You caught me by the shoelace
and tethered me to your side
but I was born to float away
and be destroyed by the sun.

They say that you're too inept,
too immature,
too young to know better.

Don't listen to them;
you're exactly the shade of green that I was looking for.

I'm the crumpled soda can you used to kick around when you were a kid;

I'm the shot glass you emptied into the pit of your teen angst;

I'm the wine bottle that's going to shatter over your skull and **** us both.

there were soggy, downtrodden cigarette butts
on the stairs leading to her apartment
where fresh ashes smoldered--
the remnants of her newly-cremated self.

No one told me that the taste of defeat
isn't bitter
or sour
or acidic,
but embarrassingly cloying.

The water was murky
with ashen clouds
and my thoughts were overcast
with fears of nakedness.

Once when I was at an age at which I was
embarrassingly old enough to have known better,
I feigned "coolness"
by taking drags out of the end of my pen
like it was one of those foreign, long, skinny black cigarettes
that was all the rage in some exotic country like Italy.

But I ****** too hard,
and instead of sampling a taste of ink-flavored air,
I dove headfirst into the real thing--

which is to say,
that I tried not to laugh for the next few days
lest anyone catch a glimpse of my ink-stained tongue
and think that my love for calamari
was anything other than platonic.

I'd like to work up the courage to ask you
if it is a cultural thing
to dress like a plushy carrot
that I'd like to passionately julienne
and sprinkle on my bed sheets.

Sometimes I forget that I'm the owner of my body
and I'm not just housesitting until the person whose home it really is gets back from vacation.

Thankfully whoever lives here always leaves me a roster that includes a list of the people in her life
so I don't embarrass her with my social ignorance.

Yesterday, she left me with the person she had labeled as "boyfriend" in her reference contact list.
And even though I didn't recognize him as mine,
when I stole glances for intel purposes,
I felt this surge of emotion
like she had left the electricity running in the room she dedicated to him.

I'm hesitant to tell you that I love you,
because the last time I left my heart on someone's doorstep,
she left it out in the rain.

So pardon me for finally nursing it from its two year bout of pneumonia.

Because even though there are shots that prevent cooties,
I'm sorry to say that modern medicine has yet to find the cure for heartbreak.

If fathers teach their sons the art of shaving,
shouldn't mothers teach their daughters the intricacy of doing and undoing bras?

Unfortunately, this world isn't a utopia for gender role demos,
so I'd appreciate it if you didn't laugh at me
while I fumble to get you *******.

I wish that I had gotten an extended warranty on my body.

Who will I turn to now
when it falls apart at the seams?

Maybe if I hadn't tossed out the how-to manual...

...though I have a sneaking suspicion that it was blank,
and wasn't worth the paper it wasn't printed on, anyway.

I feel like my entire life has been about falling
(falling in love, falling to pieces, falling down stairs, etc.).

When you're teetering on something precarious, like air,
people tell you not to look down,
not to open your eyes.

But I've gone a step beyond just shutting my eyes.
I keep my hands fastened over them,
as an extra layer of protection,
because I'm afraid if my contrary nature gets the best of me
and the screws holding my hands in place loosen,
I'll give in and take a peek,
peering up instead of down,

But I won't see a suspect looming over the edge of the cliff that last saw me grounded.
And the only culprit for my plunge...
...will be me.

I asked, "Should I shave?"
You said that you didn't care.
I said, "I love you."

When you're falling,
the wind is like an accomplice
that will tell onlookers that you're only crying
because it's battering your eyes.

They say that it's in the journey
and not the destination,

but what's the difference
between gliding
or plummeting

when the end goal is the pavement just the same?

I think I'd like to pick pocket your heart,
though the jury's still out on whether or not I'm keeping the contents.

Because I'm only reaching in there to confirm that your feelings are still home,
that somewhere in that torso of yours, your heart serves as more than a ****** conduit.

