Clothes constrain
Skin contains
The insides I wear on the outside
You don't have to scratch the surface
To find hidden meanings
To catch a glimpse of passion
To see my blood reaching boiling point
You don't have to dig your nails in
To reach through the seven layers
To hear the whispers written on my bones
Scriptures ooze from the ruptures
Lush red tastes of rusted words
Skin the binds
Skin that hides
Stretches over my memories
I wear the patchwork quilt of history
Of the mothers and fathers who have gone before
Sewn together with the glorious stories of yesterday
Stitched with the future's threads
The hopes and dreams of the generations yet to be
My heart, my soul, my skin, my home

I am the kind of person
To write love poems for someone I just met
Thinking that maybe words can make up for my lack of confidence
My quirkiness
My overwhelming insecurities
And that awkward laugh that often escapes my mouth without warning
Phrases eager to leave my lips
I compose sonnets without thinking
Sew them on to jean pockets so that
Everytime you get undressed
You think of me
I don't know if that's socially acceptable
But I'm willing to take the risk
See
I am the person
Who fears coming off as creepy
Yet still hands out lines of poetry like candy on street corners
I swear my purpose
Is not
To reel you in
Capture you between spiderwebs spun from my fingertips
My intentions are honest
I am not looking for one night stand
Meaningless
Not on a constant hunt for momentary happiness
I want something that will last longer than sweetness
Longer than saccharin
Hit harder than whiskey
Won't leave a bitter aftertaste on my tongue
I have drowned too many times in salty waters
To know that I am more likely to sink than float
I have not yet learned how to swim in the deep end
I do not know how many attempts it will take to get to the center of me
There is no sweet middle
Waiting to be divulged
I have blocked off the pathways to myself
Not very often do I open them back up
I have a sign tied around my body stating
Warning
Do not enter
You might get stuck
I have a heart that is filled with quicksand and duct tape
The longer you stay around the harder it is
For me to let go
I am not trying to trap people
But everytime they leave,
A part stays with me
I have a photo albums on the insides of my skin
Sometimes the memories flowing through my veins pile up
And it is too much
All at once
I am the kind of person
Who runs towards sharp edges of opportunity with open arms
And then complains about the bleeding
I am the kind of person
Who can't help but repeat
Repeat
Everything I feel
Until I don't feel it anymore
I have promised myself
That I will stop falling at first sight
I have hit my head relentlessly
With severity
Too many times
But has never been enough for me to stop
None of this
Has ever been enough for me to stop
I am the kind of person
To write love letters
And never send them
Keeping them behind locked doors
Keeping them
For myself
To remember every detail
I am the kind of person
That may never know
How exactly
To love
I am still learning
How to love
Myself.

Why do we dream
little yellow bird
of captivating the winsome
just to witness
their slow, rotting demise

Why do we dream
little yellow bird
of sharing our sorrows
our contagious illness
with the well and healthy

It makes our insides
toss and churn
to see pleasure and pride
in the charismatic rover
as they pass and sing

Why do I dream
little yellow bird
of the day you cease
to give me a tune
to allow my axe to rest.

our love,
song of
winter seas and
love breathed in,

golds of love in
our hair,

running to the sea
where summer
waits for us,

sunshine on
our insides,
lips
of honey
meeting
soft as
the flowing
breeze,

love, so beautiful
and pure,
we don't want
to let go,

as we fall
like incredible
summer
stars,
like incredible
gold seas.

Still.
Everything was silent and still.
A slight hunming from the buzz inside my skull.
Empty eyes glancing out of the window.
I could have stared for days.
At nothing.
The hustle and bustle of life.
Whilst I was stuck.
Trapped and paralysed by my own mind.

Still I felt it.
The pain eating away at my insides.
Yet part of me felt almost,
Calm.
I was far from calm.
Numb.
I was numb.
An emotionless figure.
My body propped up like a puppet on a string.
I am not in control.

