This is Lame

im shivers and running water
mountains and valleys because of simple sentences
and lost senses
nights that slip between our fingers and mornings that contain promise
i used to fall so easily into the weighted darkness
and find myself in different homes
lose myself in someone that couldnt hold me for longer than five minutes
two cups of coffee later
black so i would hate the taste and make it go faster
i would realize the damage i had done the new nightmares i had caused
self harm inflicted in my bones

my mouth is like a prisoner
my hands like a freed slave i am awake im freedom
i can write you a thousand lines about what it means to see you look at me
and to look back in fullness and fairness an equity that ive never had before
that we dont tire after moments
or after months
but my lips close around my teeth close around my tongue contain the ink that spills from
my fingertips but cant be vocalized in the same way
lips like sugar lips like honey lips like bees
ill find the courage to speak these words
and find dawn in the way it makes your eyes light up in front of mine
and find new chapters in the way it frees my soul

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There’s A Theme Here, Do You See It?

“I think he’s one of the best things to happen to you.”
she was always serious about these things, about boys and coffee
about dinnertime and how to tell someone you care about them
she looked at me with tired eyes, the sun in both of our faces
i couldnt help but laugh
i wanted to shrug him off already feeling like a sweater
i would like too much and wear thin
i wanted to crumble him into the smallest pieces i could manage and plant
him in the ground and leave something for everyone else
i nodded in the laugh
i was always serious about these things, about boys and not folding in the corners of your favorite book even if its the absolute best thing youve ever read
about turning off alarm clocks and how someone looks right before theyve given up
and when they remember not to

i dont know where to place him
among dusty books that i havent had the chance to read but are perfectly new
something that i will be excited about and forget about for awhile
something to think about
something to let simmer beneath the surface for awhile because
i dont have time and most books have sad endings nowadays anyway

i dont know where to place him
i dont have the words to tell someone i care too much
i care more than “i dont want to take this seriously”
i care more than “im just trying to have fun”
and im certain that i care more than becoming another mess
you will deal with but certainly dont have to clean up

i care about “the best thing that happened to me”
and as it disintegrates i wish
i cared about something different

Irrationality #4

i think i should say ive skipped
meaningless kisses on late nights that always
ended up in me crying because im simply only
good enough in moments
and only good enough for myself in fragments

my story was never pretty

let me say i dont want to write this
its the very first thing that hurts me hands
to type onto this blank screen

i almost skipped you and im not even a little bit sorry

i will think of you in silences
and i will learn to crush my feelings
into finer grains of sand
because i was never really good at being
a glass figurine anyhow

you had honest hands and a broken heart
i had neither but i always pretended we were the same
a secret thread of beauty whispered about
in silences (much prettier than the other kinds of noise)
i was delusional of course
i always am but you
you made me think of starlight in new ways
without ever having talked of the stars

we are friends now or so we say
as i walk away from you faster than i could think
of an excuse to tell you why i need to leave
instead i dont speak i let you revel in the broken silence
and i confuse myself at every turn

i was only good for you in moments and
i cant pretend that i am still okay when you say
you want to meet up at 2 a.m. and i am alone
if you are not here i do
not want you to be

Irrationality #3

in case
i never tell you in person in real life
with shaking hands and tearing eyes
i owe you
one thousand explanations of why i never clung to you
until it was too late

i was losing lots of things when
you found me
i was losing
all my sanity
my energy my hope and faith
(it wasnt dark but it sure felt like it was)
(it didnt last forever but it was a lifetime ago)

and we lost time

precious time i could never get back
because it unraveled
into one drunken fight that i wish i could take back
and months of silence that i needed
silence i need indefinitely

i need you
to know that you were the one thing i believed in

sometimes when i think about you i cant breathe

one time we sat on the floor and i cried so hard i could barely speak
you held my hand
it was pretty cool although i still remember
how ashamed i was at the hot tears running down my stupid face

one time i sat in my car and waited for you
for
two hours and then told everyone else we had a great time
before we said goodbye

one time i realized i wasnt enough although you never said it
how could i have possibly ever been enough

you the boy who contemplated infinities
and music and football all in the same paragraph
if i think about you for too long
i think you were never real

I Don’t Want To Talk About It.

she stands close to the edge of the people and wonders
how she got so fragile
and why her shaking hands are clutched around a plastic cup
of a drink that burns her throat
and confuses her mind
that she doesnt even like the taste of

her feet hurt but her heart hurts more
as if cavernous holes decided to bury themselves within her chest
and she wonders how it is possible to miss
a boy she never even met
or long for moments she never experienced
or how she can stand in one place for a little
too long
and realize that she will miss
this
even as she experiences it

she swallows the rest of the liquid and shivers
a little as it poisons her body
she is conflicted because she never thought she would
break any rules
instead she has crushed them
and has created new ones
her feet ache but her head hurts more why
do they not tell you that
being yourself truly also means
accepting contradictions
of your very soul and being

she longs to be a girl who smiles without reservation
she longs to know what exactly it is that she wants
to rid herself of the voices of indecision
to rid herself of the complications of never knowing
and she cannot decide why she will never feel complete
and she cannot decide why she is not happy in this place

in the superficial she has
never been happier
or more excited about her potential for living and breathing
and continuing the journey that they say has just began
but in reality
she sips warm beer that she wont finish
and wonders why her smile is always as fake
as the glossy pictures she tapes all over her room
a facade on white walls
and a facade on pale skin

Past Beginnings

every time you talk to me i feel instantly younger
and stupider
and happier in a way i cant explain because you shouldnt mean anything
and yet you mean so much
you were the starting line
of first heartfelt compliments and first kisses
the beginning and endings so quickly wrapped up into one another like they
never really mattered
as if they were the same
so when you ask me how ive been
after all this time
after your life and mine took separate paths
after there were other compliments
and other kisses
and after you matter so much differently now
it makes my heart
skip small beats
it makes me think that beginnings can change but they do not have to be erased
that we were never
and we will never again be
but here we are
and im well
how are you

I Continue To Be Fascinated With Hands

I. The lines along them tell the stories of things unspoken and never known. We like to think we know our futures, how could we ever know?

II.  They hold the door, they pause, they are unsteady. Too many nerve endings, too many nerves. Doors of course to his future, things unknown just like the lines on his hand.

III.  They are the hands that held his moms when he was a boy, they were once smooth, they are no longer smooth. Wrinkled like the Earth. Wrinkled like the sky. He cannot get those smooth hands back.

IV.  More honest than his face. Faces can lie too easily. This boy can put on a perfect smile but his hands still shake at the lies.

V.  They hold her hand, because this is honest. The faces lie because she is scared and he is nervous. They don’t shake anymore.

VI.  They hold tighter. The fingers intertwined.  She is so small compared to him, her fingers so dainty. He holds her and feels powerful. She holds him and pretends she isn’t so alone.

VII.  Capable of life, capable of taking life away. Too powerful and yet, cut and bruised. He punches a wall and his hand breaks. He punches a person and they break. He can push away worries or create them.

VIII.   Waves of goodbye and waves of hello, beginnings and endings, no lies of course. These ten digits are not capable of lies.

IX. Holding and dropping and pushing and pulling. They are of his own creation and his means of life.

X.  His hand will never have a ring. They are hands only meant to be alone. The girl and the boy pretend they are one. Maybe hands can lie.