I Don’t Know Where This Path Will Lead

heart tendons wrapped like computer chords
dusty and tangled in too many directions
i forgot i could have just reached for your hand
instead of offering up myself entirely

i want ink on my skin to tell my story
and my dad asks me why
i tell him it is because i am happy sometimes
i think it is because i am sad but more times than these
handfuls of moments of clarity
i think it is because my voice is hoarse
from screaming that things have been just fine
i want to prove it
instead of wearing myself thin

i want scratches on paper to tell my story
and i ask myself why
i dont show anyone half the things i write
i tell myself it is because it is for me
i lie constantly
it is because i am afraid of words and phrases and rivers
of things that i cannot explain
i want to nourish you with water
but sometimes i fear that i am poison

i stand
quietly torn between turning the valve inside of me
and forcing myself to stop or writing until
i feel old and dry and shriveled up
until
i really have no story to tell
until half the things ive written are laced in with
the things i have yet to write
where chains and freedom
fear and bravery all feel the same
because i have the heart to tell my story
because the words make sense

i will nosedive off the cliff this time
i wont crash my car
i will only think about it ten times before i brake slowly
drive the speed limit and always use my turn signal

i can feel you tugging at me in my heart my stomach
my legs somewhere
i can feel the friends i left behind the ones that i stepped on
as they kicked at me i can feel the friends
i left behind because silence was easier than explanations because
darkness permeates deeper than light reaches
because i am selfish
cruel
because i am sorry
and i can feel you pull me
so

i will cut my heart from my chest and leave it on a doorstep
an orphaned child it wont need a blanket
it likes the chill
i will build myself a robot heart that i wont give to anyone
and i will
never feel your pull again

Breaking Pretty Things

i dont want to be anyones perfect
i want to scream into the void
that i am a broken shattered mess
and
i dont care if you love me
because my heart does not beat to be your game changer
and my muscles do not move so they can show you where to walk
i was a creature born from the fruits of Eden and
if walking alone is the only way
to eat the apple to gain the knowledge
to find my own fire
i would do it again

when i get told im loud and messy
a little bit embarrassing i dont mean to say so
but i wont dare to say sorry
because even if im the crack in a glass that dares you to break it
at least im something
at least im saying something

i want to paint music all across your skin
and remind myself that even you
the marble statue they put in the square to admire
are not exactly perfect
and as i paint the notes
in blue and gold and gray
and at least a little red
i will remind myself that it is my flaws you once loved
even for a moment

and i want to taste the melody and hum the tune
until the invisible words are etched into my skin
so deeply
i cannot shake the feeling and for days
i wake up happy without knowing exactly why
except i could sit in my own skin all day
and not hate the way it stretches across my bones

the sun sets right when im alright with the
color of the sky
and change worms its way into my life like a worm
a disease
a miracle
i needed you before i even met you
the song the colors the words
i had on the tip of my tongue
within my stomach and my soul that i had not figured out
how to invent or articulate
you
you bring out the best in me
and i dont want to leave the music just yet

Some Things Have To End

out of the small collection of hands
that i have held
i could have sworn that yours
yours were the ones that knew me
knew me well enough to hold me carefully and
touch me slowly
and wait while i gave myself time
to clear my head and put myself in this moment

i wish we could watch the way things curve
and break and fall apart
i wish we were better narrators of the lives
we lead, the stories we tell
better map makers of the paths we create and follow
i was never a cartographer
but how i would love to chart your skin
your smile the way your words had colors and
tones that made other people look
a little bit boring
and
i wish i knew when the path would end abruptly
so i wouldnt still be reeling
from almost hurtling myself off a cliff

Than Here

dont you have better places to be than occupying
my dreams
occupying that empty pit in my stomach
occupying that tugging at my
heart that its over
nothing will ever be the same
because it never was and we
have to get older
we have to pretend to be wise
we have to gray and we have
to regain the dignity that we lost somewhere
while we still believed in being young
and
dont you have real life to attend to
the globe
the spaces that i could never be yet
because im
just a kid
and i have too much to learn

i cant call this feeling sadness
because it belongs in its own box in
the back of my closet where i dont dare look anymore
i cant call this feeling missing you
because it belongs under at least a half an inch
of dust and i refuse to wipe away the things
that bury me in an effort to look clean
and i cant call this feeling mine
because that requires typing and validation
labels more boxes
organizational charts and at least two marks
on a calendar
and i really dont want my life occupied
by you
because
in fact you have greater places to be
than here