They shared a mutual hatred for people
that disclosed unsolicited details about their relation*****.

Even though they spoke everyday
goodbyes never got easier.
brb, gonna sleep for eight hours.
What will you dream of?
You want me to say you, and I want me to say you, but I have no control over my dreams. You're only reserved for my daydreams.

They exchanged a plethora of photographs.
#thighhighThursday
Send.
I lIkE yOuR sOcKs.
It wasn't long before they perfected the art of taking selfies in the shower.
Send.
LeT's PlAy NaKeD tWiStEr.

Sometimes they broke the unspoken rules they'd agreed to.
The rules that banned them from getting too cutesy;
or twee as he liked to put it.
Cuddling is just hugging laying down.
For much longer.
*Cuddling is just horizontal hugging for a long time.

We're not hardwired to mean it every time we say
I'm sorry.

We save most of our sympathy for ourselves
and give the leftovers to those who have earned it.

We're hardwired to say
Fine.
Or some variation of it, every time someone asks
How are you?

We all know the apologies aren't sincere enough.
We're well aware that if we truly cared about someone's well being
they would tell us that they're
Scared.
Because they don't know how they're going to pay the rent.
Because their mother has cancer.
Because
I
made
myself
vulnerable.

I'm sorry.
I'm fine.
I'm a
l
i
a
r
.

What if we had been strangers on a train
And I asked you what book you were reading.
You'd say:
“The Old Man and The Sea.”
Then I’d tell you I’d never read it before.
You’d say it was your favorite.
And ask for mine,
“Tuesdays with Morrie,”
I’d answer.
We’d bond over similar music taste
The **
PRiNCe
Flight of the Conchords.
You’d compliment my sweater.
I’d admire your socks.
Maybe I’d be bold and ask to take your picture,
But probably not.
Instead I’d ask you name
And you’d ask mine.
I’d smile at your reaction.
”Nice to meet you Oshin.”
Then you’d go back to reading your book
And I’d try to find another excuse to talk to you.

My bed is an island
Of isolation
And comfort.

On all sides surrounded
By obstacles
And confrontation

I sleep in til noon
And live off the fat of the land.

This is my
*Paradise.

I want you
in the                                                                                                                                                            worst.
                                                                                                                                                          possible.
                                                                                                                                                way.
The kind
of way
that I
ought not
say
aloud.

She drew out their goodbyes as long as he'd let her
because she never really wanted to leave him.

                      I adore you.
                               I'll miss you.
                                    Goodnight boo.

                                                 But waking up to his messages somehow made her bed seem less empty.
                                                                ­        And she hated empty things.
                                                                ­                           So she endured goodbyes
                                                        ­                                               in exchange for tomorrow's good morning.

How tacky.
                                                                ­                      Tacky.
                                    ­                                        Tacky.
                  ­                                                 Tacky.

*****.

I'm flattered
that you find my words worth stealing.
But I hate you.
And think you're
                                        Tacky.

Pathetic.
Taking credit
for something that belonged to me.
I hate lairs.
So I hate you.
I'd say it wasn't personal,
but then I'd be a liar.
Like you.

You'll never be a poet.
"Thief"
Is a name far better suited for you.

******.

I think a lot of people find silence scary.
Is is because we're afraid of ourselves?
I wish I hadn't removed my blindfold.

It's not the way I wanted this to happen.
It's colder beneath the covers.

It's no one's fault.
That I need
The things I can't give myself.

*Hugs are a good place to start.

I've been told I'm cynical
by  a hippie with dreadlocks.
No, I don't want to try molly with you.

I've been told that cuddling is better in the cold
by a boy with an enviable smile, wearing a striped sweater.
Let's make a book of comfortable sleeping positions for couples.
With the bed as the office, and the sheets for a desk.

I've been told that I'm too old for hugs
by the contributor of half my genes.
I love you too.

People tell me things
and usually I don't listen.
But sometimes I do.

I'll go first
#1: I can finally smell your hair.
#2: Your grandparents would be furious.
#3: You.

I'm offended I'm only #3

Fine
#0: You.
There. Now you're pre #1
#4: Your chicken.
#5: You.

My turn
#6: Festivals with me.

(In unison)
#7: The Neutral Milk Hotel gig.

#8: Soul mates.

#9: Seeing you naked.

#10: Legal drinking.

#12: Taking advantage of you when you're drunk.

#13: Lack of time zone annoyances.

Yussss
#14: Making French toast for you.

#15: Cuddles are better in the cold.

Get out of town! I was just about to say cuddles!

We're psychic.

#16: Watching you sleep.

#17: Creepy comments about me sleeping.

I need to move to Britain.

I met a boy.
I mean I didn't meet him like in person or anything.

Let me start over.

I know a boy.