People say teenage love
Is a burst of butterflies
Or a set of flushed cheeks

Oh how wrong they are

I say teenage love
Is a quaking nausea
Or a set of nails bitten raw

And if it is butterflies
Then they knaw at your insides
Till you bleed

The reddened cheeks are
A result of pulling
On the baby fat you loathe

Teenage love
I say
Is far from pleasant

Most people want me dead
Or speak of me with regret
fit for stage and silver screen
tragedies -- but I'm not gone
as if I'd be much better off.

My family kept me close at heart
I'm a privileged *****, who
lives as well as possible --
I don't know what that means
but I seem better off.
I feel better off.

Paycheck to the next I do
a self sensual low light dance
as if my insides don't grind
in the race for cash at hand
We're better off. I'm not gone,
but better off dead. We're
better off dead.

where are you?
im so sorry,
my love
nala

i cannot sleep
i cannot dream tonight
i need you by my side
the warmth of the bed
gone

creeping up and
eating my insides
i miss it
i miss you

dont waste your time
on me
but i need
you now

youre already
the voice inside my head
i need you by my side
by my heart

can you hear it beat?
it beats for you,

nala.

i miss you.

Kiss me,
Like now,
Like hard,
And intense and meaningful,
Mean it,
Do it, without me asking,
For God sakes,
Embrace me, if you fear that I'll refuse then you are so wrong,
For I want you to,
I want you to show that which you feel,
Let the fireworks fly,
Grab me suddenly, up and around, twirl me and make my insides soar,
Like take those hands and grip onto me for dear life,
Then tilt that head down,
Towards my lips,
And slowly without hesitation, let those lips lock onto mine,
Last for awhile,
Like a few minutes or so,
Something you know, memorable,
That we can tell our grandkids about someday,
And maybe change the world with to

Dark green urban tumbleweeds
Roll on up the road
Bouncing off the passing cars
Dispensing their rotting  load
Garbage bags full of waste
Full of the remnants of the week
Don't let one ever hit you though
They all have quite the reek
Urban, plastic, tumbleweeds
Put out early for the trash
They blow in all directions
Not knowing where they'll crash
Blue boxes trail them on their path
Leaving plastics  in their wake
It's only one plastic bin
But, the mess that it can make
Blue and green, like bulbous flies
Full of garbage and the dead
meat, and tins and paper
decayed food stuff and old bread
Urban plastic tumbleweeds
Every week blow in the wind
Scattering their insides on the landscape
Things that should be binned
It doesn't matter where you travel
But I know you're sure to find
Urban plastic tumbleweeds
holding garbage as designed.

Lie on the ground
Relax your
Brain
Head
Neck
Arms
Hands
Back
Legs
Ankles
Feet
Imagine nothing
Listen to your blood
Pulsing through your body
The tingling sensation
The relaxation
Feel your insides
And your skin
From your brain
To your feet
Feel it pulse
Pulse right through, your body

Bound for lands far in the East
Never have our hands touched
Our eyes barely knew each other
Only a couple of us knew another's name
Fewer recognized our voices

In its Land of Power
As we wandered the grounds
Of a city hoping to earn the winter 5 Rings
We knew joy
We knew laughter
We knew beauty
Unlike what our home lands held

But in our final hours in the city of Beijing
A poison seeped into our morning feast
Which quickly took its toll
A few thousand feet in the Air
As we fell into the city of Western Peace

Our plans became shattered
Few of us barely survived
As our own bodies lost control
We were at the mercy of our own insides

Somehow the two state namesakes were the Worst

Taken to the hospital
If it were not for the group mothers and guides
We would have been among the dead
We saw rolled in front of us
As our medicine was entering our blood
Through needles in our hands

In the midst of what we've come to call
The Xi'an Incident
I saw a glimmer of a rare soul
One full of kindness
Intelligence
And freedom
A type of rare Golden Soul I've come to admire
That lied within the body of the other state

My actions may have been interpreted as
The essence of the White Snake
On some level, maybe it was
But in truth
My gift from Shanghai
To whisper an appropriate goodbye
Was to thank her for pushing me along when times were rough

I am thankful for all that were with me on that trip
And I do hope to see her, and everyone again.

