"Why is this **** man single?"

Why indeed?
He's tall and lean, nice but never mean.
He rolls in dirt yet always seems clean
to me.

Why indeed?
With soft arms that should hold
Only a girl who is beautiful and bold
like me.

So Why indeed?
Hasn't he let me
Tell him how good he looks
in his recessive jeans?

Why indeed?
Isn't he
with me?

Roses are Red
Violets are blue-





I got nothin'.

You make my skin crawl
In a neutral way.

You make me leave the room
Then wish I had stayed.

I think ill of you
Half off the day.

Yet I cling to every harsh
word that you say.

With you I'm either weak
or a raging *****.

Even though you're the one
with a tiny ****.

Crossing paths with you
lights my mind on fire.

Yet your not someone I've come
to love or admire.

Your an imperialistic
**** worshiping ****.

So someone please explain why
I feel like the schmuck.

"How can you offer me love like that?

                  I'm exhausted

                                                                            Leave me alone."

I have food and shelter.
I have people to love
and be loved by.

But this love is expected
and casual and quaint.
One would assume there is no room for complaint.

I am surrounded by friends.
Their love is kind and serene.
Yet no one acknowledges the space in between.

While they are all close,
No one comes closer.
No one would dare lay their head on my shoulder.

The ones who do always have to leave.
I'm left with empty arms and a lonely spot to grieve.

Average girls get balloons and sweets.
They never ask, yet still receive.
Why can't those things be done for me?

I am tired of desire.
Of wanting to be wanted.
It's as if because I am strong, my emotions are forgotten.

Touch.
It's as simple as that.
A pet on my hair or a pat on the back.

This could cure my ailment.
Make me less alone.
I can no longer survive with chats on the phone.

So please,
Good friend of mine.
Hold my hand as I shutter and cry.

The simplest gesture,
one miniscule touch.
Even if you don't realize that it means so much.

I am wasted on the idea of affection.

Of it I drink daily.
I sip and I sip
until my swollen heart aches in its lonely abiss

Many wonder why I weep so often.
But you could never know the pain of a hangover with a soul as drunk as mine.

You might not ever know what I think of you
You might not ever love me.
I might not ever be able to hold your skeletal hands
I might not ever be able to call those boney shoulders mine.
This might be another failed and broken cycle.
This might be like every other crush I've had.
I might not ever show my true self to you.
You might not ever like it when I do.
I might have wasted a month of my time.
And you might not ever care.

We walked in and you were groggy
Laying in bed.
I wanted nothing more than to lay with you.
But instead I sat on the floor, pretending to admire the ceiling.

How ironic that you were wearing my favorite shirt of yours
White with blue and orange stripes.
It's the only thing about that evening that went as I had planned.
And even that was short lived.

Hayden felt at home and I felt alone.
Mike was somewhere in between.
I couldn't tell if you were surprised that I was in your room.
Maybe you were too tired to think.

But I wasn't.
So I sat there, next to the poster of Fergie
Pretending to admire the ceiling
Wondering if you'd let me clean the cobwebs in the corner.

It was a beautiful ceiling
Intricate and gold.
I couldn't imagine your room being any other way.
Fergie's *** was rubbing it in my face.

I followed everyone downstairs
they were waiting for a movie
but I was waiting for you.
I was afraid you had gone back to bed

You changed your shirt but didn't bother to fix your hair.
I like white button-ups
but not as much as the stripes.
You have very boney knees but I don't mind.

I wished I could say something clever like I  normally do.
But I just can't when I'm around you.
My thoughts were wasted or already used by someone else.
That was humiliating.

You wanted to drive with us to my house.
But you didn't bother put shoes on.
We held eye contact and it looked like you forgot how to smile.
That was the highlight of my evening.

"This house is beautiful"
was the first thing I said.
Hayden said something like "It's old as hell"
And you both went on to joke about the ghosts that built it.

It takes every fiber of my being not to message you.
I want nothing more than to recieve

Something simple
Something sweet
Something I can devour and eat

That little green light that tells me you're there
makes me want to rip out my insides
and cut off my hair.

