maybe when i was younger,
i didn't pick fights,
but i'd always pick scabs
until my skin had tried to heal itself so many times that i could no longer hear it squealing
no matter how many times i scarred.
i was taught to fix things
no matter how broken or ugly they get
maybe that's why i'm here
155 miles away from my safe place
thinking it will work.
raising my heart in my palms above the crowd
just for it to be publicly dropped down my throat
into the bottom of my chest
i wasted gas money on this?
i didn't risk the skin on the back of my neck but i did risk the
sensitive touch of your fingers on my back
and when i fall, i fall flat
and these scabs on my knees are getting harder and harder to ignore

I skipped the second half of school,
went home and grabbed a shovel.
As I was digging a hole big enough to bury my problems,
my friend texted me, said
Just watch two episodes of a show on Netflix,
then see how you feel afterwards.
Let me know if you feel any better.

I didn't text her back,
didn't tell her that 81 minutes of Beavis and Butthead
didn't quite do the job.
I didn't tell her that I googled "How to Love Yourself"
and I definitely didn't tell her that out of the 24 steps on WikiHow,
only one could save me.
Step number 5 was "Forgive yourself."
My first thought was,
How are you going to make that number 5?
23 other steps to being a passionate person who is truly grateful
do not compare to
forgiving yourself.
That's the hardest part.
My second thought was how.
How can I forgive myself,
when my dog greets me every morning
with bright eyes and puppy kisses
and I tell him to go away
and I push him off my lap
because he's taking up too much time?
How can I forgive myself
when step number 3 suggests keeping a diary,
and my first reaction is to look down at my legs because
my thighs are enough of a diary as it is.
These scars tell people more sad stories about me than they’d ever need to know.

Beavis and Butthead didn't do the job because there is no job
there's only volunteer work and benefits to claim.

echos bounce off of the
brown wooden walls
in this room;
i am stuck.
a constant ringing -
reminder of a time
that once was.
i survive through
dates carved on
bridges in front of
waterfalls.
you avoid eye contact -
and i notice.
we are swastikas
and *** leaves
drawn in permanent marker
on the
insides of
desks.
we are phone numbers
scrawled on
bathroom walls -
do not call me for a good time.
we are cigarette burns -
               on purpose.

i can't help but say
that i wish
he would find himself
falling into someone else's sheets

There are flowers
Drawn in the side of your face
With scars
And that pastel chalk that always finds ways to stain your fingers.
The dust in your palms is hard to wash off and
I'm sorry that the cracks in this sidewalk found their way
Into your heart
But dandelions still manage to slip through the concrete.
Your touch reminds me of stained glass and the feeling you get right before you fall asleep when the universe is at peace with itself.

thank you thank you thank you
you are fuzzy belly rubs and
unraveling spines
i am
picked scabs and
hard play-dough but
whatever we have right now is
my favorite flavor of
ice cream at
the pier in Illinois
where my mom grew up
thank you
thank you thank you thank you
my phone capitalizes the first letter at the beginning of every sentence
just like my brain capitalizes my first impression of everything
it was good
thank you thank you thank you

I chased my demons
as if I was a kid again
chasing my friends around the playground

but this time,
I just couldn't catch up.

i guess i thought that i could learn how to drink away this lump in my throat

movies always taught me that when i turned 18, i would start shedding my skin and breaking down my walls but i didn't have any walls to tear down.
so i tried my hardest at age 18 to build them up, with the only things i had - boxes of matches
left over from burning down so many bridges

all because of some pieces of twisted metal,
i had to reteach myself how to drive.
and now i'm always 5 under the speed limit
i stop at every stop sign
no matter how angry i get

no one ever told me whether or not boxes of matches float
or why my neighborhood always looked so dark
and made me curl up like a dead spider

so now i stick my head in the freezer,
so i can get used to the feeling of my thoughts being so cold

now i kiss people just so we don't have to talk.

i have found my words again
31 miles from you, half asleep
drunk words of encouragement - you are everything between stuck zippers and pulled hair