Like I told her in a note I left,
Maybe Hoopa will help make sure
We meet again

I must come to terms with who I am. I feel myself encompassed, listless
I drown in my own tears, plugged by my ****** and *******
When shall I fall behind and bring myself to the finish line?
Who shall help me? Can anyone really?
Is not life the weight of a thousand eyes and crippling murderous thighs?
I stand alone in this earthly lair,
I rise above the hands of those I thought dear
My goodness, it pains and brings about an ache so indescribable
What plugs me down is within myself and yet everyone
Engulfed. Gluttonous in its discharge
I am in pain
Not “half agony, half hope”
But a mix and a medley of the muddiest of emotions
My grass alongside my womanly pride
I hate my insides and what I contribute to the outside
I exhale all pain, unencumbered by today’s victories.

Although this seems so new
I’ve known you for years
And while you’ve grown up a lot
Since our days of kissing on concrete
Your soul emits the same beautiful waves
That I fell in love with 5 years ago.

So as we walk around the pet store today
My heart is screaming
I love you
And the anxiety squeezes my organs into nothingness
Pouring acid through my insides
And burning until I build up the courage
To translate my internal dialogue
Into something real
Because it’s not real if I don’t say it

*I’m ready to say it

The pavement glistens with it’s new top coat of shiny rain and she is driving back to school; back to too much noise and too many faces. I don’t want to go. I would give anything not to go. It happens then. I hear the impact first: metal pushing and crunching upon and into itself. The windshield gets closer and closer and in this moment it reminds me of a first kiss, but glass is inexperienced and uses too much tongue. I think I hear her say something. I am praying that she says something. She asks me if I’m okay. I feel dead and cold, and underaged corpse in the passengers’ seat. I say nothing. I hear her get out of the car to check on the woman who is screaming in the driver’s seat of her smashed vehicle. I feel warmth down my face that I assume are unwelcome tears, and open my frightened eyes to red. Red. And all I can think is ‘why have I not cried blood before?’ I open my mouth to say something, but end up tasting death. I blink my eyes more times than I need to. The windshield is cracked. She comes back to the car and keeps saying my name; a question. “Miranda? Miranda? Miranda?” the words I’m sorry cannot escape my mouth fast enough. The panic in her voice is undeniable. “Miranda? I’m calling the police sweetie, okay?” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be sorry, it’s going to be okay.” “I’m so sorry Allison.” I can hear blood rushing from my head like Niagra Falls and I cup my hands to catch it. There is so much of it and it is burning my fingertips and all I can say is “I’m sorry.” I’m trying not to think of god right now, but I can’t help it. I will never capitalize that word again. I can hear her ask me questions that I forget as soon as they reach the beating drums of my ears, but I am guessing I answer them. She talked to 9-1-1 for days, months. I kept crying. I kept saying “I’m sorry.” When I closed my eyes everything happened backwards. Eve put the apple back on the branch. The tree shrank back into the ground. god said let there be light… and there was darkness. The pool of blood in my teacup hands grew more and more full when my door opened. I remember trying to get out on my own; I remember trying to run away. The officer told me to settle down and to not move and that everything would be just fine and that they were going to put me on a gurney and asked if my neck or back hurt or if I was seeing spots and what my address was and when my birthday was and other things and other things and other things. I dropped the blood and it flowed over my pants and my insides were on the outside and I couldn’t breathe. They placed my shaking skeleton into their ambulance. I had never felt so dead in my life. I went into shock. I only breathed when they reminded me to. I felt sick to my stomach; I felt drunk. The old man sitting in the back of the ambulance kept telling me to breathe. Kept telling me that everything would be fine. “I’m sorry.” “Sweetheart just try to steady your breathing. We’ll be at the hospital soon.” “I’m sorry.” “What’s your name sweetie?” “I’m sorry.” My head is feeling lighter and lighter and I can hear my heart slow in my ears. I see him writing on a clipboard and I hope he is writing Sorry, I’m. I want to be defined by my mistakes. Every speed bump we hit feels like Hurricane Katrina. He tells me to let him know if anything hurts. I want to tell him my heart hurts; that when we arrive at the hospital my mother will most likely be 10 minutes late, and my father will not be there at all. I want to tell him to not let them pray for me. I want to tell him that I’ve bled before, but not this much, and that the day before when I whispered to the heavens that I would give anything to take my last breath, that I didn’t mean it. That the intersection of Western Row and Kings Island Drive would become my gravestone.

