chlorine is toxic
hindsight is 20/20,
but i never should have kissed you

If I wear a gold chain
In my hair
Instead of around my neck
Am I gangster?
Stereotypes
****.

through my heart
through my soul
when i hear your voice
through my mind
through my eyes
when i see your hair
through my life
through my death
when you have to leave

I introduced the birds to the flock
the dove was awkward, the sparrow, excited

but the falcon towered
and the partridge left
and the starling was left to cry
with the eagle just standing by

and who, you ask, who, who am I?

I am the flamingo.
Do I belong?
Not I.

Numbers are swirling in my head
I regret regression
But I have to graph instead
Of a gossip session.

And life gets in the way
Tears aren't optional....
Not for me.

They're mandatory.

I'd love a paragraph wakeup message every now and then...

To make oneself a lantern
Is to make one a disgrace.
For arts that make a man turn
Should come from more than a pretty face.

You can wipe the makeup off your overdrawn cheekbones, Barbie
But you're still plastic.
And you're still hollow.

I wish I had a one and only.
Like, the one and only to rule all one and only's.
A best friend. Someone to love.
Someone to tell everything to,
Someone to hold and who will hold me.
I wish I may, I wish I might.

I wish I had the gift of inclusion.
Like, inclusion into all groups and areas ever.
A free entry card. An easy pass.
Somewhere to call home,
Somewhere to feel free to be me.
I wish I may, I wish I might.

I wish I had the heart they say I do.
Like, the heart to trump all hearts.
A caring heart. A selfless heart.
Some way to stop hurting,
Some way to stop thinking.
I wish I may, I wish I might.

Sitting home alone in my striped socks
Swinging my feet back and forth above my bedroom floor
There’s no one but me and my striped socks
Looking down over my bedroom floor.

Mommy died, Daddy went away,
Don’t have any friends that want to play
So I think I’ll build my very own castle today
In the middle of my bedroom floor.

It’s only me and my striped socks
Stacking pillows on my bedroom floor
I’ve found a friend for me in my striped socks
And our playground is my bedroom floor.

Lights out, flashlight on
We’ll keep playing till the break of dawn
Till all the last rays of sunlight are gone
In the windows shining over my bedroom floor.

I became royalty with my striped socks
Built a kingdom on my bedroom floor
Addressed all my subjects and my striped socks
In the dark on my bedroom floor.

So if you ever chance to open my bedroom door,
This is what you’ll find:
A fairy queen in glory on her courtroom floor,
Remembered in no one’s mind.

*She was left alone on the cold asylum floor,
With her striped socks on and far from fine.

I couldn't stop myself from hoping, there, I said it.

But do I mean so little to you......these tears won't be repressed.

Don't hope for things, dear children.

Hope hurts.

The stark realization that you're not here but rather, you were here in this bed, in these sheets, these arms....it hits me like a wave of lightning.
Tears turn to snow, fears turn to a numbing glow, and I miss you... Yet I know the rising operatic voices of the symphony of hope that plays in the background of my life's video game will rise higher than the brightest sunset and deepest tidal wave...because ironically, you miss me too. Through all my faults and accidentally elbowing you in the stomach and growling at you just because I know you hate it....you still miss me. How, I don't quite understand, and no matter how many times you try to show me, I'll still never get it, I'll just be mesmerized by the rave lights dancing in your eyes pulsing to the beat of my jack rabbit heart. Why can't we slow? Why can't we insist this isn't real, that we are going to wake up, why can't we agree to pinch each other to prove that reality is indeed upon us, that awakening to smell the roses is better than dreaming about them? Yet I find myself amidst the ardour of their smell and realize it is in fact an olfactory experience, and not a shift of the bored, school-ridden mind. Yes, you are real, far away- 1700 miles, in fact- but you are real; my fingers could touch a screen against your digitized fingerprints and somewhere, some way, you'd feel something pressing back gently as the dew. Because I'm here. And I love you.
And I don't want us to end. Ever.

These pearls around my neck, they itch
And burn and mock and ache
For their gloss represents a hitch
No one will ever make.

