A smile so large, I think my heart leaps,
pulsing so fast to the loud hums and taps;
it can't take the rush.

My jaw locks, a warm, twangy bite;
with my eyes so wide, I'd gasp,
but my breath hides, trapped behind,
and no amount of gulps can free me.

He'd always leave at 2:53 P.M.
Swoosh fwoump.

It was only a matter of time,
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti

I wanted to be free.

He'd strap me to a chair and whisper,
sweet stories that you'd coo to *a child,
with sour breath running down my neck,
his greasy forehead pressed against my tear-stricken cheeks;
it'd deteriorate and culture in my ears.

His scent engulfed my mind,
my body, my soul...

He made a grave mistake,
dressing me in grimy socks,
making me dance skin-to-skin,
forcing me to kiss him, call him.

Oh no, you see,
he should have known.

I betrayed his trust, I'd pay the price,
"Isn't that right, Leila?"
That's not my name.

"Now Leila, darling, you're going to be a good girl,
for Daddy, aren't you?"
That's not my name.

"Leila, sweetheart, I can trust you, can't I?
Hmm? This will be our little secret,"
That's not my name.

"Aw, don't tell me, dear, beautiful Leila,
you aren't scared, are you?"
That's not my name.

I knew him well,
after a few months,
and his smell was musty,
only when I let it be.

He always liked sweets,
like me.

He was disgusting,
and my wrists ran red with incisions;
he'd lick them clean.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

"Oh Leila, sweetheart, I expect dinner when I get back,
won't you be a good girl,
and do as Daddy taught you?"
That's not my name.

So I did.

This kitchen was charming,
as much as his worn dining ware,
lined with cracked roses painted by Chinese overseas,
wondering when they would be used.

This was the first time I'd seen him genuinely smile,
"You look especially beautiful, tonight, Leila,
perhaps it's the sparkle in your eye,"
That's not my name.

He took a sip.

His glossy eyes hovered above his glass,
and his gaze drifted over to me,
in my grimy socks and brown-stained apron,
my long, dark hair drapped over my shoulders.

Another glass,
another glass,
another glass,
glass,
sugary sweet,
sweet,
down his lips,
lips,
lips,
teeth,
throat,
liver.

He liked sweets,
sweets,
sweets,
dripping, sipping,
sweet,
sugary sweet, nectar,
cool, smooth,
antifreeze.

He'd always leave at 2:53.

Silence.
Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-tick-ti-

2:53 P.M.

Silence at 2:00-
2:00
2:00

I'd heard him cry,
"Leila, Leila, Leila,"
That's not my name.

He'd always leave at 2:53,
2:00,
silence.
He would never leave at 2:53,
2:53 P.M.

*I left at 2:53. Silence.

Soft lips, the absence,
cold hands touching a boiling ***,
all of it overwhelming.

Lisps, nothing but blurred
s's and slurred whispers
of reassurance and love.
So much blind love, so much
lying, so much forgetting,
so much resting in the
space between the absence.

I loved you once, then I
forgot, and loved you again,
and forgot, and loved you
again in memory, I have forgotten.

The absences are wavering;
they teeter like a fresh vase on the edge
near an unruly cat,
nothing tethering the events
of the slurred words from
soft LIsPS, but the
love almost did.

So I think.

What are the chances,
a woman like me,
so obsessed with flowers,
branches and leaves,
finds something so beautiful,
so lovely pressed against my chest,
so intoxicating,
that without another thought,
I had to have him too?

I walked into your life an actress,
putting on a show for you,
miming who I thought I was
with lifeless limbs exerting so much effort,
nearly hollow did I feel,
typecast, merely trying to not collapse in front of you
like a miserable cutscene signaled too quick;
yes, it is most unfortunate
you fell in love with an actress
playing a role she didn’t know how to keep.

Cursed affixation
Taking in a drove of men
Who think they are above you
But somehow adore only you
And thinking maybe you’re in
On a joke that only you two know
Your wits supposedly matched
Your laughs the same horrible mocking tone
Your eyes faded in a facade
But the games are fun, aren’t they,
For an idiot like you?
Everyone hates the bully
Until you are one
And you feel the bitter tastes
Together
And you think you are a part of something
That somehow you two are stronger
Smarter
Better than before
But you’re both nothing but leaves
Destined to fall off and crumble
For the winds to drag you away.

These powerful pulls
To one another, and the filth
You both hide in
Triggers one to wonder how you can ever leave the cycle
Of the man who is a narcissist
Or the girl who thinks she is special
Because she is the only one he “respects”.

