little droplets of sweat
d
  r
    i
     p
      p
       i
        n
         g
out her pores

milliliter
                       by
                                        milliliter

wishing the words could drip out of her that way
phrase
             by
                    phrase
but instead she runs
runs away from the crashing waves
the pressure of the earth's layers
trying to squish her into a metamorphic rock

she r   u        n              s
to make the sweat, form the muscles, feel the pain
when she can't make anything else
and can't feel everything else

she
r   u       n            s
because the doctors say it will make her happy

and the truth is
millions of milliliters later
it does.

She has given more than blood
And in those sheets the seeds of deceit
Were planted deep
Emptiness spewing from her wrists
Silver gleaming razor crisp
Deeply embedded metal tip
That slashed and ripped
Her pale white skin
She slipped it in
To slide it out
Feeling every metal millimeter
And every maroon milliliter
Till the anemia of death
Was bled dry
Till the crimson
Became crusty brown
The last bath to bleed her of her past
The last question she never asked
Laying silently as she basked
In the calm but clammy haze
Of the last seconds of her last day

When I bought food today, the guy behind the counter said,
"How's your weekend?" and "Have a good day, Nick."
My response was, "You as well." And I really meant it. I couldn't believe he read Nickolas on my I-card, assumed people call me Nick, (which they do), and called me Nick.
I left and I thought to myself, "I'm like him."
I love connecting with people. I want to not be afraid to talk personally with people who I don't know personally. I just want to dive in.
I want to read nametags and after the wonderful young lady at Starbucks gives me my change for my Grande Caramel Machiato, I'd say, "Thanks Sara. Have a great day". She might look at me and say "Thanks! You as well! :)" Or she might say, "Thanks...you too o_O"
Does it matter?
When you give someone your love, even if it's just a milliliter, especially if it's just a milliliter, do they have to like it? Do they have to reciprocate it?
Do those people who always smile and are full of love prefer their lovees to be put off by their kindness, making the lover superior because they have more love than the lovee could ever imagine?

It's just that love has to be selfish. There must be something to gain.
I love people and I never got out of that phase of when you're a child and you think everyone is perfect and they know what they're doing.

See, I cognitively now realize that people are just as lost as me, but emotionally, I feel that everyone else is on a level above me and I am a few levels down. In terms of how much love I deserve, how much attention I deserve.

I love seeing other people happy. But me? I could do without it. It's immaterial.

So when other people love, it's lovey love, it's happiness love, it's the love that's in the air, the love that makes you hold open doors, the love that makes you human.

When I love, it's the love that makes you write letters, the love that's begging for attention, looking for approval, trying to dominate others, trying to be human.

I want to be just like you. If I could treat myself how I treat you, I might be happier.

You can love something and not care about taking care of it. You can love something and let it go. You can love yourself and let yourself go.

It's really bad but I want to share this with others because my artwork might help someone someday and it helps me and that's cool, but knowing that everything I produce might someday make someone's life better even if it's just for one second, then it's worth it. It's extremely worth it.

So I want to be like that guy who works at that place. Someone who cares. And underneath all of that "I deserve way less than other people" emotional nonsense that plagues my neurons, I am.

Don’t stand for too long
Or even wiggle
Because that's exercise
And exercising is a behavior
Unless it’s time for the daily walk;
Then you must go
Even if it hurts and you feel like a dog
On an invisible leash.
Never spend too much time alone
In a room away from the people you barely know
With whom you are stuck all day and night and
Forced to share toilets and
Puked-in shower drains and
Cramped kitchen counters and
Painful secrets you wouldn’t even tell your mother.
Precious heartbeats spent alone
Are called isolating and they are bad.

A smear of avocado hastily forgotten on a butter knife
Raises suspicion and a quarter teaspoon more must be replaced.
But heaven help you
If you pour a milliliter too much orange juice.
This is disordered behavior
And the few offending drops must be poured out.
Time will teach you
That wholesome rosy-faced girls much younger than you are
Holding clipboards with your life on them
Will treat you like a child
And disregard your hard-earned quarter-century
As a fish disregards an airplane.
Black tea past three o’clock is criminal;
It must be eschewed
Lest the minuscule amount of caffeine
Affect your sleep eight hours before bedtime
And override the Seroquel and the Ambien and the lithium.

And don’t you ever shut the door or flush the toilet
‘Til they’ve come in
To ogle your **** and ****
And when you’ve finally proven yourself trustworthy enough
To shut the door and flush
Never stay in for more than three minutes,
Even when taking a dump.
You will be suspected of purging
And you will be grilled like that eggplant you didn’t taste
Until you beg them to take your blood and say
Please please check the electrolytes and the pH
And I will even *** in a cup!
I don’t care! I just need you to know
I’m telling the truth.
And never say you feel sick to your stomach
Especially when it’s true.
That’s just an excuse people like us use
When we want to yodel to God
On the big white telephone.