The rest is blurred from 3 shots of morphine and the effects of shock. I still shake when my mom doesn’t stop far away enough from the cars in front of us. I still feel trapped when my car door won’t open. I am still sorry.

Charlie's at the wheel
Charlie tries to think of a joke //-

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

Charlie doesn't feel
Charlie wants another sniff of the coke

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

the skies above are leaden grey
It's dull light shines off his hair,
Charlie doesn't listen to what other people say -
Charlie doesn't really care

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

smoke pours as the engine sputters
the clutch burns at his feet
from within an ecstasy trance he mutters
slowly to the edge the car begins to creep

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

oh Charlie's afraid of his arrogance
Charlie thinks he won't bleed -
Charlie's afraid of his adolescence
in his mind Charlie sows the seed -

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

now he'll tell you how he feels
he feels his insides are rotten dead!
He's sick of this world that steals
they say it's all in his head!!!

[IN HIS]

[IN HIS HEAD]

[N-Na-Na-Na-N-Now]

Charlie's at the wheel
Charlie remembers an old joke

the car tips over the ravine edge
upon his ***** Charlie does gag and choke.

For my mother's mother
All my clothes are patched with Soviet things.
Needles, hardy and rough, dinosaurs withstanding time
Spools of thread that were my grandmother's,
Brought over in a special sewing box with clasps on the top and sides,
Skin-colored and worn, cracked open to reveal
Spikes to hang thread on, like the intimate insides of a body
An ancient body, creased like grandmother's hands.

For my father's mother, who taught me to embroider*
My father's mother taught me to sew
Taught me to bring life to imagination, to calm my raw nerves
With the ancient language passed down from the war and her grandmother
The ancient language that lets our silences speak,
Jump off the cloth,
Embed permanently in the spaces between woven thread.
If it unravels, it may be mended for as long as we are alive,
Unless we pass it on to our daughters, our sons, and on and on, and on...

an inchworm, up-ing and down-ing its way through my
intestines is not bright
green as it traverses the dark gloomy
lumen of my
insides.

darkness requires complete
darkness, no color, just
darkness, but at least it is
warm.
i do not know if the inchworm can
see but i hope it can feel
comfort in the
dark.

dear inchworm, i wish you
good fortune on your travels as you
measure my insides with
tenacious tickling loops.

The smell of dirt envelopes me as i run down the street and turn the corner.
Sliding down the wet pavement i feel my bare feet rub raw.
i can taste blood from biting the insides of my cheeks, maybe even my tongue.
i finally escaped after so long.
In the distance i hear a dead girls name being called.
They dont really care i tell myself.
If they did they would be calling a different name.
Mine.
Its only a matter of time once the cops come, searching for a girl they will never find.
A girl who doesn’t exist.

Once upon a time there was a little boy.
He lived inside of a girls body, hiding under layers of soft, silky skin.
Under an itchy dress with sparkling gold thread that chafed his chest as he moved, leaving rashes across his sensitive shoulders.
Despite being pressed into the mold of a young girl, he managed to survive.
His long hair tumbling down his shoulders, in sheets of brown that shined with honey in the sun.
His eyelashes were long. His eyes were dewey.
Freckles sprinkled across his cheeks and small freckles on his arm.
His mother called them angel kisses.
That boy was me.
In first grade he got his hair cut short. His parents warned him that people might think he was a boy. That was okay.
It stayed that way until 4th grade. His hair was in a short bob, shaved on the side. His neighbors called him a ****. One of them bullied him so he poured the kids sprite down his face.
The bully stomped on the boys toe and he bled. That was okay.
In 6th grade, he told his best friend a secret. He wasn’t a girl.
His best friend called him handsome.
She was the perfect friend.