But before I could even brush against you to distract you,
I saw the "For Rent" sign stapled to your chest.
And when I knocked on your rib cage to place an inquiry,
I saw the fine print that read:
"Tourniquet Not Included".

But didn't anyone tell you that if you dam up your emotions,
they'll leak out and poison your brain?
That's why they say love makes you do crazy things,
and I don't know if I can stick around until you're certifiable.

I'm afraid I'm your
origami imitant,
your paper tiger.

Last weekend,
one of your friends called me your manic pixie dream girl.

So in the movie that is my life,
I'm not even the main character,
just the quirky sidekick to my male protagonist.

And it's probably my ego speaking,
but I don't think that's right.

And I don't think that I,
of all people,
should be the one showing you the beauty of a world
that I only see in kinetic blurs and swatches,
passing by me in my free fall from this life to the next.

Because I tried once to see the world without a filter,
but its stagnancy sent me in a downward spiral
and somehow I ****** you into it--
into me.

And I don't mean to be your whirlwind woman,
destined to spit you out--disoriented--
somewhere that you've never been before,
somewhere that no map ever cared to acknowledge,
somewhere stained with my essence,
my idiosyncrasies,
and your new found head trauma.

And you're a rational guy
and I'm an on again off again rational girl
who needs a little help stilling the edges of her narrative,
who longs for a tether or a buoy
to keep her from flying off or sinking down.

So maybe if you held my shoulders to stop me from spinning,
my vision would sober up,
and I'd focus solely on your curves and your angles
as they entered my retinas,
while the rest of the world behind you
faded into blurry suggestions
to be adhered to by someone who gave a **** about them

And after you wiped the puke from your shoes,
maybe you'd see me focused in your eyes
and maybe, just maybe...

...you'd just call me your dream girl.

I didn't think that I was comfortable enough to fall asleep in your arms,

to snore in your arms,

to drool in your arms,

to babble incoherently in your arms.

So I dreamt that I was lying awake while you slept,
enveloping me in those gangly things sewn into your shoulders.

But when I woke up,

you were gone.

And I thank you...

...for having the courtesy to get up to ***
instead of doing it in my arms.

i've realized that my poetry is far too bombastic
as if all of the big words will distract everyone
from the fact
that i have nothing to say.

(I think I've lost the ability to start things, so please forgive this poem for not having an attention grabbing genesis)
I've been twiddling my thumbs for almost eight months now
Putting off all that I care about
(And especially everything that I don't. Here's lookin' at you, AP World History)
Sitting around amassing a booklet of words to use in the future for novels and whatnot
But only using them in essays so I seem smarter than I am
(For example, susurrus means 'a whispering or rustling sound; a murmur')
Hoarding anything affiliated with Ben Folds because he makes me feel things on occasion
(I currently have 189 songs of his on my iTunes library; No one understands me.)
Making **** jokes at lunch while masking the thoughts of substance ricocheting around in my head
(Also your mom jokes because no one would think that you're crying internally about the uncertainty of the afterlife whilst making lewd stabs at their mother's integrity(and ******. Ba dum tss.))
Apparently craving the lingering feel of another's touch
(I had a dream a few weeks back that Ben Folds licked my hand; My stomach folded (hahahah, folded) in on itself.)
Thinking that my feelings of misanthropy and apathy and everything else I can't find the words for yet are mine alone because everyone else is too stupid to have thought them themselves
(Even though I know that I'm not particularly special and I should stop being so elitist and stupid)