There's that one group of people, the ones who think they rule,
Who walk with purpose through the hallways at school
But who is there left
That is just like me?

A sinner, despondent, who's down on her knees
Fate laughs in her face and pushes her down
And tells her she never will gain renown

For her darling dearest is far far away
Even though a walk would take less than a day

Thoughts are preoccupied with education and uncanny lust
And the cogs in her brain are covered in gold rust...

Am I the only one who's still bereft?
If not then, I challenge....
Who's left?

I hope you know I trusted you.
That I told you things I couldn't trust my own mother with.
That i bared my soul to you because I felt like no one else understood but you.
How wrong was I....
It may be low to do some of the things I've done, but I'll admit I've done them and own up to it.
But to put up a front and a pretense of friendship just to get information to someone trying to hurt me...
saying you wanted to wait till later to tell me how much of a ***** i was?
That's just an excuse for wanting to learn more about me to hurt me later.
If you had truly been my friend, you would have told me what was bothering you/
wow.
now that is low.

Everyone calls me a hurtful, deceitful manipulator.
The problem is, it's really hard to fix a problem with roots unknown to your own mind.
I don't understand what I'm doing wrong. And everyone else is too ******* and vengeful to help me understand.
So fine.
Manipulate me in return for my unrecognized "manipulation".
It doesn't count if it's revenge, does it?

Yellow congregation
Discusses their front lines
Lawn mower arrives

It's a waterfall.
You know, the kind that cascades hard like
the white water rafting trips' featured waves
and just when you think they've calmed,
they're back even stronger.

They said they had their suspicions.
You've been more flamboyant.
You don't want to dress like your gender.
Stereotype, stereotype, stereotype.

But to be accused,
WHY DIDN'T YOU TELL US
To be yelled at,
YOU THOUGHT WE WERE DISAPPOINTED IN YOU THEN?
To wish you were anywhere else but here...
Somewhere over the rainbow...

But I'll never be over the rainbow.
Contrary to her belief,
it's not a phase or something I'll grow out of.
It's genetic.
Contrary to his thinking,
it's not helping
when all my communication with
others is severed.

I'm gay.
There, I admit it.

It's not like I'm gonna scream it from the rooftops, and no,
it's not the reason that I really like bowties and short hair.

Can't you just
accept me?

The final blow
is when your family
decides you're too good
for that type of lifestyle.

WHAT MORE CAN I DO TO IMPRESS YOU?
I've tried my whole life to make you proud.

I guess this just goes to show
that being myself
will never be enough.

So leave me to my cascades and wet cheeks in bed-why do you care-
because we all know you're wishing I'm something I'm not.
Someone I'm not.

Disowning me
would have been the
far superior alternative
to the disappointment.

"Our youngest daughter is just like her father, but looks like her mother. And our oldest daughter? She looks like her father, but acts like her mother. Well...she did."

I have been in an Adele sort of mood lately....

if you find yourself
attracted to the simple
swirls of black ink against
white lined school paper in
a locker you know belongs to
her, you know that you have severe

problems.

I'd like to have my sweatshirt back, please

Instead of

*******, give me back my ****, or I'll break you like you broke me.

When you wish to be lost and found at the same time

Not even a question anymore
Just wondering

Do the vibrations
That are concocted
From deep within the
Silk that nestles
In my esophagus

Do they reach
Your diamond implanted
Drums of sound
That can translate
Every woolen word
Into reality?

Just when you thought I had broken your heart
B O O M
Here's a lie and a few assorted jabs.
Have a nice life, you optimistic idiot.
Did you really think I cared...

To love his guise is to love a god
Of gold and emerald hue
I want your skin - is that so odd? -
As well as the rest of you.

they said after the fire
comes rebirth.

but I'm no phoenix.
flamingos don't rise from the ashes.

they burn.

part the curtains of your life and let
the sunshine filter in.

it won't burn, and it won't blind,
I promise.

Just a crack. C'mon.
I'm always here to lend you sunglasses
but first you have to be willing
to open the curtains.