I AM NOT THE ******* SUN
I AM
broken glass on sidewalks where kids play
i am
****** up puzzle pieces where the picture is splitting from the cardboard back
i am
white socks with black bottoms because of all the ******* i've been put through
i am
sa
d
i am sad
i am sad
but i don't want to be
i'm sick of being thrown away
i am not past any expiration date
i am not just some ******* KID
who wants to hold your hand
just because you feel bad for me
and that i like you
god ****** god ****** god ******
i'm not going to ******* sit here
and be treated like absolute ****
just because i like someone
just because
i want to be in a relationship i want to be in love
but at the same time,
i don't believe in love anymore and that hurts me more than any gun could
god,
it hurts me more than anything could

forever waiting until i can open the envelope in front of me and find out where i wound up.
i feel winded, twisted in a way that if it happens again i'll crack
end up on the sidewalk trashed and swept into the street by everything happening always and i'm tired
no part of me is lost but i think it would be easier that way, pretending that i have any sort of reason to continue trudging on in whatever muck i stick myself in to
at the bottom of everything, the sewage drains
and it smells like burnt out candles in a drawer
in the river
wet.

your fingers dig into my flesh and
peel back my skin
and expose me to the open air and it stings
and i know i need to forget you
but it hurts to heal.

i don't know whats more painful -
the feeling in my stomach that reminds me of rain pounding on the top of a car or the
way the road looks when the only light that is shining comes from this guilty look in my eyes
i feel sorry even though i ******* know i shouldn't
i should hang these thoughts like prayer flags across all the doorways in my body
i should paint my insides wall by wall,
the prettiest color you've ever seen
so that i can call this place where i've been living for so long
'home'

i guess i got mad
when i looked at all the kids around me
and the huge learning gap
you were either ghetto or International Baccalaureate or somewhere in between
and being in the middle kind of ******

watching sketchy drug deals in thin hallways with white brick walls
and watching kids who have parents who buy them 2012 cars
and pay for their gas swerve around in the parking lot
kind of ******

i can't complain
because i didn't grow up in the streets
i grew up in a ranch house
in a neighborhood full of old white people
i can't complain
because i'm entering the 'real world' faster by having to buy my own car
and pay my way through college
and buy an apartment
but
it kind of *****

I'm beginning to think I have a problem.
An obsession.

You see, I've fallen in love with an item,
an object.

I'm in love with
glow in the dark
plastic
stars.

You see,
I have bunkbeds
So I put them on the bottom of the top bunk
and I put them on the ceiling,
so that I always have something to look up to.

While I'm at it, I should probably tie a string to a stick
and hang it in front of me;
tie a star to the end of the string
so that I always have something to look forward to.

You pull on my heartstrings
faster
than little kids
pull on fraying string

Probably dumb, pondering
I'm so sorry that I rush when I hear the starting gun, I just couldn't let her get first place
Leave you behind in the dust
Because my feet are too heavy to not leave footprints

I don’t trust you
the same way I don’t trust the towels
in hotel bathrooms

But if I could stop time,
I would cut all the strings
So you could pick yourself up
And move forward

You are beautiful
In the way that makes babies
Slowly stop speaking the unexplored
And stare with eyes too big
And too wide

But you are sad
In the way that makes people
Slowly stop speaking the explored
And stare with eyes too big
And too wide

I am calmer
when I do not wear
time
on my wrist.

The seconds do not tick past my skin,
like they do when I wear a watch.

I have enough time to become the waves of the ocean;
rays of warm sun against backs sitting on hills with friends.
I have enough time to learn how to love people,
and love myself.

I am limiting myself. We are limiting each other.
We do not have time to sit around
and calm down
because we're always pushing ourselves to the next spot.
Place.
Time.

You said we were like the Sun and the Moon.
And I agreed, as long as I got to be the Moon
But soon I realized that,
with you as the Sun,
I didn't get to see you too often.
I got sick of your company only becoming
time spent passing each other throughout the day.
I got tired of other people falling in love with how beautiful you were;
I was young,
jealous.
People never fell in love with me.

You asked me why I was sorry.
I said

I'm sorry,
because of the way the sun shines in your eyes when you're driving in the morning.
I'm sorry,
because of that one time I tripped on the museum steps and skinned my knee.
I'm sorry,
because I just am.

You asked me why I hate myself.
I said

I hate myself,
because of the way my eyelashes fall out so quickly.
I hate myself,
because of that one time I said that stupid thing.
All of those times I said those stupid things.
All of those times I did those stupid things.
I hate myself,
because I just do.