But I've finally found a light at the end of the table in the last place I'd expect--
(I meant to say tunnel, but hey, the source of said light does sit at my lunch table.)
A cherubic Presbyterian boy with an aversion to all things perverse,
(Which includes my sailor's tongue and occasional tendencies to want to put it on a member of my own ***, though he doesn't know about that)
A spec of cleanliness on the grimy waistcoat of humanity who makes me want to be the best I can be
(Today when I saw him, I only swore once; I was very proud of myself)
But maybe I'm just jumping the gun
Because what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me who isn't even sure she believes in God?
Maybe his prolonged contingencies were merely contingent and I'm just overreacting because of my few and far between incidences of human contact.
(Seriously. Don't touch me.)
Maybe I just want someone to talk to for hours about everything and nothing at all.
(What with me being relatively antisocial, it's hard to find people with similar mindsets.)
Maybe I just want someone to funnel my adolescent attention into
(Because teen movies have taught me that one obviously can't be happy without having a crush on someone at any given time.)
Or maybe it's just because the way the Bible quote on the back of his t-shirt conflicted so humorously with the way he shook his hips to a J-Lo song on "Just Dance."
(Seriously, though, it was hilarious. I was dying.)
Or the way our fingers brushed when we were catching frogs
Or the way he blushed when I stepped out in my bikini
(I went to a pool party today.)
Or the way he held me momentarily in the delirious confusion of the flashing strobe lights
Or the way he got one point higher on his research paper than me a month ago
(He was excited; I was upset.)
Or the way that he does everything nearly to perfection.
I could go on..
But I don't know.
Maybe I'll get over him in a week and slip back into myself.
Because, like I said, what would a good Christian boy want with a heathen like me?

This week I need to start writing that novel I've been putting off,
and finish reading that book that I got last week,

and not try too hard at drawing,
and draw an effortlessly abstract social satire,

and spend more time with people who make me laugh,
and spend more time alone, so I don't depend on others too much,

and start running again because it's getting balmy outside and I've been putting on weight,
and stop worrying about my waistline because it's shallow,

and spend more time sleeping, so I can get to know myself through my dreams,
and spend more time awake because I've been wasting my life,

and straighten my hair because I haven't bothered with it in a few days and it's starting to get frizzy,
and leave my hair ***** because it's empowering to my racial identity,

and stop wasting time thinking about the past because it's making me crazy,
and start thinking more about the future because it's practical,

and,

and...

I think maybe I'll just get started on that sleeping bit first.

You can’t See the Sea--for the ripples
Your Eyes--fogged--with the thick sea air
Are Stumbling into the ocean--Fickle--
Blinking uselessly in the Absence of the shore

The water is flooding into your crevices--
Its brackish tongue lapping gingerly at your Shores--
At your Sores--
Giving you solace--
And Reminding you--
That existing isn't a Chore--

there are ants crawling in and out of my hollow eyes
they're having a picnic inside of my skull
they've invited all of their cousins and brothers and sisters
aunt kenneth is punching holes in my rotting brain
because her hormones are out of balance after the operation
rambunctious young twins cassie and brett just knocked over the potato salad which intermingles with the mush in my head
did you hear?
yoana eloped with a beetle
left her ailing mother all alone to raise two kids
and she's just shown up all alone with a dismal pack of beer and a sagging demeanor to show for herself
sandra says that her lover must have left her
and who did she think she was,
leaving everything she's ever known
and now she's come crawling back--
back to my rotting skull

I've been singing of my unsung brilliance
All my life
And I've only just now taken the cotton from inside my ears
To realize
No one else is harmonizing
And I've been singing sharp anyway

What do I do when the only person I care about
Doesn't know I exist
And is almost three times my age, anyway

And what am I to do when I'm only sixteen
And I'm not pregnant
So I couldn't possibly have any "real" problems

What am I supposed to do when I've run out of words
To say or write
And the ones I used to say and write were never really all that good in the first place

And what's next when I don't really feel like being alive
But then again
I don't want necessarily to be dead either

Wake me up
I don't care how you do it
Or how dire the consequences

Kiss me
Shake me
Stab me

I promise I don't mind
Just please
Wake me up

and the color ate away at the darkness

but she just remedied it

by placing a monochromatic filter on the world

the clocks are striking infinity
and
melting
towards eternity
like a Salvador Dalian conspiracy

If I were poetically eloquent enough,
I might spout some poignancy
About how her presence
Breathes hues of love
And life
Into my cadaverous cheeks