Take a walk
Break the false bond of strength
And realize that isn’t you
It doesn’t have to be you
Don’t make an addiction to
Addictive personalities
And let it soil the girl
Who wanted proper love
With a softer heart
Who sips quietly from life
On her own, safely;
She needn’t give another man
An ego trip
Because her fragile soul gives out
Too much love
And finds fascination in the grandiose self,
Something with a strong aura
But lacks true power,
Isn’t worth the degradation of yourself.
Love never hinges on something so broken.

"I'm afraid of the dark," he said,
but what he meant, I couldn't grasp.

I'm afraid of the light instead.

What more could terrify me than a future I have to face,
a gleaming torrent of certainty,
a resounding push forward,
but the dark?

The dark is my putty; a shadowy liquid,
a fickleness that prays on hope and fear,
and with it holds an escape.

He fears the dark because it can deceive him.
I fear the light because it is the truth.

The thick, jet-black sky was teeming with stars,
each one twinkling to the beat of our hearts,
ba thump,
ba thump,
ba thump,
and danced when our hands trailed too close,
my frigid fingertips trailing across his hot palms,
trying timidly, feverishly, to reach equilibrium.

His tenacious coffee-brown eyes animated,
stirring at the very hint of my voice,
(a mere mouse squeak) as I looked away,
pawing at my arm, fidgeting my words
into mush in front of him,
letting them drop to the seat of the bench like
unfortunate jelly spilled at a picnic,
sticky and clumped, indecipherable,
languorously trailing from my lips
and dripping downward
to the cool-grey concrete slabs
bolstering us up among the night.

It was tedious.
He knew it would be
as he beamed back,
still watching my words flow
like molasses, so dense and viscous
they never came.

He kissed me.

Had I expected it,
I might've stopped him,
tried to make it more artificial,
more methodical, contracted,
mechanical, but I didn't.
I couldn't.

The feeling pressed through me
like a current,
an electric shock pulsing,
refusing to stop until it hit my core,
reverberating through my chest,
forcing my eyes open.

Taking advantage of this moment
he teased, knowing I couldn't speak,
not then,
not now,
not after this;
when I looked back at him,
his gaze was much calmer,
more delicate,
and his laughter floated off
like feathers.

I kissed him.

A large crash;
Everything comes at once,
Drags you by your chest
and pulls you in,
Makes you relive every moment
And with scents
Breaking past your hyposmia,
Troubled voices crowding
In your ears, in your throat,
And you remember it all
Thumping in your chest,
Making you so ill,
Always sick, always prying
At your weakened body,
But you’ll forget it again,
Hoping it goes away,
And it will always find you
In hot flashes,
To drag you by your feet,
Asking you to see again.

Every time I think of you
I imagine myself transported
to this notion we had of ourselves
together in the woods,
but somehow alone,
and I'd kiss your lips every morning
but it'd be bittersweet,
and I loved bitter so much at the time
that I'd melt anyway
and somehow in the woods,
in this tiny cabin,
you'd be able to hide from all your sins
and maybe you could protect me
from the bears
from the harsh weather
and from you.

Oh, I thought I’d have you close
Forever in my arms
A devil’s cheap disguise
To leave me alone at midnight.

How horrible it is
To sink into one’s fears
And let it eat you up
And drag out all the insides.

How does it feel
To run away?
How does it feel to never
See me once again?
Have you forgotten
My tastes?
How could you leave me?
After all that had been said?

Just run away
Take the breaths we shared
Just run away
Take away the loving stares
Just run away
And leave us here to rot.

Have you considered
All that you take
And have you wondered
What’s left of what I offered
And can you feel
The broken pieces
Trying to reconnect?

It seems too ill of you
To walk away again
When it’s so fresh and real
With every pulse and pang
And maybe you
Can’t seem to see
How much of this was worthy
Of existing.

But if you must
Then float away.

People keep trying to tell me that it wasn't real love,
and I know how wrong they are when they say it;
people don't want to face the idea that a bad person is capable of love,
but they are,
and a lot of bad people have loved me.