Now the girl doesn’t exist. Her parents pretend she does. She has been gone for a long time.
She is dead. Her parents know that she is gone, but they think if they pretend enough, that she will come back, that if i am denied love and support i will eventually waste away into oblivion, and she will come back.
i’m still running, but now i yell out too.
i am here.
i am real.
I am Ronan

I don't think people realize how fragile it all is
how it just falls apart when you're looking out of the window at something else
at first you don't realize because it happens bit by bit
you'll get used to it

the culture war looms
it pulls out your skirt on fridays
take me out please
take me where the boys are
you know you want to
it tugs at your sleeves saying
oh you didn't hear what they said about you?
flag wars they sing

truth is a preference
it's true if it feels right
if it doesn't well
it's fake news of course

oh you didn't know non-player character
will you play to win?
because feelings don't care about your facts

you see I was born in 83
in the newly formed islamic republic of iran
three years into the trench warfare that changed the psyche of a nation forever
high on the islamic revolution
full of fury
blood and soil
blood and soil
the hors d'oeuvres of the war
we fled in 88 three months before the war ended
nothing gained nothing fulfilled

I see the absolute worst in people
I watch them and learn much from what they get outraged by and what they don't
it all starts small rooted in a search for meaning a sense of purpose
once this is defined just watch them turn on each other
the other essentially

war needs a dragon
war needs young men to believe
the culture war has always been there
like a monster’s nails casting an ominous shadow
behind the bedroom door tapping away at your mother's vinyl flooring

when people get safe
with fear at bay the tapping dims
but when an immigrant stabs an infidel
or a black man is apparently murdered on video
the tapping gets louder
what is the dream of the foreigner hoping to penetrate the walls of the golden city
to weaken it?
from the russian bot to the isis video slicing brody's neck right before your eyes
it gets at you doesn't it?
doesn't he look like you?
your white knuckles are shaking
yes yes the monster says
I will draw you in

because I'm just a monster living in the hallway
and I'm nothing without you
is what he'll never ever tell you

but it's true
he aims to exaggerate the divisions within your family
to exploit it
to challenge your identity
to play with your emotions
as you've done to them
so you know this game very well
you just don't know the side of the table that will
as in the iran-iraq war both the us and the uk sold arms to both sides
the great game

War is profitable and the opportunity to cash in on it is tempting
people don't have ideas
ideas have people
how fragile at all is

this very society that I cherish that I sought refuge in
my family
the vast base
the stable economy
common law
democracy
if life started in the east
then the reason to be of the west is to carry on the torch
to learn from past mistakes and to be a light unto the world
until our very toes are inching at the pacific with no further to go
will I find myself staring at the window pondering what happened
like so many countless men throughout history have?

how fragile at all this
we won't know until it's taken from us
not by the formless foreigner but by our own very hand that opens the bedroom door
to experience our darkest insides that grows and grows endlessly
until we have nothing else
the monster in the bed now
in all that cold
and all that dark

girls in high school wear infinity scarves
and expect their love to last as long.
their hearts are hidden under
mounds of dyed wool, and I'm sitting in
U.S. History learning about slavery.

this is what I know.

we are all slaves to our own hearts.
we pick fields of lust
and try to sew it into love.
we wear combat boots because we feel threatened
by our own bodies.
like we are at war in our flesh, and need the extra protection;
the leather safety net with laces.

we walk down those black, salt-licked stairs
with our heads down because we have trust issues,
but when we trip we never forgive our clumsiness.
we swallow bitter tears like sugar after medicine,
and we pump hate through our tumblr blogs like gasoline.

we pay for affection with skin.
we accept the words *****, ****, *****, ugly, MAN, as nicknames.
a wave to the opposite gender is now thirst.
we need to grow up; put down the sippy cup.

this is high school.
cut your hair. dye it purple, and then regret it automatically. dye it black,
and then spend five months and $597.00 getting it back to your natural color.
mismatch your socks. eat almonds when you feel like you should starve your insides.
paint your nails, mess them up, and paint them again;
paint your soul the same way.
we are moving at the speed of light.

slow down your mind.
you are in high school.

you are still growing love in fields, you just need to find the right soil.