I need a remedy for my dependency.
It's killing me slowly.

indulge me for a moment and pretend I'm interesting.

I wish I was a dimmer switch so I could fade in and out.
So the transition through my spectrum of emotions was smoother.
So I wasn't so "on" or "off".

No one wants all darkness;
and the light always seems too harsh when it's bedtime.

Turn me until I'm right where you want me.
Until I'm perfect.

victimize
with those eyes.
the ones I saw staring back at me.


                                           you transform my distress
into your guilt.
I'm not a scapegoat
for the way you feel towards yourself.

                                                you're blamelessness
                                                reminds me of my shamefulness.

i'm convicted of crimes against humanity
convicted of crying over you and me.

                        you saw it didn't you?
                        that I couldn't make eye-contact with you.
                        because i'm no good.
                        but good at being bad.

disappointed in me,
myself -
because my best never seems to make it into your realm of goodness.
hiding
bleeding gums from when your words are pointed at me
i'm still finding the tiny glass shards you kept beneath the sheets.

I'm too busy looking for people to be lonely with,
To enjoy my own company.
I'm ******* thrilling,
And if you don't agree then perhaps you're not stimulating enough for me.

My prince
My liege
My ephemeral love.

I wrote this happy poem for you
So you can sleep.

I can tell when I'm trying to hard to sound like what I feel a writer should.

There
Is
A
Purpose
Behind
This
Pain.

I promise you.

You like me more when you're asleep.
I seem prettier through your closed eyelids.
My voice is more sing-songier over your snores.
My touch feels electric.
I'm as real as you want me to be.
I exist as long as you're sleeping.

Tell me all your fantasies
And I'll make them come true.
Tell me what you want
And I'll do it for you.

I'm not as fragile as I look.

I don't feel like I'm slipping through the center of the earth.
The molten core won't char my shoes
And singe my hair.

No more quicksand paved roads
******* me in like a hungry mouth with no teeth.

Hydroplaning is a thing of the past,
Because it's not raining on my parade anymore.

We’ll grow up and forget the ways we used to be.
What it was like to be a child altogether.
We’ll forget that we kissed with our eyes open because no one had ever told us not to.

maybe I misheard.
happiness is(n't) a fluke.

It’s a common saying that time heals all wounds;
but some scabs we can’t help but to pick at.
I didn’t want this wound to heal.
At least not fully.

If it healed then the scab would thin and the scar would fade
and then I’d forget.
As painful as it was to remember at times,
I didn’t want to forget.

I wanted to remember every moment in vivid detail.
I didn’t want to forget or be forgotten.
Even if we never saw each other again,
I convinced myself that I could manage living the rest of my life
in restless contentment if I knew
he’d remember.

people
are
the
greatest
cause
of
loneliness
because
we're
all
too
busy
keeping
ourselves
company.

He didn't see me.
I only existed when I was naked.
Life resumes full speed when I get dressed.
But I wanted it to stop just long enough for him to see me.
Really see me.

Now I'm cursed with longing.
Longing for validation.
Longing for someone to confirm that I exist.

If I don't get the acknowledgement,
maybe I'll disappear.
Maybe I was never here...

and that terrifies me.

our perfect little bubble has popped
to make room for other people
and adult responsibility
and I feel the impact of open space.
im not used to air that doesn't belong to you.

im alone
I extend my limbs in all directions
waiting for something to catch
a preoccupied lover
a friend at work unable to lend an ear
a friend that's not a friend is choosing someone to bed instead.
he is coping,
the way I used to
in a way that would hurt more than me in the long run.

and there it is, right where I left it -
i s o l a t i o n      
---
and the worst bit is
it's me I have to keep my own company.

Maybe I'm too willing
To share the intimate details of my life.

Maybe I'm too willing
To be the right person
for all the wrong reasons.

Maybe I use my dad as an excuse
to hold on too tight.

tell me something I don't know.
like how the wind chooses which way it wants to blow.
or why pain can distract us from our hurts.

tell me something new.
about the parts of the ocean that have yet to be explored.
and the time it takes to get over a person that got over you.

don't waste my time with common rhymes.
tell me what made you so blue.

Sleep soundly
And dream of our legs tangling
Together beneath the sheets.

I'll snuggle closer to my pillow
And inhale your smell on the sweater you left behind.

You're my only source of warmth.

When I speak
I lacerate my mouth
and it fills up with blood.
Staining my lips
the same shade of red
as my chipped fingernail polish.

I find refuge in words.
They can hide or reveal.
Encourage or suppress.
Begin or end.
But when spoken out loud
words change from butter knives
to daggers.

Ouch.


Ouch.


*O u c h.

Fragile finger tips
That dip into you.
Dewy eyes because he's sleep deprived.

Filled with helium,
He floats up to the ceiling when he laughs - with a sharp exhale through the nose.
Easily deflated,
But not replaced.

Boy, oh boy
What I would give
To gingerly caress
That bearded face.
That face of a boy,
Hidden behind hair and glass and  others' expectations.

He is the end of a candle wick,
Unexpected and satisfying
He escapes in a spiral of smoke.
But I know his presence
by his smell.
(And cling to it when he vanishes.)
It clings to your clothes.
I inhale until my nostrils chaffe.
Linger and let linger.

It's light for him to be
And heavy when he is not.
But he is just a boy staying up past his bedtime.
A boy to whom my servitude belongs.
A boy in the shoes of the man he is becoming.

A boy in the midst of a growth spurt,
I kid you not

She fell into a happy medium between feeling and not where she could experience emotions without being whisked away by them into a dimention with no doors or windows.
Content with the mildness of an average day.
Very nearly satisfied.