Or if I were less scatter-brained,
I might muster up some cliched profundity
Comparing her irises to pale twilight

And I might throw in some alliteration about her electrifying elbows
Or something abstract along those lines
Just for good measure

But...
Since I'm just
Little ole typical me,
Maybe I'll just say

That
I like her...
Quite a fuffing bit

**** these acid tears for staining my face,
Carving rivulets of bare, scarred skin into my made-up veneer,
Exposing my raw flesh,
Betraying my stoic exterior,
And calling me out on my *******

sometimes i swear
nostalgia
is the bane of my existence

It's not the warmth of your touch that makes me cringe
It's the underlying intimacy of it all
The dormant passion that lies beneath your fingertips
And it's not loving you that gives my bones goosebumps
It's the silkiness of your voice when you first utter sentimentality
And the flash of disappointment that dawns upon your face when I don't immediately regurgitate your emotions
But everyone I've ever known had to learn to crawl before they could walk
So would you mind terribly if I just held your hand for now?

I dream of a society
Where the ideals of beauty
Are less focused on superficial concepts like one's waistline
Or how decrepit their smile lines made them appear
But rather one where the focal point of unanimous adoration is,
As corny as this may sound,
One's morals and where they land on the gradient of human compassion

In this utopia,
The elderly aren't seen as catalysts for repugnance and a wrinkling of noses
But rather as symbols of eruditeness and beauty
The type of beauty that influence or money can't obtain

And it may be conceivable that instead of wasting my days squandering over my physical appearance,
I can just fritter away the days
Strumming my ukulele along to the tune of my American dream

For I have yet to actually awaken from my adolescent slumber
Breifly enough to grasp my dream from the bubble floating above my resting head
And nestle it securely in my pocket
So it doesn't forgo me
In search of someone less complacent with bewilderment about their future
Who dreams of social and economic prosperity
Instead of someone who's apathetic at best about whatever career choice they've chosen for the week

Maybe that's just it
That maybe I don't want the conventional American dream of fame or fortune or recognition
Is it feasible that maybe my American dream isn't to rise from sqaulor into a soulless mansion
Whose corridors boast success
But lack warmth and presence?

I suppose that my American dream encompasses more than just America itself
It lives in the eyes of every human being on the face of the earth
It's nestled in the gaze of a starving child
And the stare of anyone who's ever felt a tongue's razor edge
And all I'd have to do is delve into their eye sockets and plant a seed
A seed of hope and compassion
Or whatever I deem fit

Perhaps I just want to shield myself
From the world's disapproving glances,
Those fleeting moments of eye contact that convey condescending judgement
Maybe I'd just like to make a difference to things sans the media’s snide opinion
But despite my juxtaposition to society's critical assessments,
I know that I can't run away from my fears or problems

So maybe I dream of a society
Where I can remain headstrong even in the face of opposition
Because I'm aware that not everyone's going to love each other
And spout sweet nothings about peace and understanding from their hind quarters
So maybe I'd like to help be a driving force
That wards off the world's shadows
So the sun can continue to shine on my American dream

Your caress is silky and creamy like butter
And my darling, I'm afraid that your lingering touch will give me diabetes
Your heart crumbles like flour when I press mine against it
And beads of sugar hang like dew upon your lashes

Maybe if I blended you up into cookie dough
And baked you at 350 for 15 minutes until you were golden brown
Then I wouldn't be afraid to stroke your resplendent face

Perhaps I wouldn't wince at the thought of pressing my ear against your chest
Just to hear your confectionary heart quiver
And there wouldn't be the slightest trepidation when I kissed your intoxicating tears

But I'm afraid that I'll leave you in for too long
And your saccharine core will harden and reek of soot
And with the slightest touch, you'll be reduced to ash
And your cremated remains will get frightened at the accusatory wail of the smoke detector
And they'll seek refuge in my oven's crevices
Never to be seen again