And just like that you're gone.
Not a message or beep.
Not a like on my status
or theoretical tweet.

You don't comment or post
You don't now how close
I am to losing my mind
over this boy
who's too skinny and uses chap-stick all of the time.

Just like that you're gone.
And I'm singing the same **** song
About the tall cynical boy
Who keeps me up all night long.

I hope the day comes when I can tell you

That I want to be the one that makes your hands stop shaking

Or your lips stop cracking

I want to tell you how good you look in your recessive genes.

******.

I was sure not to lead you on.
I know we hit it off
I know we get along.

We've been texting all week
And I am honored that you think
I'm beautiful.

I can't wait till D & D
The invitation means a lot to me.
So strange that you'll be down the street.

I want our friendship to grow
Do I want to date you?
I don't know.

Just don't send me heart texts.
Don't wish I was there.
Breaking another heart is my only fear.

"But you like him-"
"-That's what you said!"
Before I flushed the hormones out of my head.

I don't want this to happen.
Not again.
Don't make your affection something to regret.

Because I could never tell you I like your best friend.

Why is it you?
Of all people to have the ability to ruin me
why is it you? Bryan?

You're awkward and too tall
on top unmitigated gall
you're plain rude.

So why do I want you?
Bryan?

In my mind there's a collection
of every time you've shown affection
and

The slightest inclination
only heightens my determination
to trip you.

I want you to fall hard
for me. Bryan.

With every facebooked text
it's been my only request
for the whole year.

Did you notice?
Bryan?

When the smallest appreciation
left my pupils dilated
it's so degrading

When my faith in you is fading
more praise is awaiting
I am stuck in this net.

What's so unfair
is that you're not even aware
of what you do to me.

If I told you, would you love me?
Bryan?

Is something that I can't do to you.

I pride myself on having excellent self-control.
When it comes to drugs and alcohol
I simply don't do drugs
and feel most comfortable drinking with my parents.

This doesn't make me a *****.
It just makes me self-aware.

In fact, I pride myself on being self-aware.
When It comes to emotions and ***
I identify my emotions
And I don't let my hormones pressure me into anything.

But that's just it.
How long can I keep that up?
My resolve is bending.
It's far from breaking, but I'm doubting my ability to hold it strong.

Like I said, your hand is literally burning into my side.
And I love it.
But I don't love you.

I can tell my options are multiplying and
the attention I get is expanding and
I am terrified of making the wrong choices.

I pride myself on self-control and awareness
but they just make me more ignorant.
I know what's going through my head
but I don't know what's going on with my body.

For now, I'll put you all in a box and observe you.
It's not because I don't want to be close to you,
It's because I literally have not ******* I idea what to do.
Literally no clue.

So I'll just wait to see who brings me Dahlias first.

I can still feel your arm around my waist.
Your hand above my hip
unconsciously tugging me closer.

I can still feel my hand on Ryan's shoulder.
He said it didn't make him uncomfortable
which is a rare thing.

I feel your hand tugging again.

I don't know what to do.
When I look at you I don't feel anything.
But when you touched me that was entirely different.

It just about pushed me over the edge.

Am I conceded if I suddenly love myself?

Am I conceded if think I'm beautiful?
Because I do.

I think I'm smart and witty and
so ******* wise.

I'm even starting to like my hair.


Does that make me conceded?

How dare you tell me to give up.
That this dream will not come true.

I love him because I choose to
and I possess enough determination
for me to obtain what I have been searching for
in one form or another.

Do not place your disappointment on my shoulders in the form of a warning.

I do not need a warning.
I have learned plenty of times from past experiences that my dream is unrealistic and rare
but It is still my dream

And this search will not end in heart ache
It will end when I choose it to.

Do not subject me to your disappointment
in the form of a warning.

I am warning  you.

"Let's rob a ******' bank."
we agreed.
"Let's rob a ******' bank!"
indeed.

You know that's against my rules
But the thought of doing it with you makes it acceptable.