He was the kind of boy that would listen to you talk about your dreams
And watch you try on a series of hats only to tell you he didn't like any of them.

This boy that could talk about kiwis
without seeming dull.

He had an affinity for hip hop music and ironic T shirts
and fancied himself a good club crawl every now and again.

The two P's were often on his dinner menu (pasta and pesto)
And he was quirky.
Not in a Zooey Deschanel kind of way,
But in the way that is effortless.
In the way that intrigues people.
Intrigues me.  

He wasn't the kind of boy you read about in books,
but should have books written about him.
I wanted to be the one to write it.

It started off as a fan-fiction
and ended as wishful thinking.

Je t'adore.*
I say it in French
so the words don't seem as heavy.
Heavy things leave both parties weaker
than when they started.
You make me feel all carbonated inside.

Wearing clothing seems unnatural when we're together.
I'm drawn to you like a magnet.
You tell me I'm pretty
And laugh at how awful I am at accepting compliments.
I promise to leave before you wake up.

The perfect time to kiss someone
is when they don't even know they want you to.
when you're not using your lips for talking.
and your mouth tastes like candy.

I want him
But I can't have him.
I feel him
But can't touch him.
I need him
But can't see him.

I think
This is what you call
A crush.

I've got it bad.
But it feels so good.
I kind of like
This game we play.

I'm afraid to move on before you.
I'm afraid to move on after you.
I'm afraid he won't live up to my standards.
I'm afraid she'll surpass mine.
You're allowed to be happy.
But not too happy.
You're allowed to be successful
As long as I'm credited.
You're allowed to see other girls
If it makes you long for my company.
But you're not allowed to move on
Without me.

he was philosophical
the way any person is when they're high.

he wore black framed glasses
and talked too much;
which i kind of liked.
he said my name made me sound like a classy stripper.
i chose to take it as a compliment.

i didn't ask his age
though i wish i had.

he talked passionately about
aquatonics and molly.
he said he was starting up a business.

maybe i was flattered that he thought i was cute
or maybe he was generally interesting.
i'm not sure though.
all i can remember is the way the hookah tasted
as the music faded out.

Craving affection, I did what any girl would do.
I knew he wanted me
and I knew I would regret it
but I pushed past the guilt
and willed my thumbs to be bold
because my mouth would not.

                                                     * I'm bored. Want to make out?

He replied almost instantly
though not looking in my direction
where I sat not more than a foot away.
My phone buzzed.
One new text
Open.*

I convinced myself he would know it didn't mean anything.
So I kissed him in the poorly decorated guest bedroom.
I didn't like the way his mouth felt
or the way his hands passive aggressively caressed me.
He was surprised by my utilization of lip nibbling.
He said he could get used to it.
He closed the door.  

                                   "I'm not going to have *** with you."

He's terrible at pretending he's not phased by this.
I don't let him walk me to my car,
fearing he'll expect a goodnight kiss.
But that's not what this is.

Maybe he'll realize
I was longing for someone else's kiss.

I'm painfully aware of your eye contact.

Let's use the rain as an excuse
to stay indoors.

Give me the right words
so I don't say the wrong ones.

I haven't always been this shy.

This is for the boys that don't get poems written about them.
The ones with bad acne and figurine collections.
Because one day you'll outgrow your acne
and a girl will find you charming instead of awkward.
And she'll want you to kiss her but you'll be too nervous.
But she'll be nervous too.

He said: "Of all the chat sites in all the internet, she walked into the one I happen to use."
He was drunk when they first spoke.
But she was too enthralled by the fact that he thought she had good taste in music to notice.
It had taken her years to train her ears to appreciate the sound of a bass solo
and learn to distinguish the no name bands worth knowing, from those that were not.

She had an appreciation for clavicles
and wrote too many poems about what love was, wasn't, and should be.
She liked to pretend that she hated cliches, yet her favorite movie was chalk full of them.

She said: "I dig you."
She dug so many things about him.
He had so much worth digging.
His love of the ocean and all things aquatic.
His green-gray eyes.
His general lack of amusement with things of the romantic sort.

He was too sincere to ever use lols
and fancied himself most competitive cooking shows.
And though he'd never driven a car, he had been para-sailing.

She said: "You're my person."
He said" "Make the world your person."
So they continued on in their mutual amusement,
exchanging selfies, sweaters and songs.
They spoke a unique language consisting of
puns
snark
lyrics
and innuendo.

He was a boy with beautiful eyes
and an appreciation for colorful socks and generic tea.

A boy that played the drums and went to festivals.
The kind of festivals that left him longing for a proper shower
and his mother's pork belly stew.

He dyed his hair a fitting shade of black
And though he was underwhelmed by the idea of anything romantic
his use of smiley emoticons was enough to make up for it.