You asked me why I loved you.
I said

I love you,
because of the way your smell always helps me get to sleep.
I love you,
because of the way the ridges in your fingerprints feel against my cheek.
I love you,
because I just do.

this has been the season of cold feet and closed mouth kisses with
people who let other people 
build their walls

and 
stumbling is a part of my daily life now
i taste like noon, i promise you, 
i wondered if you were always on a different plane

even if we’re sitting so close that our knees touch

Moths that look like little girls hair bows,
I squashed you underneath that binder I used in high school band class.
It was you or me.

My uncle doesn't like my family.
Every call is a short click then a long black silence reminding me of the sea at night, just not as beautiful.

My aunt pretends not to notice,
So now her car is an ashtray and she works a lot.
Public displays of affection sans hand holding and soft kisses,
The cracks in her bottom lip could **** a man.

My aunt is strong, like a grandparent's house that I remember being pushed down the stairs in.

My uncle doesn't like my aunt's parents,
The grumpy Italian man with depression and aching knees and
The sweet little woman with short gray hair who doesn't remember me anymore.
"Who are all these children?", she whispers to my mother.

My aunt pretends not to notice,
And she is strong, she is strong, she is strong,
But I think she is losing herself to the ocean,
And it's not as beautiful as it sounds.

My language is a dance. When I am excited, the tempo speeds up into a tango; characterized by marked rhythms and postures and abrupt pauses. I am small, but my voice is loud. I will not slump my shoulders, but I will take three steps forward, and no steps back. I will be in your face and I will pronounce my words with my history and I will say "soda" instead of "pop". I will make you hear me.
I speak to myself quietly and talk about pink satin sheets when I'm just trying to talk about the way I feel when I see him walking with her. My feelings are not words, they are colors. I will throw rocks through my own windows just by talking about myself. My language is sliding my test paper a little further past my arm when I can tell that you need help. I will help. My language consists of eye contact and tiptoeing around the question. I spend a lot of my time cursing the name of God in front of Catholics, but I do not mean to. My language is how I was raised, following angry parents through hallways and repeating words that should not have been repeated. I stumble and trip over my words like tree roots when I read out loud to the class. My language is not unique because I trace my words over everything that has ever been said around me. When I'm sad, my language is a slow dance in a burning room because I'm repeating everything bad I've ever said about myself, I'm repeating everything bad I've ever said about myself. My language is my environment; it is not unique, it is just there. My catch phrases are built on bruises caused by being shoved into lockers, but this is not sixth grade anymore. People are not "*******"; they are human, and I am sorry. Language is built upon every bad thing that has ever happened, and every reaction to it.

Sometimes, I forget about the other you.
He slips through the gaps between your teeth,
and his voice creaks from your throat,
the same way my feet creak down
the wooden stairs
in the early
cracks of dawn.

His fingerprints become yours,
and it doesn't hurt anymore.

i promise
that i can be a really good friend
instead of someone you just text when you're ******

i promise
that i can rub your back
until and after you fall asleep
i won't leave
i promise

i promise
that i can make you hot tea
that you won't burn your tongue on

i promise
that i can do all these things
i promise

i was always convinced that i could do it better
faster
harder
stronger
but i couldn't and i stopped trying because i'm lazy.
i bark at dogs i don't like
but i won't bite
so i think it's okay.
i've never been good at pool so please stop pushing me into the corners
and the holes in the wall
and now i'm stuck
with this feeling in my gut
called
Growing Up
and if this life is a journey
and this journey is a ship
then you can just call me
sea sick

i am rain
             pounding on your roof
                 let me in let me in
                                                       i just want to say hi

I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I'm sorry
I am the rock in your shoe.

i know that this isn't me
i know that these tight open eyes and lucid feelings aren't me
i want to be reminded that i am not alone in this world
but i do not want to communicate with anyone
i just want to watch
while i can appreciate how unemotional and reserved i'm feeling right now, i don't like the dull air and rounded edges around me
i no longer understand why i used to allow myself to feel this way every day

T
U
P
I
D
For it is the same every time; trapped in my mind with all fours on the ground, ***** to the wall,
I'm sorry I can't handle touching and feeling the way children can.