**** these feelings.
**** that dream.

We didn't rob a ******* bank
but we danced
and you whispered
and I shivered
then woke up.

The brush of lips replay in my head
over
and over
and over
again.

Why do I fall for my friends?
I fall so hard yet in the end
I get nothing in return
but the weight of gravity
and the floor of reality
showing it was all pretend.

I know there's nothing wrong with me.
You just don't feel that way.
... maybe you do-
Maybe I'm just not cool
enough.

But I'd rob a bank with you.

God stabbed me through the heart with an arrow.

You were that arrow.

I didn't even notice when you pulled yourself out of my chest.

But now I'm left with nothing but a hole.

I prevent infection with pictures and memories



but the antidote is something much more potent.

I've known you for five years.
We were best friends for four.
You were older by fifteen years.
But even at thirteen I loved you more
than any man I've ever met.
And I still do.
And I know that with each still birth your heart broke off another piece.
And I am sorry.

But that doesn't mean that I don't think about you every day.
And wish that eventually you will come out and say
I love you.

Because I will never stop loving you too.
Even if you never told me your last name.

I have the unfortunate belief that
my self-worth lies in the quality of my hair.
It may sound ridiculous, but it's true.

Go ahead, touch my hair.
I feed off of your fascination
-though I remain engaged only as long as you do-
my tolerance for my hair is equivalent to its length.

I once had someone tell me
"I like your hair better straight"
And that was when fifth grade ruined me.

I thought by changing they would accept me.
And Daniel would like me like he liked Taylor
and all of my likes would be returned and
Eddie would choose me because we were best friends
and I had the fortune of being beautiful
but I wasn't allowed to be beautiful to him because
I have this hair.

People wonder why I spend hours with an iron.
But when you're so different that
boys won't like you because your hair is curly
and you teeth are crooked you have no choice but to
change the things that are in your power.

I could never make myself fully white
But I sure as hell can straighten my hair
and let Mamaw buy me braces.
They can call you giraffe neck still,
but at least your hair is straight like everyone else.

Yes, you like to touch it and it's "neat" and it's "soft"
But why on earth should that matter to me?
People respect my hair because it is mine.
But he will not love it unless it is like hers-
wind-caught silk that hangs to her waist.

I weep for my hair.
I weep for my hair.

You do not understand how different it is.
You do not understand how hard it is
to stick out like a sore thumb because your
genetics were oppressed for 500 years.

I am ugly
Because of my hair.
No number of people telling me of its beauty will matter
because I cannot see it.

He cannot see it either.

I don't know what I'm doing.

I think that I'm clinging to the hope
that when this all ends

I won't be alone anymore.

I had a dream
that you tried to **** me with a hammer.



I guess this means you don't love me.

When I read your poems
I want nothing more than to be close to you.
Intimately, not Romantically.
I want to sit next to you
and take your hands
I want to look at the scars and wonder.
Wonder why you do those things to yourself
why it's so hard to talk to you
Wonder why you chose to be my friend.

I want to take your hands in mine
and kiss your palms
and look into your eyes with a reassuring smile
that tells you everything's going to be okay.
But I can't.

I can't because you terrify me.
You terrify us all.
You're handsome and unknown.
You terrify us because we know nothing about you
accept for the scars.
I want to kiss and hold those scars.

I want to not be afraid anymore.

I have a strong dislike for you.

At first it was fine.
You tried to cater and be kind.
Make me feel like your home was mine.
But now I must express why I hate you
half of the time.

You became clingy-
and it went downhill from there.

Death
On 9/11

Unhealthy food
In Seven-Eleven

Instagram-
"No thank you ma'am."

Television, news-
is society's bruise

Makes me wanna
drink** *****

Because

Probody's Nerfect.

Beloved Girl,
I need to be grateful for you.

I need to be grateful for all of the things you've done-
To make me feel better
To give me food and comfort
To tell me stories and answer my questions
To be there even when I didn't want you to be

I need to be grateful for you. And I need to apologize.