Thirty seconds stolen in your room
To brush unruly hair is forbidden
Unless your waist-length hair
Is nearing dreadlock status
Because you might be Up To Something in there.
You can say **** but not fat
Unless you are justifying a tablespoon
Of Catalina dressing
To the Food Police.
You can’t have a hand mirror because
You might smash it and hurt yourself
But you will be surrounded
With lovely, breakable little picture frames
Full of inspirational quotes.

If you’re upset at dinner
It’s called anxiety.
If your heart hurts and skips beats
From years of puking your guts up every day,
It’s called anxiety.
If you need your space
It’s called anxiety.
If you can’t meditate
And you get so bored that
You let a juicy pregnant wolf spider crawl
Over your hand and arm seventeen times
And instead of OM SHANTI OM your inward chant
Is I Am The Walrus
It’s anxiety.
If you tell them you’re not anxious
It’s anxiety.

You can’t have your wallet
And your phone at the same time
So you’re less likely to run away
But they never check to see
Where your debit card and ID went off to
When you trade in your wallet for your phone.
They never notice the triumphant curve on your lips
Nor the slight stiff rectangle
In the breast pocket of the flannel shirt
That is perpetually around your waist.
You will keep these with you
All day and all night
In case someone drives the final corkscrew
Into your ear and you must vamoose
Before you find yourself
Floating white-knuckled in a deluge of blood
Grasping a cheese grater
Surrounded by seeping lumps of people meat.

But this house models the real world.
You are sick and you have no idea
What’s best for you.
After three weeks they know
Exactly how you work
And if you don’t agree with that
You are wrong.
You will relapse one day.
If you don’t agree with that,
You’re wrong and you will die
Because you can never quit cold turkey with food.

You must learn to enjoy the food
That you fight and claw and scramble to make,
To enjoy each perfectly metered tablespoon
Of peanut butter,
To delight in hastily and stressfully prepared dishes
Upon which you are terrified to put condiments
For fear of being told the selection is inappropriate,
To relish weak iced tea with no ice because
Someone took it all and never filled the tray,
Sparingly seasoned with two Splendas,
Carefully handed out and locked away by the keyholders,
Never sweet enough,
Never ever sweet enough,
The real sugar of real life replaced by
Bitter ******* brandied with the saccharine syrup of so-called safety.

We can cry rivers,
Sweat buckets,
But never add an ounce
To the earth's volume.
We can salivate over ***,
Express our fluids of desire,
But we'll not add a milliliter.
Jesus knew this so well:
Don't worry!
So spend tears of joy;
Embrace the sweat of work and sun,
Cleanse our bodies,
Accept the known and unknown,
For we'll not add one day
Fretting and pacing
Over our human condition.

i may never have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
this

sun bleached
pavement of rt 89
that crawls its way
through tiny towns
over hills
and around
haze kissed
blue water

a tickle
of crisp
cider

wine
swirling
splashing

it all pools together
in my head
terms and types and
flavors

spontaneously fermented
ambient yeast

funky orange wine
geodesic concrete

ducks and geese
and state regulations

i want to take notes
pour drops on
the page
absorb every
milliliter of
information

hold it in my hand
and squeeze
until streams of
honey and pear
citrus and ginger
and every other
golden
unattainable ideal
run through
my hands

until the cold weather climate
native pink catawba
fermenting inside me
turns into something more
than the sum of its
component parts

saying i want it
doesn’t even begin
to cover it
it’s not just want

it's an ache
and the
ache is lust
impure and sticky
trapping itself between
my fingers

the ache is greed
green and trailing
the ache is desire
blue and rolling
the ache is passion
blood red and dripping

the ache
sinks itself
into my skull
like a nail

the antidote
is the very
thing that
caused it

pain and comfort
are both the same
and they come
in an opaque bottle
with a label that says
"made in new york"

so was i
and when i die
i hope i come back
as a cat
on an old man’s
patio or the echo in
a cavernously empty
tasting room

the sediment in
the bottom of your glass
the urge to try
something new

i don’t know what
my future holds
but i know
i’ll always have

this moment
moss on rocks that
have never had a
chance to dry out
water pouring out
of a pipe
in the side of a hill
into my insulated cup
the coldest
purest
most delicious
beverage my
this day
has to offer

i don’t know what
my future holds
but something tells me
i’ll be okay

and i may not have
spain or france
but i’ll always have
today

i was hurting
so much
i had just been in a relationship
full of manipulation and emotional abuse
and then i was left
left to believe that it was my fault
left to stay silent about my experience
one-sided
i gave him every piece of me
every milliliter of my love
every second of my time
i failed all of my classes
all for him
i did everything for him
i never stopped thinking of him
why did he do that
how did he do that
he didn't just hurt me
he hurt her, too
she, that stunning being
with a beautiful soul
and an open heart.
her heart was scarred
but she still let him back in with open arms
she was hurting
so much
she couldn't love him again
neither could i
we couldn't love him
but
we were hurting
so much