Stuck in the cloving of seasons,
Mourning the falling leaves,
The long, hot summer hours,
The dusty flowers,
Tired with their bee-filling,
Wanting only sleep.

I am torn for loving summer,
Regretting nothing:
The summer flings,
The two-up rides on tree-lined paths,
The running, ducking laughter in the summer rains,
The sparking, smoking skies of 4th July,
The too-warm walks and wanting shade,
The pleasures of a new-cut lawn,
And you, the constant sun-bather there-upon.
The sweet embraces you and I shared in the nights,
Knowing seasons last for just a while,
We celebrated summer through it all,
Not wasting time before the coming Fall.

00000
I love you, Melody Joy. db

im so tired and you keep rubbing my heart in glass
i dont undertsand why you cant love me the way you used to
when we were just a bit younger and my heart was new
now im bruised and i dont weant to see your face
stop trying to change me

because looking like a girl when you're a girl is fine,
but looking like a girl when you're a boy is hell on earth.

you are a flashlight.
not the kind you use
when you go camping;
nor the kind you use
on your phone, in your kitchen
at 2:47 am because you want a snack.
you bring
brightness to other's lives.
you point to their future
and say,
'this is the way you need to go.
you'll do great things,
and you'll do not so great things.
it'll be a journey,
and i'll be with you every step of the way.'
you are my torch
to guide me through the tunnels of life,
around every curve
and to every steep drop-off
and you'll pick my up every time
that i trip.

to me,
you are my flashlight.

god, do i hate myself.
sometimes it depends-
on a certain time of day
where i'm at
who i'm with
but no matter the circumstances,
i always manage to be a ***** up.
i hate the fact that i can't be in large crowds
without suffocating;
i hate that i can't hold eye contact for very long
without feeling a sense of looming fear;
i hate that i eat as much as i do;
i hate that i can't function as a normal
human being.
i hate that i hate myself.
i see 'body positivity'
and 'loving yourself'
promoted everywhere
but i can never seem to have that.
i'm sick and tired
of being sick and tired;
but it's something i'm living with and cannot get rid of.

so here's to self loathing.

i try not to write poetry with your name in mind
because maybe im afraid of getting optimistic
maybe hopeful is too much of a burden to carry around
and staying angry is more safe than
all of the colors i feel when i look you in the eyes
and believe me baby-
sorry-
believe me,
i avert your gaze with probable cause
its easier to hate you than to hate our odds
and the comfort i feel when you say my name
like a whisper
like a prayer
like a moment for me alone
its easier to keep this pessimistic mindset
because i think, even as a raincloud, i can admit
if i describe the way my hands shake
when you touch me
i will never be able to silence myself
its easier to keep all of this bottled up
and sent out to sea
with no recipient
than to reach across the table
and break the silent rules we never put into permanence
believe me,
it's easier to avert your gaze
than to confront my feelings
because you know how i feel about confrontation
i can sleep surrounded by white noise
and i'll still have said too much
because every time you slip up
i feel it in my chest
and maybe i can admit that i dream about the eye contact i avoid
without destroying the way we both hold our breath around eachother
i dream about you hating these urges the same way i do
i dream about you wanting me and your sacrilegious mindset
and maybe if i fall asleep sober enough
in that dream
i can find a way to reach across the table
and write optimistic poetry about
how it feels to break the rules

... We'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how we'll imagine that you never suggested that we speak of how ...

There is a part of me
In the middle of my chest
Surrounding my center of gravity
That wants to write you out of my palms
For the hundredth time
And
Tell everyone in the world but you
In a collection of sentiments and drug induced nightfalls
My exact and precise emotions

There is a part of me
In the back of my head
Next to all of my memories
That begs for the erasure of your name
For the thousandth time
That pushes me to write down how I feel for the times
I forget that I loved everything poisonous about you

That I make art and I do it for you
And I can't sleep anymore and I do it for you
That every word I drip onto paper I say it for you

There is a part of me
In my fingertips,
In my stomach
That hurts to be natural
That hurts to go this distance
That hurts to write one poem about you
Where I dont come up on the losing end
That waits for your touch
The words I know you dont say for me

There is a part of me
In the front of my brain
Behind my eyelids
That remembers your apathy
That soaks in your words and
Refuses to settle within me in fear that
This repression will spring to life
And I will spend my nights in the echo of your words
Letting it scratch into my skin
Letting you scar me

It balances
With the part of me in my ribcage
That opens and closes for you like
A white picket fence
That does everything for you
That watches me listen to you
And fade in and out of consciousness
That remembers your antidote like a phone number
That silences the rest of my ******* body
In the hum of the drunk times you've told me
This time will be different
This time I will love you

There is a part of me
That wants to eradicate the existence of you in notebooks
In sentence structures and walls of words

And it strains against something that is not a part of me at all
But surrounds my body and pushes against me like gravity
That keeps you trapped in the center my palms
Against my skin with no puncture wounds
It flashes your face every time I blink
And I havent figured out how to free myself of this heart crushing weight
Than to write that

My body agrees
Loving you is not worth
All of this pressure