A bad man's running his mouth,
talking of God and all sorts of things,
saying justice comes to tear down
all the sins and evils of this world,
claims he knows it,
oh, he knows it,
he claims he'd bring down
all those wretched souls
and hand them some accountability;
ah yes, a bad man's running,
running away,
jumping through hoops
trying so **** hard to hide
from justice,
mmhm,
cause a bad man's running his mouth,
running away from the wrongs he condemned
mere hours ago,
talking about how much he hates
a man like that,
a man like him,
and how much he'd love to show them,
show them,
show them how to be a bad man like him
and masquerade as equity and virtue,
talk a load of croc and take the plunge
with a face so unlike
these marauders,
or so he says,
he always says,
always littering the world with his voice,
his mumbled, garbled,
running mouth;
he wants to tell you
that he'd take his knife to a man
who dared to try you,
feel you,
oh, he says,
as he takes what he wants on his own.

A bad man's running,
running amock in this silent town,
disregarding good deeds,
taking it upon himself
to play the Janus.

Cradle me like a child
crying
locked in a cranium she never wanted
lose control
where’s my pacifier?
Take me to a place
force me to **behave.

The troubled serpent seeks me
in the dimness of the night,
in the luminescence of stars,
in the hallowed shadows;
it asks me to relive
and I beg of him,
saying,
was eve eating the apple
not enough?

I don’t know of what sins
you think I may have
or will commit,
but must I, too,
suffer for the ones others did?
Why do I have to constantly
be in a headspace that allows
for these things to happen
over and over,
when I was not the one
to keep taking bites of forbidden fruits?

A bitter boy you are,
with twisted words and twisted fangs,
sour lips and ****** knuckles;
boy, you sure do love a good fight.

That's an awful lot of snickering
for a guy who's surely bluffing,
and I'm quite certain you know
as well as I, you're full of ****,
but your tangy hands and acid fingers seem so daunting
when you cast out all your hateful "truths".

I'm torn between all the love and all the hate,
it's inevitable that they'd congeal
into a sordid mixture
and so it was a bitter boy
spoiled.

Drugs, drinks, and the inebriated,
young lungs filled with toxic scents,
their hearts bursting at the beats,
laughing, ***** dancing,
as they're blinded by their age.

They always hit me,
like frothy waves in the ocean,
growing in strength; a hot, salty blue,
enveloping me in its wake.

Like fine crystal, the clearest, most pure,
a divine glamour, cutting deep to the soul,
each speck: grey, green, brown, blue,
as if crafted by God's own hand.

It mesmerizes, shouts to me, calls;
they say nature's color is green,
but blue rings from the mountain tops, from waters below,
and it settles in their gaze.

Crispy, and yet thin,
its rough curves shatter and snap,
salty, fragile chips.

Head pulsing; eight o'clock,
hair pulling has to stop,
burning purple, dull eyes,
barely breathing, sleep deprived,
drowning bodies cannot rest,
bandaged up,
what a mess;
pressure building and collapsing,
draining, lazy, and containing-
*nothing.

A warm tingling,
crawling up your spine,
yelling in your ears, your heart,
your mind,
and it keeps calling;
every part of your body,
a tense, hot, sizzling touch,
of your skin, yearning,
burning, soft lips leaning so close,
fingers curling, twitching,
sighing, and incessant noise ringing,
screaming, as you gaze into their eyes;
a coarse heat clumping in your throat,
keeping you entranced, captured,
wanting them now; forever.

The man I loved is dead and gone
and rest before me, a carcass;
his shaky hands and shaky breaths
are almost fully silenced.

I don't recognize that sound of his,
unusual and discordant,
those mumbled songs and deepened voice
have surely lost its purpose.

Say it's you one last time,
suspend all disbeliefs;
with open arms and inviting eyes,
tell me all that you've repented.

My heart lay in a cloudy, milky state,
its cold, harsh pressure building up within,
leaving me to gaze, masking purpose.

My eyes, dull, hid the fervor,
encasing it in between my lips,
locking them together; smiling.

My breath remains methodical,
sweet melodies juxtaposed,
along my ears and lungs.

Feet pacing, heart staying,
I cannot last; ba-thump,
my hands begin to tingle.

One look, no words;
head spinning away,
there is no closure.

Why do I always stop?
Why do I hold my breath?

My mind is screaming to tell you everything.

How when it's quiet, and the lighting is just right, your hair shines in an almost golden brown halo at the top,
and how when you speak, the sound drifts off into a slight hum,
but when your eyes meet mine I cannot say it.

How when I think of you, I hide my face in my frigid hands and I feel my cheeks run hot with blood,
and how much I've always loved your determined face, with furrowed brows and pursed lips,
but instead I look at you with a meek, silent smile.

How I nearly tear up at the thought of my life leading up to this moment with you,
and that it makes up for every time I have ever felt afraid or broken,
but I never muster up the courage to tell you...