He taught me the importance of learning to appreciate cheap wine
and the power of using compliments sparingly.

He was the kind of boy that would be fun to spoon,
or so I assume
because I've never met him.

For a moment all I see is a broken little boy
that grew up without a dad.
I want to tell him it's not his fault.
I want to tell him
that dads are overrated.
We can share mine if you'd like.

But before I can slip behind the curtain
that keeps your true self hidden from the world
you put up caution tape
and say it's off limits.

As if I don't already know you're not the great and powerful Oz.
I don't care.
Because I'm not Dorthy.

I lie awake and picture
How I'd like my dreams to play out
When I'm swept up in the cover of sleep.
I forget my loneliness in this dimension.
I forget that I'm average
And that I have nothing to write
Under the sub heading for special skills on my resume.
In my dreams I am not perfect
But no one else knows that.
I'm almost convinced I'm larger than life
Until I wake up.

How do you mourn for someone who hasn’t died?
For someone that’s alive and well,
And worst of all – without you.
How do you let go of something
You swore to hold onto?
When you build someone up in your mind
It’s so hard to demolish what you’ve created.
I’ll pretend I don’t know who you are
The next time I see you around town.
I’ll pretend I’m not jealous
When I hear you’re with wife and child.
I’ll pretend I don’t hope you’re a wreck without me.
        And I’ll pretend I didn’t mourn.

I want to use somebody
Like an object.
Their lips
At my disposal.
Their words
At my command.
Their heart
As I so desire.
I want to use up their love
So I can replenish mine.

He was a quiet boy
obsessed with death.
Some said he was depressed.

And his smile.
his smile was worthwhile;
his smile was.

But the boy was not right.
His demons dressed in their Sunday's best
to keep from being caught.

He knew all the nice things people would say
at his funeral.
That he was smart,
inventive,
affectionate.

This poem is for that boy.
The boy that never got to hear all the wonderful things
people had to say
because he is dead.

I always wondered if love
is nothing more than holding onto what you've got
from fear that you won't find something better.
Just one big settlement.
Deal or no deal.

We carried on in our mutual settlement
weighing the pros and cons.
Trying to determine each other's worth.

When my pockets were empty
I decided it was time to make a return.
I could no longer afford all he had cost me.

I decipher your ever word
hoping to find some hidden message
entangled up inside;
That you miss me.

You were thinking of me.
That much I know.

I was thinking of you too
as I sifted through old photos
of us at your sister's wedding.
My favorite is the one of us kissing.

I'm scared I'll never forget you
but I'm more scared of being forgotten.

I don't like when you ignore me
like the rain that ignores my exceptional hair day.
Or the chill that ignores my goosebumps.

I don't like that you laugh at my jokes
for just a little bit longer than you should.
Like the one about the priest.
It wasn't that funny.

I don't like that  you didn't cry while watching the notebook.
Like the part at the end.
That was sad.

I don't like you.

Hello.
My name is Oshin.
I used to be somebody's girlfriend.
Now I am not.
But I am still Me I think.

"Hi Oshin."

He was the kind of boy that wore sweaters
and had a blog about music you've never heard of.

And he was cute
in a socially-acceptably-awkward kind of way.
The kind of way that was charming.

He had quick wit and clever quips.
And he stayed up until 5 A.M.

I was lying in bed all wrapped up in my favorite fuzzy red blanket remember fond memories of C and I. Sometimes as a lie within my red fuzzy cocoon of comfort I feel as if my bed is an extension of myself. It is hard to tell where I begin and it ends.
It’s tiring being so painfully aware of how single I am. I don’t want to be this girl I’m becoming. The girl that doesn’t exist unless she’s somebody’s girlfriend. I want to exist apart from someone.

My life is boring. There is nothing particularly interesting about me. I have no special talents or abilities. Exciting things don’t happen to me. I live in Florida in a city you’ve probably never heard of.
And this is my story.
Let’s fast forward for the time being to my junior year of high school. Heck, let’s skip right to my first kiss. Underwhelming romantic, it took place in a soundproof piano room in the school’s independent music study area.  I ditched some school ceremony to rendezvous with him. We both sat on the wooden bench in silence. I was aching for him to kiss me, but he was playing hard to get.
“I’m not going to kiss you unless you tell me you want me to.”
“Why are you doing this? You know I want you to.”
“But I want you to say it.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
And he did. It was awkward, but I didn’t realize at the time. I was too busy reveling in the moment. I’d made a bet with myself at the beginning of the year – that this year – my sixteenth pathetic year here on planet earth would be the one that I got my first kiss. I had succeeded. I was elated.

I know people
who have monsters in their head
instead of under the bed.

I know people that
spend their love
in order to buy time.

