tall tale

she told me to

get

a

life,

so

I told her to

do

her

own

work.

it's not hard to

see

who's

worse

off.

Something Missing

A figure of authority said,
"Speak to a lack,
a crack in the future;
what might happen when the essential
becomes somehow expendable,"
(and of course I'm paraphrasing;
one cannot expect honesty from a known liar--)
and all I could think of was:

Fruit never bursts
beneath my teeth as satisfyingly as
the poison berries that
sprung!--from the ground near your house,
exploded under my fingers when I sat there, right there.
I plucked them from the grass and
pushed until they broke and
the whole time I thought of you.

As I write this I am thinking of you.
How quickly we became
essential to one another and
how quickly I became
expendable!—there is no temporal measure.

If there is a future without you I do not want it.
If I knew you then, I would miss:
the shape of your nostrils and
the color of your eyes and
the way your hands touch me.

A world without you is not a world I want.
I am you and
you are me and
we are the same and so
a world without you is not a world which can house me.

I'm not quite playing by the book; I digress.
In a world without her, we would miss:
goodness, light,
her cynicism,
the way her hands move when she talks.

A world without her would move
slowly, like the world now moves
slowly, but as the world turned
slowly it would be aware of the loss,
its load lighter but its heart heavier.

"your blue eyes are greener than mine."

There are times--days
weeks, months--long stretches
of seconds, kind of like
getting goosebumps
and settling
and tensing up all over again.

these times i feel alone
and ignored
and unhappy

and i think they would
be better if you'd
notice me, if i could
bring myself to do it,
to not be the one giving advice,
to be the one asking for it,
and is that the only way
you'll notice me, if I
ask for it?, and
is that the only thing
I can do?, and
have I fallen in love
with you?, and
was it a mistake?, and how
can I
fall out?

she is hunched, maybe
carefully,
over a piece of paper
it has determined her future

she is not, maybe,
a person,
warm roots in cold soil,
maybe blooming, naked, maybe.

does she, you wonder,
moisturize?
she has good skin,
even as she picks it apart.

I listen, detached,
as you laugh.
does she know you?
she should know you struggle for words.

her eyes are wide,
cute, prob'ly,
though you can't tell:
you can only see all of her

even that's tricky.
especially
'cause you can't look,
not for long, not without flushing.

is she looking?
you get caught.
you're imagining things,
and that's, oh god, embarrassing.

is she looking?
does she see--
does she look at me?
her hands might be rough 'cause she's

rough, physical,
plays in dirt.
lays out in the sun,
probably she even climbs trees.

she sets down her eyes and picks up her pen and gets to work.

you were damp, lonely
in the corners of your mouth
the base of your spine.

i am lonely still
but i know important things
like: you hate coffee

or: sometimes you steal,
and, like me, you ran away.
things like: you got out.

things like: you're special.
and: you think i think you're dumb.
your walk is distinct.

i am so aware
of you that i can see you,
no glasses, from here.

there is loneliness
in the corners of your mouth.
i want to taste it.

I'm passion, impassioned,
rocking against the bed
in my head in my mouth.
I am full
and I am weak and I
lost weeks and weeks to you,
toes tapping like you're gone,
like you are ready to run.
I won't notice everything
and I think that is the key:
That is what makes this different for me.

Sometimes I think
that lifespan is like wingspan
only you can't see it
and it doesn't do shit.

In my heart I have wings,
strange and wide
as long as my life.
I think if I did, you would
like me better.
I would have caught
the light
or your eye
and either way you might
have noticed me.
If I had wings, you would
touch them,
gingerly but enthralled.
If you touched me
I would not feel so small.

You are stupendous,
and I am stupid
because I want to
tell you, say:
you could have been
the best thing here,
you could have been
something special.
You are the cat's pajamas and
the core of my heart and
the sleep in my eyes
and the scars on my thighs
and I will not cover
you up, no; I will send you
all of my love; no, I will
fly to you on chimerical wings
because you deserve only
fantastical things.

When I was fourteen, I was three inches shorter and forty pounds lighter and I didn't feel attractive then and I don't now. I just want to pull off dressing like a dude, because I don't feel comfortable dressing like a girl, too gangly and chubby in the wrong places and not confident enough and when I laugh my whole face bunches up and my cheeks become huge and I've got an impressive range of facial expressions, kind of like a muppet, but looking like a muppet never got me what I wanted and I thought I wanted to be liked by other people but for the most part I have that, I think I just want to be able to like myself and I am so awful in social situations and I just sit there and blush and hold my head in my hands and when I'm forcing myself out of that I add way too much swagger to my steps and laugh too loudly and make really stupid immature jokes and sometimes I just fucking hate myself for it, and sometimes I feel like I want Matt, grabby hands like a baby, but I think I just want him to apologize for being such a shitty person and I want him to stop making me the butt of all his jokes but he wouldn't when we were together and now he hates me because I called him out on how shitty he is to other people and so if I asked him to stop he'd mock me even harder and if I ask his friends, the people I thought were maybe my friends, but definitely, at this point, just his friends, they'd shift uncomfortably and be like, "Uh, hey, man, I didn't realize," and then tell Matt and then they'll all keep making fun of me and I hate feeling picked on, and it happens to me over and over and over again. I am not the confident asshole I try to seem like. I just get picked on over and over and over and it's easier to be louder and cruder and better-liked and smarter than those people than it is to confront them but it's not enough.

Walking by the stacks I idly run my hand across the titles, hoping my finger will catch on some great trove of wisdom, the sort of thing that would enlighten me and deliver me from heartache. In that instant I will know what to buy, no insecurity or second-guessing. You've seen me do this, remember? I don't know if you remember. I remember everything about you.

I once read a book wherein the heroine did the same thing, ran her fingers along the tops of books in the library, and became powerful. It was called So You Want To Be A Wizard. It is chimerical to think I have that same capacity, of course, but I do it again and again.

I chase after you anyway. I do it again and again.

I am an extraordiary
object, rendered useful
in the hands of other men
who are themselves useful,
I suppose, men
whose hands made me sing
and pushed me to you.
And your hands held me--
and I thought, unkindly, "You
are revolting and endearing,
you whose soft hands
cannot hold me without
pain. You are untrained,
and gentle and far too
weak, and I am
heavy and sharp
and useless like you."
You held me still and I thought,
dully, without feeling,
"Some talented god gave me life,
but maybe it can be
taken, turned into something else.
Dully you took it from me."
When you held me, I thought,
"We deserve each
other, I deserve
you, you deserve
me." I forgot
how to think,
only an object made
useful in the hands
of other men.
I resent
you for
it.