Did you know that if the entire history of the universe was condensed into a single calendar year, writing was invented fifteen seconds ago?

The only thing that keeps me from floating away and imploding in the Milky Way was unheard of at 11:59:44 PM.

When I read this, everything made sense for the first time in twelve years.

(Twelve years ago, I was six, and six year olds don't have thoughts that cause them to question existence and the purpose of anything; seven year olds, however, can and do.)

I don't know about you, but for me, 11:59:45 PM is prime poetry reading and writing time. And that time slot doesn't close until you go to bed and wake up and do adult things and carry on emotionless throughout the day, so if you don't ever go to sleep, you can achieve a state of transparency, and consumers love seeing right through you.

This is my theory, and it's 4:56 AM right now.

the buzz is a violent truth serum
that enslaves you as its quilled pen

it requires certain demands of you  
things you cringe at upon waking

because suddenly

you've unraveled a beautiful scroll
and marked it with broken charcoal

and kissed it with a wine-stained mouth--
your stamp of drunken approval

to make sure that the one
who should never receive it

is exactly the one
who gets bit on the lips

by your alcoholic kiss
your inebriated, late night diss

I had what I thought was a brilliant idea for a poem, once, a short while ago
it crafted itself slowly up my spine and into the quietest parts of my brain where I try to spend most of my time
as I went to align wispy thought with centered, cemented object
an unavoidable task popped up that demanded my attention and distracted me from starting my piece
and just like that,
my brilliant, invisible moment in time was released back into the atmosphere
it is probably hanging around air plane wings and dreaming of things far more important than cloud stuff
I have noticed a measurable pattern akin to this idea that if we do not act on our conscious thought, it can, in a moments' notice, be whisked away from us
while we are and while we breathe and exist, that voice in our minds can come and go as it pleases
we should try our hardest to grasp what we can, maybe
or maybe we should be thankful for the pieces we are allowed to fit together into a thing called life
I don't know, I don't know
it disappeared into thin air

Perhaps I lie awake for all of those eternally sleeping.

you're a piece of trash
a misshapen forgotten thing that I kick under my bed
rotten carcasses hold more genuine character than you
and I'd rather inhale them than catch the stench of your pretentious flesh
you're a selfish troll with daggers for eyes and knives for a tongue
attending masquerade ***** with a guise so clever, everyone we know thinks you're actually a human being
they think, for some funny reason, that you're my mother

I'm six years old
trying on witch hats and scar faces
you grab my arms and shake me
you tell me the candy people will assume they're painted bruises for October 31

I'm not scared of monsters
and I'm not scared of you
I'm scared of who I'll become

this Halloween I'm dressing up
I'm a person with a chain metal suit shielding my most precious insides
and pretending to be something I've never, ever been:
Brave.

her eyes told me everything she didn't want me to know.
like the first time I whispered, "I love you", I knew she loved me too.
because even though her mouth told me to hush and her fingers got tangled while unbuttoning my sweater,
her eyes burst with this firey, glossed hue and her skin grew flushed and soft and I knew right then that staring into her eyes was the sweetest gift she would ever be capable of giving me.

quantum physicians may not be able to write out an equation
showing proof of our bond,
but the ties that bind reach across the galaxies and beyond
and biology professors at the ivy league schools may not
be able to explain why my heart thrums faster when I think
about you, but my pulse is yours and I guarantee I can feel
you in every measurable thing that I do
it's funny... multiple dimensions couldn't even keep us apart,
and my body has been frayed and fuzzy since I left you--
from the start
of this journey toward self-realization and humanization
but the one thing that no one can deny is that time exists  
a watch is not a thing to keep time;
a watch is proof of the seconds before and now and after
and it certainly isn't ours to keep
but we could borrow some and place our fate in the
hands of that fragile wristband and call it an
insurmountable thing
I would venture to say
that we could call it love,
we can call it you and me
and science cannot create nor destroy us