so we built the coffin and
dug the grave and
picked the flowers and
wore our best clothes to
the best day of her life.

it is three twenty-one ante meridian and
i cannot
forget
us.

give me cracks in my fingertips,
bruises on my thighs,
a sore throat and a sigh.
anything to prove that you were here, once,
and that you're coming back.
i miss the way you feel in my lungs.
i miss the fire that licks at my skin,
hot, hungry,
and i miss the swoop in my stomach
easy like a roller coaster,
lasting like death.
i miss permanence in transience and
how you felt in my arms and
the way words used to tumble out and
being able to begrudge you this.

she wasn't breathing
but they couldn't find anything wrong
all her vitals were fine--
until they checked her pulse at her neck,
rather than her wrist.

eventually she found the ocean again.

the clock is sick with activity.
i check it far too often,
like an old suicidal friend.
i'll never see the end of it but i always expect to.
instead i watch my shoes,
and cross my arms,
defensive of the time.

sour, ample, the fruit bursts over my teeth,
pushing, racing to the end
bile heavy in my stomach, on my tongue,
to the ground.
i can't help the way the words flush under my skin
and beat their way across my lips.
regardless,
i am proud of my memories,
of the curve of your cheekbone.

the puppet ran over the hills
and stomped his feet.
the child drank the water we gave her.
the man forgot the woman,
and the woman forgot, too.
nothing could compare to you.

tell me again
about the child
who could think it was beautiful
and the poem that doesn't know itself.

Where does my love go
when I funnel it to you
and you reject it?

Do you look at this
stuccoed, tastefully neutral,
American sky,

like me, but restless?
Or maybe you're more lonely--
or maybe you aren't.

When you stop, are you
saying no to me, saying
"I do not want you"?

When I stop, I mean
only this: "You scare me, you
scare me, you scare me."

Does it disappear?
The love, I mean; does it sit,
collecting, like dust?

If I were sent to
you, I would gladly collect
unobtrusively

hidden in corners,
and I promise I'd never
ask too much of you.

voice shaky, I'd ask,
"Do you mind if I sit here?"
Not anything else.

Just permission to
quietly intrude, see you,
watch you, quietly.

Everything about
my love is quiet; surely,
you couldn't mind it.

haiku

your hands are soft, just
perfect for how you could touch
me. your back is strong.

i wonder where you,
that sentiment, came from.
how my finger throbs.

i point at unseen
threats; it's gone! my love, you're brave,
but jealous like crows.

dry hands cold wind warm--
i want you in my fingers.
i hate all jackets.

touch my nose, your skin;
take what i'm given with grace.
nothing touches me.

snow is on our tree.
lazy, lately i'm not there.
it's colder in me.

not even a sonnet

last night I dreamed you fed me, and
the thought won't let me out.
to taste that rain, the taste of you!
which never leaves my mouth;
my eyes are swollen in the cold--
for that is all it is.
raw images you gave to me,
cruel breaches of my kiss.
this keeps me longer than those scales
which I could love for days
my ribs feel cracked and far too small
my fingertips can pay.

at least no one can call me true;
I reached and cried, "For you, for you!"

12/28/10 backdated so no one reads it unless they're. digging.

so suddenly my room smells like you. which sucks. I mean I haven't been in love with you for two years now, and we haven't been friends for a little less than that, and I. Shouldn't remember how your room smells. I guess it smells kind of like starburst and burt's bees because that's what my room kind of smells like. I don't want to be your friend. I've been done trying to get you to understand what you did to me. I am not always done being hurt. Nearly three years is a really long time to beat yourself up over a person and it's even longer to have that person do really awful and manipulative shit to you. I don't want to engage you or talk to you or insert myself into your life again. Sometimes I read your blog but I never comment or leave things in your ask box or anything. I just feel ridiculous about it and close the tab and do something else.
you haven't affected me like this in a really long time.
I was never interested in getting revenge. dating Matt was just because I was dating Matt, I really liked him, I wanted to be with him. I never told him not to see you, too. It was like sharing or something.
but sometimes I'm fifteen, staring at my bookshelves as I let you tell me that I'm not really good enough. I get it. I understand. I know. You were definitely never as gay as me and probably were never gay at all.
my room smells like you and I want it to stop.

I hate you. Every time I see you I walk a little taller, hold my head higher, speak louder. I just want you to see how small you are, I guess.

What I'm trying to say is thanks. If you weren't so shallow, ignorant, and unwilling to change, my back would always be hunched when I walked past you.

I've gotten to the point in this stupid, stupid crush where I have genuine physical reactions to thinking about you. Just this evening, I saw your picture and my chest caved in.