You left "I love you" in my lungs,
so I chain smoked cigarettes to fill them with nicotine.

You left butterflies in my stomach,
so I guzzled *** to make them drown.

You left hope in my soul,
so I popped some pills to make it numb.

You left passion in my body,
so I expired my meals to make it disappear.

You left me with memories,
so I gave myself scars.

I am naive -
stuck in between awkwardness and grace.

I have yet to taste

life

as it is glorified through literature.

My tastes of it have been quite bitter.

I need reason -
but I ask no questions.

I just assume it is all a distorted illusion of
perfection.

“Wow, I have to go purge now,” says my friend.

Tell me, what good will that do?

You can puke,
You can starve,
You can obsess.

What will that make you?

A size smaller?
Five pounds lighter?
Happy?

Don’t you know we’re all the same?

We all bleed blood,
We all breathe air,
We all feel inadequate at times.

Model, student, mother,
Whatever…
I don’t care what role you play.

Don’t you know we’re all the same?
Maybe not what we see with our eyes,
But on the inside.

I want to be

so

very





far away





from

here.


Far from the barns and bumble bees.
Far from the cornfields and cows.
Far from the dirt roads and ducks.

I love all these things.
But I want to run very




far away.


It’s never been more difficult to breath the country air.
It’s never been more difficult to forget the speed of passing time.
It’s never been more difficult to… exist.

I cherish this place.
I will hold it in my heart,
When I disappear to somewhere very



far away.

I’m supposed to be writing about motion correction and feature func data right now.
You know, science-y things.

But I don’t understand those things.

I don't understand many things.

Not fMRI imaging,
Not the way these keys make words on the screen,
Not the reason you’ll choose to read my poem,
And certainly not why the best people die before they even get the chance to live…

I don’t understand these things.
I just pretend to.

Motion correction is important because…
It’s very technological the way this Mac works…
The title was intriguing I suppose…
It’s all part of God’s plan…

I don’t understand these things.
I just pretend to.

Is that okay?

What are these feelings I have for you?
Where did they come from?

“SURPRISE!” they shout at my confused soul.

Is it still just friendship?
Is it becoming comfort?
Has it always been love?

“YOU’LL NEVER KNOW!” they tease me, frustrate me.

“Oh but I will!” I challenge back.

Always dependable,
that’s you.
Always a little too shut off,
that’s me.

It’s different now, though.
Reciprocity,
and equality,
and, and, something more than
friendship?

But seven years have come and gone.
An abundance of time.
So I ask again,
Where did these feelings come from?

“HeHeHe!” they continue to mock me.

They know I am
confused
nervous
maybe a little excited…

Uncertain, but determined
I will find out what this feeling is.
I will find its origin,
And I will nurture it,

Or, I will **** it,

As if it

never

existed

at

all.

I wasn’t preparing myself for your death
I was preparing myself for your survival.

My gut told me you would beat It.
It starts with a cruel “C,” ends with a nasty “R”
Always includes a “*******,”
And a “why me?”
And a “*******…”

But before It took over one last time,
You taught me about friendship,
how it arises from the strangest of circumstances.
You taught me about happiness,
how it can come in the form of chamomile tea and candlelit dinners.
You taught me about strength,
how it radiates through the bones of a boy with nothing to lose, but It.

I am a better friend,
I cherish the happy moments,
I know about true strength,
And it is all because of
you.

It is never fair,
But twenty is too young.
And I said,
I wasn’t preparing myself for your death
I was preparing myself for your survival.

But I know how to be strong now,
And I will find peace in your rest,
And I will be happy,
My friend.

Winter
He was fifteen. I was sixteen.
And we were young.
And we were in love.

“I love you to the moon and back,” he’d say.
And I’d smile and ruffle his hair.
And he’d kiss me on the forehead.
And we were in love.


“Write me a letter,” he said.
So I wrote the truth on a piece of blue paper:
You make me feel alive.
And he wrote back:
You make me feel real.
And that was the truth.
And we were in love.

Spring
"Come over after your Easter dinner," he asked.
And he gave me a basket of candy,
But his hands made me feel sweeter than chocolate.

“I just can’t tonight…” he said (lied).
“Oh, that’s okay… see you tomorrow…” I said (lied).

“He’s going to break up with her,” were the whispers I heard in the hallways
“Four months! Four months and that’s it?” I sobbed.
“No, no. Stop crying honey, you look like you’re on crack…” He tried to joke.

And we [I] were still in love.

Summer
“When are you coming over?” I asked (everyday other day).
No response.
“Are we still on for tonight?” I asked (every Friday).
“Yeah, yeah sure.”
“He’s really going to break up with her this time…” they all said.

And he did.

And I was still in love.

And he was not.







And I am still in love.

And

he

is

*not.