I need to apologize-
For when I snapped at you
For when I got my chair instead of getting your food
For when I became angry because they liked you too
Because I was afraid that they wouldn't like me anymore.

You are a star. A beautiful star that can drive me absolutely nuts because you just want us to see it.

But I do now.

I need to be grateful and I need to apologize
And I would like to thank you

Thank you for inspiring me.

Thank you for being a relentlessly good friend.

Thank you for sticking around until I found my gratitude.

Poetry is hard.

Not because of writer's block
or the fear of judgemental readers

Not because you can't decide whether or not to rhyme
or you check your profile all the time.

Poetry is hard because of the knowledge you gain.
The dark secrets of people's lives are so
so
so

sad.

Girls that I know in person to be sweet and wonderful
suffer from demons that I couldn't dream of.
Boys that seem to breathe nothing but affection
tell of abusing the worst of substances and the best of women.

Poetry is dark and scary and makes my problems seem so
so
so

insignificant.

When I see your face at school, I know how sad you are inside.
And it's not fair.

It's not fair because I can not help you
I cannot help you
and I feel like a terrible friend.
I am already selfish and would like nothing more than to say "Just get over it" and for it to work but I can't because those are your problems.

Not mine.

I won't tell anyone your secret

Poetry is so
so
so

hard.

The thought comes almost everyday.
In English.
She sits beside me or near me or far.
And I begin to daze upon how it should be.

If only I had my dress.
If I had my dress you would see not my sarcasm,
But the lean meat that I am privileged to call my flesh.

If I had my dress you would not be intimidated by my skin
But left in awe by it's glow

If I had my dress you would not be able to fear my height
But embrace the perfect and soft curves as you look upon me.

If I had my dress you would no longer hear her shrill siren call over my deafening beauty.

Pretty speaks volumes,
But what does untouchable say?

Absolutely nothing right now.

This has happened before.
And it will happen again.

This stage.
My most and least favorite stage
where I sit and think of you all day.

It's exciting.
And ever so self-destructive.
It's where I'm the most vulnerable,
and the most motivated.

The thought of seeing you
propels me through the day.
But I'm left disappointed
when you won't look my way.

It's like a self-proclaimed waiting room
inside my fantasizing head.
It's where I wait to see if you'll fix me.
I've been diagnosed with loneliness.

Is this fair? No.
But I do this to myself.
At least I don't focus
on possessions or wealth.

It's the cycle that I spoke of.
In that other poem.
Where I daydream of a boy
yet I barely know him.

When things don't work out
I am destroyed and relieved
I will never have him
And the cycle repeats.



This has happened before.
And it will happen again.
Where I sit in the waiting room
inside my head.

I am enough.

It's not a boy- so let me stop you there.
It isn't drugs either.

Everyone has an addiction.
Whether you like to admit it, it's there.

For some, it's a substance.
A-
grindable, smokeable, snortable
-substance.

For others it's an action.
A-
keep me busy, cleaning, eating, touching
-action.

For me, it's a cycle.
A-
god just look at him looking at me I want to be pursued what if he would touch me please come over me and touch me before I explode and my friend has to pick up the hot pieces I want to express this but I can't because I'm calm collective and sophisticated and mature and no one but Jackson Chesley Fenna Sarah Fish Alicia and Plum can know how desperately lonely I am I want to be with you oh my god you don't love me what's wrong with you what's wrong with me I can't believe that I waisted all of this energy on you I am so much better than that because I am calm, collective, and sophisticated
-cycle


Repeat.

If I responded with "I'm doing good."
You'd say "You're doing well."

If I said "Oh! The king from Thor was-"
You'd say "Odin. His name is Odin."

If I asked "What did you think of the movie?
You'd say "It was terrible. The dialogue was atrocious, the plot was  sloppy, the actors were bellow par and I hated the fact that they both survived"

If I told you "I love you."
You'd say "I know"

You're just so Vulcan...
But I've always liked Vulcans.

