Is this to be my anger,
then? A dormant dragon,
slumbering until woken. My blood

flows hot and fast and full
of dragonflame, just waiting
to singe anyone that might dare

come closer. For years I gave
the dragon free reign, incinerating
as she pleased. And for years

after that, I have placated and drugged her
with love and self-control. Being
around you brings back our long-suppressed

memories, old ways of burning
bridges and scorching foes. I never
wanted to hurt you, but you
are playing with fire.

And then I watched
as your smile stiffened
(imperceptibly, you thought)
and your embraces grew shorter
(I wouldn't notice, you told yourself)
while your laughter rang, forced,
(at least you were trying)
and when we fell asleep,
(you thought this would be)
I saw only your back.
*(more comfortable.)

So long ago, I raised
this up, all of my
expectations piled up like
so many building blocks.

now I sit here, trying
to find all the hope
I had constructed
my expectations of.

So long ago, I watched
as we crumbled, all of us
and everything we were falling
down like demolished children's toys.

now I sit here, trying
to understand why, if I watched
us fall apart, knowing the end,
I am still disappointed.

i.   My mother's elbows. They
     are too sharp and they twitch
     in the direction of your ribs
     when you invade
     her personal space.

ii.  Needing anything too much. Cutting
     or writing or even
     my own friends.

iii. Fast rides down mountains. I
     remember each one, looking
     out the window, wondering if
     tonight was the night
     finally we would go
     plunging over the tiny
     railing.

iv. Gangs of little kids. Don't
     tell me they don't know
     what they are doing. Children
     are cruel.

v.  Metaphors of fists raining down
     all over your body. I'm
     sorry, I cannot listen
     to your metaphors, when
     they make my skin tingle and
     my hackles raise and
     my heart play out the dance
     of old fears.

vi. Anyone having leverage. Too
     many times, showing caring
     for a thing has seen it
     confiscated. Also, anyone knowing
     I care at all.

vii. Discovering that the scars gifted
      to me are not healed and
      long car rides and
      her elbows and
      cruel children and
      impending addictions and
      openly loving and
      your metaphors make
      me bleed along
      old fault-lines.

Maybe music is just
an abstract form of
water. It dances and
flows, currents swirling
over my head until I think
I will either drown or become
one with this element. I don’t
think I could live without
these ringing melodies, like when they
say I'’m impossible and must
need water to function normally, I
return that I think rather
music must be what I need
in order to lose myself and so
stay sane.

i.     I love how it's such a given
       I'll do anything for my friends that they
       think it includes letting them walk
       all over me and ******* ripping me
       apart.

ii.    I can't miss the irony in the fact
       that all the music I listen to when I'm hurt
       is music I was introduced to
       by people who ultimately
       hurt me.

iii.  Sometimes I cross the street with my eyes closed
       in order to pretend fate is a thing and
       I have no choice in whether or not
       today is the day I explode
       in beautiful horror.

iv.   It's times like these I miss my cats.
       Because cats don't judge you
       for crying, they just lick
       the shiny marks on your face
       until you stop.

Tiny dots line up on
my screen with the flick of
my finger. Right now I could
be reading and expanding
my knowledge, I could
be writing and expressing
my feelings, I could
by doing anything
worthwhile, but I couldn'’t
care less.

Two magnets holding on
they won't ever let go
fit together so perfectly,
every groove aligned. Every broken shard, painful
and sharp when alone
somehow compliments, strengthens the unison.
(With every minute) they pull each other in closer
continue to intrigue and enchant one another
until they're all the other can see.
It's not possible to be near them and
Not feel their pull
And wish to be part of something magical
even though it might just be science.

These magnets, so perfect, so fitted.
And between them (so close to invisible)
a piece of tissue-paper
so fragile
almost not there
covered in creases and tiny rips
Holding on.
Maybe not holding on
so much as letting the magnets
hold it there.
Hold it together.
Keep it from falling apart (further).
Despite the tiny holes it tears
in its skin
to remind itself it still exists.

But no matter what my nature
I cannot help wishing I was not a tissue
but a magnet, too.
I was not keeping you apart
in such tiny, almost unnoticeable (but not quite)
ways.
I think of pulling away
every minute you get closer.
But the same force that holds me together here,
if I left,
would rip the heart out of me.

We are hurtling through
the night and I
am hunched in my seat
on the front of this
metal beast, with my music
pounding in my ears, much like
the way my heart
pounds even
as I write to you. You
are scared of tomorrow, I
am scared of right now and all
the uncountable thousands
Of what-ifs. A behemoth
carrying other beasts like a mother
duck carrying fuzzy ducklings passes
on my right and I
flinch instinctively, though
no duckling caused this wariness
in the pit of my stomach.
Your fear paralyzes me, and
my fear is not
only for me, but multiplied,
for your scars
will never heal, should I disappear
Today.

The time is Friday
The scene is dinner.
Candlelight, shimmering dishes, white tablecloth
Flowing wine, pleasant conversation, good food
An enjoyable evening at the neighbors' house.
I sit back, I do not speak much.
I am happy, I am content.
And then the neighbor starts telling you a story.
A woman she knows
got angry, lost her temper,
hit her children.
And so she stepped in, calmed her down, said
"leave the children alone."
You agree.

I do not react. Years of practice
have served me well.
I sit across from you, I do not look
fascinated or riveted or frozen
in place.

"Children," you say,
"are so helpless. To hit them especially
is horrible."

I cannot hold my pose any longer.
My eyebrows rise until they have eclipsed
the place where my glasses usually are.
You do not look.
You would not see.
You will not remember how you come by this knowledge.

(My friend says hypocrisy
is a pox-ridden ***** whose company
many enjoy.
You never have to pay for her services
to you she comes freely.)