A paper crown, and a heart made of glass
A tattered gown, and her kingdom of ash
She walks alone, she can never look back
The story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea

She'll make it out, but she's never the same
She's looking down, at the scars that remain
But you hold your ground, though your kingdoms in flames
Cause it's the story of a queen who's castle has fallen to the sea
Knowing there's no one who will be a king that will come and save his queen

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you build your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you build your walls too high

She's looking out, from the war that's inside
She's screaming out, cause no one survived
But when you're all alone, you wait and you hide
Cause it's the story of a queen whose castle has fallen to the sea
Knowing, there's no one who will be a king that will come and save his queen

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you built your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you build your walls too high

There is no one, who is strong enough, to save your love
There's no fairytale
There's no fairytale

When all she needs, when all she wants, when all she finds
When all she is, and ever was, is compromised
Cause there's no one to love her
When you build your walls too high
And there's no one to love you when you trap yourself inside

I love you. So much it hurts.

But what hurts more
is the screaming
and the yelling
and the insults

I know you love me
so much it hurts

watching me progress from
mary janes to high heels
from face paint to mascara

but one day I'll be gone
and our emotions
need to stop playing
tag

Please, take the handle
Of this forsaken candle
And teach how to burn...

Long ago, it couldn't handle,
this poor forgotten candle,
The way that love does ache and does burn...

Unblock, unblock,
I'm dying just to unblock...
Take stock, take stock,
of what's been said of me.

But unblock, unblock,
I'll never ever unblock
Or take stock, take stock
of what's been ailing me.

She wore gloves,
long, cotton swan's necks
which she stole from the
fields outside Baltimore,
plucked from the brown
fingers that wore the soil to dust.

She wore gloves,
a white pretense of elegance,
to hide her dainty,
fingers of a lady
who had never labored a day in her life.
Or so he supposed.

She wore gloves,
he'd soon discover,
to masque the bleeding
from nights spent battling
a linguistic war
with her old typewriter.

She wore gloves,
white lies that they were,
to protect her only valuables
from being taken from her
or doomed to the fate
of being held in another's.

She wore gloves,
never took them off,
as her one and only disguise.
For who would publish
lofty, luxurious paragraphs
when tainted by the pronoun her?

Give me the keys to your heart and let me ignite you.

Who's gonna drive you home tonight?

I don't want to learn.
I don't want to get over making mistakes
because without making them
I never would have experienced
what it was like
to feel like
that

I'm a little teapot, short and stout
Here is my handle, here is my spout
When I get all steamed up, hear me shout
"Tip me over and pour me out!"

I'm a little teapot, full and hot,
Ready for romance, and for quite a lot
Passionate and strong, all I've got
Is what's inside my pure white ***.

I'm a little teapot, partly mild
Still sentimental, still just a child
When he came along, on him I piled
Half my inside, from there it just spiraled.

I'm a little teapot with no brew
Poured all I had for the one before you
So if you're wanting love, then you'll be blue
Cause he drank me up, if only I knew.

I'm a little teapot, cracked and grey
Unused for sixteen long years to the day
Parts of me are missing, ere more I'll stay
The one who poured all her love away.

Thank you.
Thank you for leaving me when I needed you most.
Thank you for being disinterested in my scars.
Thank you for dropping me when all I needed was to breathe.
Thank you for letting me drown in her patronization and sitting aside.
Thank you.

The boots she wears make not a sound,
Are stealthy in their art
As they trample rudely round
On many a young man's heart.

You flatter yourself by thinking those harsh words were about you.
You don't mean enough to me for me to set aside time to write about you, let alone think about you.

not too old
only slightly worn
smells of plumeria

so why am I so uncomfortable in it?

I don't care what land we end up in.
Narnia, Middle Earth, purgatory....
It doesn't matter to me.
Just hold me.

I'm so sorry
that I wrecked your car
trying to find
where the wild things are

I'm so disappointed
that my closet has a back
instead of Narnia
just some cold weather tack

I'm so hurt
that Middle Earth can't be explored
and the rolling hills
don't have little round doors

I'm so stricken
with the painful ail
that my reality
can't be my fairytale

Why is it
that someone else
got to decide this for me
instead of myself?