Do you dare to break a window?
Oh angry girl.
Your accidental outburst puts us all to shame.

What did they do to you to make you like this?
Is it really my business?
You made it so when you broke that **** window.

You kicked it. With brute force and intent.
What was the window supposed to do?
(Surely not break)
Well it did-

I pray that your regrets last until the next decision;
when another insect crosses your path.
Perhaps then you would choose a wiser action?

Oh angry girl, I will never know what angry thoughts you hide.
"It was an accident, not out of malice," Gail defended.
"How can you kick out a bus window without malice?"
The woman on the other end replied.

I don't love you, not one bit.
But I do love it.

It.
The feeling of you creeping up my side
I'll dismiss you no matter how hard you try
To convince me that you've got nothing to hide.
That feeling of worthiness that only you can provide.
I need it.

Touch me. I dare you.
I love it.

I didn't buy this perfume for you.
But smelling me is the least you could do.
Smell me. All over. You know you want to.
It will make them so jealous; because they all want you.
They want it too.

I know I'm selfish, and I'm so sorry.
I think I'm addicted to you.

They all tell me wonderful things.

You're too beautiful.
You're too intimidating.
You're too smart.
You're too good for them.

It's not that I don't believe them,
   it's just that:

I'm too ******* lonely.

You all complain.
But as my days in this house are numbered,
as the oaks begin to catch sunlight as if it were just for me,
I see now, more than ever before, that this is the most beautiful place.

I know by now you must be bored, but you don't see what I see.
I see the green and the green and the green again.
That bright green that only the god I half-heatedly believe in could have created.

I feel the sun that I've longed for in the rain that we so desperately need.
It's here now. It's here to tempt my inevitable return once I leave.
It's these trees I want. These oaks are the only ones that can please me.

I hear the crow of my boy, he's challenging me.
But I don't have the heart to tell him that our days are numbered.
My days in this house are numbered. And it's killing me.

I love this Valley. It's the only place I need.
It's here to tempt my inevitable return once I leave.

I see who you say you are, and I hear of the things you do.
I am above it, and my self-awareness never clouds my view.
But your outer shell is so innocent, like a gentle morning dew.
The girls begin to salivate when they speak of "you know who."

What was the meaning behind that message? God I wish I knew.
You should have made your intentions clear before you bid me adieu.
Your then brief words now stick to me, like a sickly residue.
You're a dangerous one who could devour me and I'd prefer a safer brew.

I'd like to think you could change- but we both know this isn't true.
So I'll just think of that dream and that oh-so soft, sweet taboo.
I don't know who you write about or what she does for you,
but I'll never admit that I'm the one who I want you to pursue.

I wish you'd stay and keep me company
where do you go?

I think I want you to come closer
but I'm the only one who's allowed to devour.

I could say that I want your hands all over me
but you smell like cigarettes.

I live for the wink, the recognition
but I can't believe it's real.

This isn't love or infatuation.
I'm simply lonely.
And I need someone to test my resolve.

There are so many. So many boys.

I like to hear the smart ones.
Who can cut a pi in half and use proper diction.
That's ****.

I like to see the handsome ones.
Who have impeccable shoulder blades and those sultry eyes.
That's ****.

I like to talk to the funny ones.
Who are fountains of wit yet still laugh at my jokes.
That's ****

They all like to see, hear, and talk to me.
They just don't know it yet.
I'm ****.

There are so many. So many boys.

I don't think you understand your actions.
No one has ever told me they loved me to my face.
Not like that.
Not someone like you.

And the worst part is: I can't even enjoy it.
That's not the love I wanted.
I can get that at home.

No, I don't want her to come with us.
Yes, I feel guilty about you buying me things.
No, I don't want you to drive me home;
It's a half hour in the other direction.  

There is nothing I can dislike about you.
And that makes it so much worse.

You're a part of the culture.
A culture of oppression, and profiles.

You're lost because you know this,
and you're one of the exiles.

But you are wrong.
I tell you, yet you remain in denial.

Only you can save you,
from becoming a hopeless juvenile.