   Not even four years ago
   (maybe)
   you have forgotten.
   I do not remember it all I do not
   remember what made you angry
   (that time).
   There never were flashing lights
   A big sign to tell me
   TRIGGER WARNING.

   I do remember holding on tightly
   to the golden-brown, smooth banister
   on the white-grey, cool marble stairs
   so I wouldn't fall down them.
   I do remember you standing strong
   above my hunched figure
   and the closed fists
   and the blows that rained down
   like drops in a thunderstorm.

   I do remember my father
   coming when it was too late
   when the hot tears finally soaked everything
   and apologizing for not being there.
   I do remember not having the heart
   to tell him
   that I was screaming his name constantly
   begging for him to come
   and save me from you.


You are right.
Children are helpless.
But you have missed the biggest truth.
Hitting children is most dangerous
not because they are helpless.
but because they love you.
Because for years they will protect you
and justify and accept
and blame ourselves.

Sometimes I think
that everyone I trust
just lets me lean against them
so they're in a better position to kick my legs out from under me.
That everyone whom I let learn my weaknesses
will not learn to shield them
as I originally intended, but study
in order to know where to plunge the knife.
Standing under your own power
is so hard
and learning to trust someone
harder
and, in my case, has such a higher chance
of hurting.
I am the man with the broken leg, I
am the man with the traitorous mind, I
am the man who will tear himself down
in absence of someone to do it for him.
Even knowing that, I am standing
on my own feet now. Even knowing
all my own weaknesses, which buttons
to press, I know that trusting
myself, precarious though it is,
is less dangerous
than trusting you.

The screams coming from
downstairs are shredding my ears
and stealing my sleep.

Most people hold on
to something burning them for
that last bit of warmth.
I learned all too well how
to let go, and if you
scorch me, I will drop you.

Most people spend time daydreaming, I
have never dared idle away time like
that, because thinking
of what will make me
happier than
anything hurts so badly
I have forgotten how to truly
want anything-
I dare not remember.

Most people are not me, and
most people will probably not trick
you into caring for them, until
when you inevitably
hurt me, or I
do it for you, it will pain you, electricity
crackling down whatever
it is ties us together, burning
as I will not let anyone
do to me.

The space between us is congested
with all of our unspoken words. I
breathe them in, feel the way
they cut down my throat as I swallow
my thoughts, choking silently. They explode
inside my chest, forcing
their way through my ribcage, shattering
the very framework of my body, until
shards of my own bones embed
themselves in my heart. They burn
inside my stomach, fueling
the automaton I have become, making my
movements strong, jagged, hasty, making
my smile too loud, my laughter
too jarring. Can you
feel them, too, or is this just
what you call air?

Irony-
after leaving, I ran

back

to take
my
things.

To reach out
and touch your cheek,
thistledown-light finger
upon the peach-fuzz softness
that is your skin.
I am quiet, reverent
not quite daring to believe
that this sleeping human (you
are so much more than human
and yet your flaws are compliments
to your other-worldly perfection
that root you solidly
to my terra firma) could ever exist
let alone exist here and now-
sleeping so soundly, so peacefully-
and you are mine to touch
as gently as I please.

You think the thick blackness under my eyes looks like
War paint.
Like I am going out to battle the world and defeat one and all
that dare stand before me.
You think this thick darkness under my eyes looks like
Attention seeking.
Like I am silently screaming for people to notice me
and come closer.
I only draw in those
enchanted by demons
in love with darkness
at home in the night.
You say that eyes are the window to the soul. You are right.
And I am shuttering mine.
But my war paint does not help me battle
the world
My war paint helps me hide the battles that rage
inside me.
I could cry
Wash it away.
Let it go and surrender
and then let you in.
But when you see me
I see myself, reflected
in your eyes
and my own verdict
is damning.

There are no words I can write
about my jealousy, without them being
ugly and twisted. Jealousy
is not a poetic feeling, jealousy is
sick and petty and deforms
everything it touches. I cannot beautify
my jealousy, as I do my pain, I cannot
make you look at me differently
through such a warped glass and think
that I am something special. Jealousy
does not lend itself to writing poetry, when
all I want to do is hate you
but I can't.

"One of the things I
least want to do is hurt you."
"Yeah, well, that ship's sailed."

Because who in
their right mind would
ever want to be
an open book,
a worthless shell,
a tag-along?
Who would ever
want to be weaker than
they seem, not as good as
they appear, so more utterly
unnecessary than their friends
seem to think? Why
would anyone ever want
to battle demons long dead, cry
into the night, jump
at every stranger
that gets angry, have
skin that aches
to be destroyed? Why
would anyone
ever want
to be me?

How much
did I have to be yours
for that?

You're gonna tell me
you miss me
and when I don't answer, hope
I didn't get the message
I didn't check my phone
anything, anything but the truth.

You're gonna tell me
you miss me
and when I don't answer, maybe
understand why, but more likely
wonder what's happening
after all, we worked out our problems
right?

You're gonna tell me
you miss me
and when I don't answer, know
(even though you won't relize)
exactly how I felt every single time
I tried to tell you
I love(d) you.
Remember?

I can count on a single hand
the number of times words
have made me cry. Not angry words, shouted

from shuttered faces and bitter hearts.
Not heartfelt words, whispered fervently
or pulled out of someone's mouth

by sheer force of need. The written word
has always held me in thrall, and yet
many words have always been required

to even come close to making me weep.
Your poems are a fraction of the length of books
that have touched me and thousands of lines shorter

than scenes that have made my tears
flow like water, until I tasted their salt, fresh
upon my lips. Your poems contain

an iota of the so-called literary genius
great authors possess, and less planning than their great works
of prose. But your poems are pain,

presented as gifts, doorways into your world.
I could count on a single hand
the number of times words had made me cry

until I read your poetry.