
I do not have depths that hold
glorious mysteries and love songs.
I cannot hold up a ship, nor evaporate into thin air.
     I have no drop off.
No unknown mass overflowing with striking secrets, begging to be discovered.
I am n o t h i n g like that.
There is nothing shocking about my existence,
and if I were to finally fall between the cracks,
I’m not sure if you would notice.
I am only able to be waded through, to slowly numb you
Inch       by           inch.
So tell me,
does that make me an unlovable monster?
Or a merciful victim?

All I know is that there is such a fine line
between being a doormat and a brick wall.
But just know this-
if I ever find the gray area, I will be unstoppable.

Throw me out to sea.
They say mermaids exist in the cracks
of broken souls,
so shatter me like a mirror
and make me beautiful
because there's nothing lovelier than an
adventurer of the salty waters.
I just want people to fall in love with
each other and old ships
when they feel the absence of sound and the
quake of my lungs.
Peace originates on the ocean floor,
and that is where you'll find me.

I waited in the emergency room for your call,
but it was quiet and I was shaking-
boiling blood and clammy hands don't mix well,
and eventually I erupted,
spewing bottled up grief and words I knew
I would want to take back, but you just make me so mad
and I needed you that day ice covered the back roads
to your house, I needed those warm, airy bluffs
you're so gifted with to thaw my numbing mind,
I needed your rough hands when the steering wheel ****** right
and I had lost all control of who I was and where I was going,
but you don't even know the story of why I have this gaping hole
that only your attention can fill,
and you don't know why I get goosebumps
when you stand up or tell me to grow up, because it all started
with a little girl who grew up too early- the problem now
is that you are the solution but I am
insoluble with everything you say.

You leaned over me, your breath like heavy fog on the lake, and I could smell fear but I was so confused; I was 5000 feet underwater and my house of cards was swaying. Shouldn't I be the prey that's surrounded by crop circles? I can still feel the guilt gnawing away at the transparent barrier between filth and innocence when I realized the invitation with my name on it was addressed from me to you, and I'm pinned with my arms wide open, welcoming your poisonous hands and addicting whispers to scrape my layers away the expose the truth behind these scars and bullet holes. I was ordered behind these bars to sculpt a new girl who didn't pretend to like pop music and nail polish, but it was harder to be myself and dig up old records and alibis then to find fake friends with fake tans and boyfriends who tossed them around like rag dolls. We looked like them, though, and gluing on eyelashes is simpler than embracing my love for big words and literary tools everyone in class groans over. I'm still getting used to not being the same as everyone else and solving each flaw in my life so I can re-sculpt it into a falling star for you to wish on when we're sleeping and not *******, because that's when we really need the love of our past.