She mirrored the images that were projected onto the screen in front of her.
Her waxy smile smearing as the heat pressed down on her.
Her drug of choice was love and she always paid the price.

Casually,
Eventually
Carelessly.
Especially
Subconsciously.
I
Don't
Want
To
Be.
Words spoken to me
That bare no weight
Are harmfully
Empty.

I don't know how to deal with things.
When I don't know how to deal with things, I write.
I write about the way I wish things could be,
the way I wish things were.

It's like I'm on auto-pilot,
watching as a series of events unfolds
with no real control over how they happen.
Or when.

And why?
Maybe Karma.
Maybe bad luck.
Maybe no real reason at all.

Maybe I don't matter so someone else can.

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

We're not what we were.
But I don't care about how we used to be,
I just want the us that we are now to make me happy.

We could harp on the past
And fake older versions of ourselves.
Or we can keep being our current selves
And hope for a future where we won't be plagued with doubt.

Cause rough is the life at sea,
But far better to bear the waves
Than to give into misery.

The distance is spreading wider.
Remember the days when you liked her,
Liked me.
When we got along.
When we didn't need to be alone
To cope with being apart.

Every memory
is a painting in the gallery of my mind.

Will you be my curator?

Wake me up with your mouth
To put me to sleep with your fingers.
The tickle of your hair
The warmth of your breath
And I'm very nearly dead.

There's no way to talk about fate without sounding pretentious, but I will try.
You were exactly what I needed precisely when I needed it.
I needed you to be far away so I could nourish my independence and learn how to love something without touching it. Because no one taught me you don't have to touch everything you hold dearly. Sometimes the things we love have to remain under glass cases.
And sometimes to touch something is to hurt it.
I needed you to not need me as much as I needed you.
I needed you to ignore my advances.
I needed you to be snarky.
I needed you to have brown hair and eyes the size of saucers.
I needed you to have an affinity for otters
So you could tell me that thing about how they hold hands so they don't drift apart.

I don't know how to end this poem, but I will try.
It was you in the red sweater with the white birds.
It was your neutral expression.
It was that you were up late and willing to chat.
These are the things that made you the exception.

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.

I'm not this perfect entity untouched by anyone.

I'm just a girl who has touched too many people
And not enough hearts.

I'm too available.
So I'll party to pass the time.
Dance once I've had enough wine.
An exchange of words
In passing.
May I have your attention please!
Undevided.
You're sliced up
And diced.
First come, first served.
And the fans want an encore.
How could you say no?
Nor would you know that I've been waiting all night for the twenty minutes when everyone else ceases to exist.

*Maybe tomorrow then.

Anyone can write a poem
About the kind of love
That only happens
In romantic comedies.
But a real poet
Writes about what happens
After you've fallen.

I like the idea of being a people person
until I think about what that truly means.
Then I just go back to being anti social
because it's easy
and people subconsciously like people that don't like them back.

We agree on many things:
cats
scott pilgrim vs. the world
pizza
playlists
red wine

But on one thing we disagree:
I still love you despite our different tastes in cheese.

your eyes
plus my eyes.

that's why.

if nothing else,
curiosity.
curiosity about what our math equations equal.

but let's wait until we're old.
and by old I mean 25.

Ghosts of arguments passed.
The harsh echo of words that linger
In the coldest corners of your mind.

Foggy apparitions that slither through your body without permission,
Like the way a hurt can enter and never leave fully.

Acidic taste of ***** spouting,
Burning through good memories.
Now they're tainted with chunks of food you've forgotten you ate.

And all that's left
Is shoulders hunched forward,
Back and neck stiffened
As you brace yourself for the pain.

I'm getting okay with who I am
What I am
How I am.
I'm okay with it all
At least for today.

And I reread your poem,
The one about me.
And Emma blew my mind
(Figuratively)
She said:
"It's the same emotion
Whether you're a teenager or an adult.
It just intensifies
But it's still love."

So I wrote it down
So I wouldn't forget.

It was hard to be happy.
Harder to stay happy.
Too much work.
Easier to be sad.
Or miserable.
So I was.
I committed to it.
Stopped pursuing happiness
Even though the constitution says I have a right to it.

I grew to enjoy my misery.
Convinced myself it was what I wanted.
Got used to being alone.
Numbed myself to bliss.

And then you.
Not even anesthesia could numb me after you.

restless
brooding
desperate
moody:

all wrapped together in a 5,2" package.

We love each other differently
But that's not a bad thing.

We stay up late
Reaffirming our affections.
We go to sleep
And dream of a future where we aren't sectioned off by the sea in between.

This night and all those that follow
I'll grow to love you more and more.

I could almost pretend it never happened.
That I'd never lost the sensations I felt now like refreshers
Making my limbs tingle
as if I were a  carbonated beverage.

It's unravelling:
The ball of yarn in my hands.
It's fraying
As I drag it through the mulch.

But I need it
To find my way home.

She was never apologetic about the fact that she kissed him like she hated him.
As if by some strange spell her kisses were slowly poisoning him from the inside out
And then one day he would pass away and no one would be the wiser.

And just as she imagined her kisses had the power to ****, they also had the power to bring to life; but she was less fond of that feature.
She didn't want to fix things.
She preferred to break them because so many other people spent their whole lives fixing.
Destruction was something of a natural instinct to her.
To anyone really, but especially her.
She didn't need to be taught how to break things.
And there was far less competition in this category.

So she kept on kissing, and one by one the boys dropped dead. Always boys, never men.
Because they shrank to a shell of their former selves when they kissed her.
They hollowed out so that the wind howled through them, echoing against frailing bones.
All their insides drying up with every dart of her tongue, which she weilded like a sword.

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.