How the reason I always look at you is because I want to appreciate all of you, and I'm afraid I'll miss something,
and I wish I weren't so shy as to always write you love letters and poems, instead of verbalizing it to you,
but I always get stuck.

How I thought today twenty times over that I wished to say I love you,
and that I think your smirks might just **** me,
and maybe your hands are just feathers because they move so gracefully across the piano keys,
but I didn't mention it.

How could I?
I'm a never-ending trainwreck of the mouth.
Once I start, I can't finish; I'll never say it all.
So I don't.

But....
I want to.
I want to look you in the eyes and instead of fumbling with my hands, my ring, or looking down and away from you, I want to clearly say this...

How the only thought in my mind that kept me from shaking incessantly during an anxiety attack was you,
and how in the silence of my room I just knew life would get better, IS better,
and how you keep me from disrespecting myself,
and how I think I couldn't imagine a lifetime where I didn't meet you,
oh I couldn't, I wouldn't.

How the other day, when I was folding my clothes, I stopped.
I felt a rush of joy overcome me and I just didn't tell you, I couldn't even say it out loud to myself,
but **** it, I'm in love with you.

Cold nose,
Cold hands,
Cold lips,
I can’t help if my
fingertips
want to
grab onto your hips;


Don’t think
I don’t know
How much you
want me,
baby...
just me and you
and all this cold
is surely worth the waiting.

I know my kisses feel
like ice, or snow; and maybe
you’d find out that
I want your love
and find out what
we can be.

Cold as ice and cold as sin
a man that lost shouldn't've been
but he played his cards
and he played them right
cause nothing touches a man
cold as ice.

"It's not love."

Okay, sure,
so suppose I were to concede.
Then you're positing that
more than half the love I've ever received
has always and forever been null.

Dance with me and pay the price,
it's no big deal, the music's nice,
a twirl, a tap, why won't you glide?
I promise not to hurt your pride.

My heels click and stomp about,
your feet intact, without a doubt,
but something cracks, between us both,
a shattered, silent, bond-broken oath.

My smiles full of blind deceit,
your trust denied in fast defeat,
I've grown tired of this masquerade,
now you wish you hadn't stayed?

I can't believe you thought you'd be my match,
that we'd make it out without a scratch,
but jokes on you, and me too,
this was our final dance, so enjoy the view.

Can't you see this was all one big, cruel joke?
I have finally clawed myself out of my grave,
just to turn around and spit at the headstone,
and I no longer recognized who was put to rest.

I was wrongfully buried here,
so why won't the grave digger free me from the cemetery?
I implore you, please, to listen, as I insist
I don't belong here!
I have healed all the things that put me to my death,
and I think those that decide to live again should be exhumed.

Why must the past keep trying to push me back
into shallow dirt?
Trust, I know,
that the grave plot never cared one way or another;
it was already calling my name and continues to try
to call me back,
but all I ask is that the darkness let me start over.

Funny how when I write diary entries,
they're nothing but cryptic,
just in case someone else manages to read it,
because my fear consumes me,
and Roosevelt was right,
as the only thing to fear
is what keeps me up at night.

People underestimate words on a page,
but it dictates every single way
we move and interact
each day and how the world
conducts business
without us,
without me,
and I sit here wondering what's wrong,
why can't I see
some words have used me
their appeal, too strong,
and I couldn't tell them
how wrong it'd be to follow
every move they make
leaving me stranded
abandoned
by my own mistakes.

It's hard to claw at the truth
when it hides, evades,
and no matter what you want
it just won't stay,
maybe it's supposed to be
impossible to find
cause I haven't taken the time
to stop reflecting
on such derelict
themes and open my eyes
to what's new to seize,
it means something
when you've closed yourself off
and every sound
every option
seems like another **** wall
and maybe
it's hard to know when
you're always told stop
instead of go.

Dear number five, with my hand I count,
Twice in fact, without a doubt.
To my birthday, February herewith,
It is indeed upon the fifth.

Dear number five, you do so mean,
Foot long sandwiches for one to dream.
3.14159, in pi you do arrive,
Among Fibonacci you do so strive.

Dear number five, you have begun,
Histories with a long run:
Karl Marx was born; a Mexican independence;
US/SR tested nukes; all which men were in attendance.

Dear number five, with Lincoln it so bares,
His proud, pensive face, a dollar shares.
Cinco, viis, wu, cinq, go, fem,
In different languages does your usage stem.