Read me
like you're under the sheets
holding a quivering flashlight
reading a book Mommy told you
not to but that you told yourself that
you could.

Read me
like the paper thin news
that you strain to hear every
morning but then **** back in
disgust at when you realize its
its contents.

Read me
like the person you wish
you knew how to read and
that you want to more than just
about anything but know that really
you shouldn't.

Read me
like the dictionary on your
paint-peeling kitchen bookshelf
that is boring yet holds truths about
life that you wish with all your might
weren't true.

Read me
like you have tried so
constantly to read your
fading falling self that I say
I care so much about but you
won't listen.

Read me
like the anxious mess
that I am when I even hear
about the past I can't change
and the future I want so badly
to make better.

Seeing flowers in the convenience store
Leading up to today
Made me so
Happy

But now just thinking of them
Starting from 5 PM
Makes me feel
Hopeless

listen to the rushes,
they wait for you above.
listen to the rushes,
the wind blows with no love.

listen to the reeds, dear,
for they have known your pain.
listen to the reeds, dear,
and be yourself again.

listen to the leaves now,
and forget how to live.
listen to the leaves now,
and remember you can give.

listen to the grass blades,
that tell you not to feel.
listen to the grass blades,
that make your life unreal.

and listen to the waves, child,
that call you from the deep.
listen to the waves, child,
and meet your endless sleep.

always is there one stuck in my eye
distorting my vision
causing pain
requiring the time for removal
but by the time i've eradicated it
-it sometimes takes ages-
there's another to take its place
why is there an endless supply?

Maybe you weren't skinny enough.
Maybe you talked too much.
Maybe you wore too much perfume.

Maybe you were never home on time, were a lousy cook, never made the bed, and liked ***** a little too much.

Maybe you weren't eloquent or quick enough, maybe you didn't have the willpower to stand up for yourself.

Or-did you ever consider-?

Maybe you were too perfect.

I've mastered the art of waiting.
To be honest, I never realized how much it came in handy, how piecing together every string of the tapestry slowly makes for a better picture in the end.
But to lovingly finger every strand, to stroke the silk audacity of each fiber of the thousands that make up only half of what it is I wish for is to be in an eternal chokehold formed by the knots of the very same cotton I once adoringly began to weave together.
No one ever said waiting was easy, but getting your three piece suit back from the tailor only to find a knot in the first row of stitches can be rather depressing. For the first mistakes will always affect the later ones- you have to unravel all the came after it to fix it.
So why is waiting so hard?
While I covet the strings that make your life whole, mine swing quietly from the branches of a forlorn willow tree, caressed only by the lonely breeze, while yours are wound up within the picture of another's life story.
This is a picture I will never behold in a perfect light- how can an audience see what the master artist truly intended to be seen? They don't know her thoughts, her passions, her history. They aren't aware of her lusts, thirsts, and secrets that hide between the strands of cotton twisted together so tightly that no one can see within. It's the viewpoint that makes the piece art.
And of course it's art. She's a part of it, the lifeblood of you will- she glows, beating the most beautiful heartbeat into the fabric, making it ripple with excitement and pain and longing all at the same time.
And I can admire from far.
As I've said, I've become a master at waiting.
I can sit and watch her tangle her being within someone else's and know that if I ever get a chance to weave my story within hers, I'll have a hell of a lot of untangling and unknotting to do. And even still, the threads that make her her will still be slightly frayed. The more use, the more fray appears, until we either and disentigrate into a powder that was once the pride and joy of a queen who loved her tapestries with all her heart.
But I am a master at waiting.
I will redye the threads that need it, let them air out if necessary, before even attempting to draw out a pattern in which to use them with the threads of my own I seldom share. I will wait as long as need be, for to let those threads be a part of my life's tapestry is to let a heartbeat pound my fabric into submission, into happiness.
She once said she'd never let me feel unhappy, because happiness is important, even though it might take forever to arrive, and that she was going to make it her duty to speed its journey on its way to me.
But I'm a master at waiting.