I know people
who use their daddy issues
as an excuse to hold on too tight.

Yeah, I know some people
and they're all a reflection
of me.

I am writing you this letter in the event that in the near future you find yourself regretting your decision to break up with C. I got the idea from How I Met Your Mother so bear with me.

He was a great guy but you needed to let him go so he could figure himself out and what he wants out of life. Likewise you needed to let him go so you could figure yourself out and what you wanted out of life. As much as you wanted to you couldn’t do this while you two were together and that’s no one’s fault.

You’re both so young and need time to experience things that you wouldn’t have been able to otherwise. Everything happens for a reason and you must remember that when God says no to one thing it’s because he has something even better in store.

It’s okay to remember the good times and even the bad if it helps you cope, but don’t regret. He was your first love and you were his. Revel in that and know that is something great. He was your first in so many ways and the thought of him having a second or third may hurt but a time will come when you’ll love again too. Don’t doubt God’s plan. Don’t doubt your decision. When you feel lonely just remember the words tattooed on your skin: “still growing into my wings, but one day I’ll fly.” Rest assured in that truth.

You and C were the sun and the moon. It worked for a while but you were doing more damage than good by staying together. You had two different definitions of worthwhile experiences. You should never be with someone that makes you feel less than. You shouldn’t have to compete against the one you love. Love isn’t a competition. It’s sacrifice. It’s doing instead of just saying.

Don’t be bitter or angry towards him. He loved you as much as he could at this point in time. Don’t put your life on pause for him, but you also shouldn’t rush into things out of spite. Don’t do anything stupid that could have a lasting impact because you think it will take your mind off the pain. It may work for a moment, but you can only outrun reality for so long.

Maybe one day when you’ve both matured and lived a lifetime apart something magical will happen and it will be that much better because the time you spent apart. Maybe you’ll never see him again. Either way be happy that whatever happened was for the best. Now stop feeling sorry for yourself and go do something productive.

I think I like writing because it’s another distraction from those feelings I try so hard to outrun. For a short while I have a purpose and I can feel as though someone is listening to me. Someone can hear me. But of course I’m just talking to myself really. That’s all this is. Me trying to comfort myself. And the thought of that saddens me more than I could have anticipated.
My life is an indie drama that no one’s ever watched. It collects dust on the bottom of the shelf along with the other VHS tapes that are no longer of use to the video store… by this point I’m sure you’re beginning to grasp what kind of mood I’m in. Introspective. Deeper in thought than I’d care to be.
As I now will myself not to cry I have the urge to walk down the hall, through the kitchen to my dad’s room and wake him up just so I can have him hold me for a few moments. So I can remember what it’s like to be comforted by someone other than myself. Someone that hardly has the choice to love me. Would he hold me? Let me cry briefly perhaps? Or would he turn me away before I plead my case? This could seem like a cruel response, but I too have been cruel so maybe it would be my karma.
I know it’s hard for him to see me in a fritz. It makes him feel uncomfortable. Something he can’t fix. I just want him to be my dad for two minutes. Then I could shuffle back to my bedroom, slip into bed and drift in and out of sleep. I don’t know when my dad and I became so afraid of each other. Our relationship is now that of two roommates that don’t really care for the others company. It’s as if I woke up one day and realized I was homeless, yet ironically living in the home of my father. The separation we’ve built up between each other serves as an emotional wall so we can’t hurt each other. Those are two things we’ve both become experts on – hurting each other and building walls.
It’s strange the way all these feelings well up inside me all of the sudden. I was able to keep them at bay all day, keeping busy at work. In fact I had a great day – even making a decent amount in tips. I keep torturing myself. This self-mutilation only seems to worsen.

I forgot how to whistle
somewhere in between
my growing love for you
and the escalating hatred
I had for myself.
I was a chicken drumstick
that had been picked apart
until no meat remained.
Even the marrow
had been ****** out.

Everything was empty
and flat
when he left.
I collapsed into myself
as the dimensions
of my heart shriveled
up into the ash
that would one day
consume my entire body.

I remember the exact moment it happened.
The moment when I realized
This thing we had
Was SOMETHING.
I remember the way
You glanced down at your shoes
And professes your love
With a glance.
And then I was yours.
Now here we are.

Love
Is an active choice.
Not
A passive fall.

The voices in my head
Silence the words
That come from my mouth.
I want to be heard
But my volume
Is mute.

The girl had climbed so high
that she feared the damage
the fall would cause.
So she stopped climbing
and started to slide back down.
By the time her feet touched the ground
her ladder holder was gone.

                                                 Her fear had left a sour taste
                                                  in her mouth.
                                                 The milk she suckled
                                                 was no longer sweet.
                                                 So she spit it out
                                                 and stopped nuzzling against the warmth of the breast.