Dear number five, I must say adieu,
You’re much more than numbers, such as two,
And as I leave you my simple twenty line poem,
Remember the writer who sat here and wrote ‘em.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but that's something I'd never tell,
cause complacency is what you preached,
so silence is what I reached.

Mama, you taught me well,
to sit and fiddle, do not wail,
but my emotions are worth much more,
when they aren't hidden behind the door.

Mama, you taught me well,
wishing for naught, I let myself dwell,
and so I idolized all the wrong people,
and followed demands like sheeple.

Mama, you taught me well,
to allow myself to mask my yell,
my tears, my frigid fears, my feelings unspoken,
when my heart lay here so broken.

Mama, you taught me well,
to lock myself into my own cell,
and now I feel I need release,
my soul deserves to be at peace.

Dear Mama, you taught me well,
but this sort of life I wish to quell,
and so I say I must change,
your lessons to me, estrange.

It hits me like a hot spark,
a burning singe from the orange flame;
that's life, I gasp, and yet nothing changed.

Like a fever chill, sweat beading at the brow,
I remember how it once was,
only to repeat through whispers of the wind.

Here we go again, another thought,
skipping across the lake like a smooth rock,
but just so, it sinks to the bottom,
with a final sound: *Plop!

He had that sly smile
he liked to give,
almost as if to say,
"Darling, you knew
I had these demons.
Did you really think
I'd fight them all for you
and win?"

How does it feel to be desired?
How does it feel to have your skin brush against mine?
How does it feel to finally give in?

Maybe our hands are tired of being pushed so far apart,
And our bodies deserve to finally interlock.

When I have you,
everything else falls into place.

Shaky hands, cold lips,
Jumbled words, politics,
Burning cheeks, wikileaks,
Silent stares, distant week.

Twisted stomach, achy sighs,
Neither are more the wise,
Silent thoughts, weak spots,
Each word twisted in a knot.

A disillusioned nightmare knocking at my door,
creeping slowly,
gaining on me,
skidding through the floor;
fragility is fractured,
hallucinations are a hoax,
and it's certain that clouds,
not blood clots, were meant to float,
so when the mirror curves,
like a dagger for the conscience,
every nerve frays like an abandoned fabric,
torn, shredded, limp and unseenly,
even night terrors are afraid of scathing reality.

Dejected, I've detected
that the things people say
can't make sense anymore;
God, it's hopeless, I'm lost,
and maybe someone out there
can tell me where it went wrong.

I want to believe him,
yes, I do,
but who's the fool here
to think it's true?

Please forgive me,
those of you who come close,
for not taking chances
in letting myself loose;
I'm just frightened
by what I've left behind
and I'm just frightened
of what lies I might buy.

Please do not ask me
about why I cannot give,
or in what ways I feel unable
to start over.

I've told you before,
I've told you so many countless times,
that I cannot feel anymore,
and when I do,
it rests in a porous place in my head,
not my soul,
and I refuse
to pretend I could love another
fully,
so please,
do not ask me again.

I've told you before,
I cannot bring my heart to a pulse,
much less trust
anyone, not even myself,
with that responsibility.

I know better than to pretend
I am capable of romance,
and no sorts of pressures
will allow me to breathe easy at night;
I already have so much trouble
letting things go.

I always took to doubting myself
and so it was no surprise I did
again and again and again
when you had me under your fingertips.

That night I finally saw you,
after months of being apart,
you hoisted me up on your bed
and the look in your eyes seemed so foreign;
there was a hunger there I had never seen before.

I was a bit uncomfortable,
but I missed you so much I didn't care
to think on it further;
but your touch was different too,
and for a split second, I thought,
I'd almost jolt up and leave.

It was so bizarre to me,
you used to be so scared to have me to yourself,
and all of a sudden your hands
were no longer afraid, and,
your grip was a bit stronger than before;
I should have known something was wrong.

This was the closest I had ever come to
feeling like your prey,
and it wasn't right;
every other time you held me,
I could feel the restraint,
that you had chosen a gentle touch
instead of being so demanding,
and I thought that meant you loved me enough
to be delicate.

Was that the case?
Why, now, were you able to be different?
A mechanism like that shouldn't be so easy to switch on and off.

What happened?
Was it becoming too difficult to keep up your facade?
Did you even realize you didn't change back for me?
Why do I always doubt myself?

I have squandered so much energy
hoping to understand you,
that I regretfully left none for myself,
and anything learned is naught;
next time leave me a blank letter
since that gives more substance
than simply walking away.