You are not black and white, you are all of the colors my sky can't bleed.
A foreign exchange, contrived scarcity.
I will pour gray matter into your framework.
I will manage extremes and draw out your bruises.
You will hold my wrists back from ripping them open.
Then, gently, and in tiny circles, draw on my skin until the blood finds the surface.
Watch how that crimson can glow.
That innate theory.
That organic matter.

It's pretty reckless just to cannonball right in.
Chances of heartache over this are skyrocketing.

But what I feel keeps bubbling up, gurgling in my throat and spilling out all over.
And i don't really care what it looks like, what it sounds like, or how this might burn.

light light

So you go to sleep, right?

And you’re all tangled up and cozy and romantic together.

And the stars are twinkly and the dark dark night is lulling you off to sweet sweet slumber.

 

But for your neck to bend that way all night is like, basically impossible.

I mean it’s cute for your head to be on their shoulder but…

You’d wake up dead the next day, so let’s just not.

And your body knows that so while you’re unconscious it thankfully moves you.

 

To the other side of the bed.

And your skin gets all oily

And the muscles in your face get relaxed and wonky.

And the food in your stomach rots and your breath starts to stink.

Honestly, thank the deities you’re on the other side of the bed.

 

For we are human beings

Bags of flesh and bones, bloody and living organic matter

Which is both surprising us, changing us and manipulating us each instant.

 

And when you come and find me every morning

Wherever I may have rolled off to on your bed

You acknowledge my human.

You tangle me up.

You cozy me.

…while the light light is whispering at me to wake.

My veins and all of my crevices are filled with sharp sand.
there is no grace seaming any of my particles.

There is a weight, tossing a tantrum in my cheek bones.
Pressing on the walls, begging release.

The veins that rein and reign in the holes where my eyes live are knotted and coarse
from too long-lived a well-balanced game of push and pull.

Seething and swollen and dying to be left alone.

Funny how presence is required in the present, and we remember what we'd like to.
Including words we tasted with wet lips.

You're not meant to be with a project, but that doesn't mean you can't guide people to the glue.
Even unscrew the cap for them....
...watch it dry, at their side....

After all I wasn't fibbing when I said what I said.
After that, there isn't much.

It's a bit clunky.

It's a bit like I'm carrying around a huge box of chipped plastic trophies.
Of postcards from places, from the clock, unwound.
Of photos I can no longer see, with people I would no longer recognize.
A collection of glass bottles full of potions and scents and resolutions.

Clattering together, chipping and ripping each other.

I shift my weight beneath me and I awkwardly manage the weight pressed against my chest.
I look up at you post inventory. No, no strike that. I look up at you, needing not a final inventory.
I choose you.

You are like Jesus, calling Peter out upon the water, the way you hold your hand out to me.
Brown eyes locked and loaded on mine, less mighty.
Teasing me silently to engage.

Without a single muscle, without a single tendon or ligament or article of soft tissue or blood cell or atom or speck of blood in my veins even so much as flickering in resistance, the box of silly fools drops to the ground, forgiven.

I'm thankful for the way you overscheduled yourself and put your duty to other, less valued individuals before me.

It taught me how hurtful it is to feel that.

And now I'll never do that again.

I am decided that I don't want to breathe life into this in that place, in this way.
I am decided that I require greater value.
I require a greater amount of energy.

If I am to climb through your branches and reach toward the stars you better be able to hold my weight.

bouncing around

Something knocks you off your kilter and you bounce around a while until you settle.

So it becomes a section of skin with a layer peeled back.
and every now and again a breeze will blow, or something will rub up against it,
and cause a seering, shrieking shrine of pain.

And you take that, and you think to yourself,
"Yeah, I guess I can't wear long sleeves today"
because long sleeves will, of course, retain the feeling.
So you never wear long sleeves again.
You never even think of long sleeves again.
You don't notice long sleeves when they walk past.

The chronicling.

The one who wouldn't hold my hand.
You memorize my every inch. You fear none of it.
You are selfish, and you have a time limit.
You taught me that there is a part of myself I can't decline.
The part that loves calloused hands, the smell of leather, and pieces of my father.

The one I left for no good reason, but should have left long before that.
You should me how strong men can be sensitive.
You made me feel valuable.
I miss you, still.

The one I planned for.
Shamelessly.

The one who pressured me.

The one who made no sense at all.
You taught me not to deny myself.

The one I can't possibly be more than friends with.
You continue to teach me every day how to be a friend, how to be a human, how to be me.

The one who didn't speak english.
You taught me that sometimes I'm not the player, I am the pawn.
You taught me I'm not meant for a fairytale.

The loud one, with the big heart, and the big head.
You told me that I was every kind of gorgeous.
And then you taught me how to believe it.

The one I wish I was right for.
You spoke to me, and I would listen differently.
You offered me a life most departed, most dreamed.
You taught me that leaving is not for everyone.

The one who made my spotlight brighter.
You lit candles and lilted words coated with lust out of your thick lips.
You told me I was exactly what you always pictured yourself waking up to.
You taught me that elusive art needs good measure, and that I am messy enough on my own.
You taught me that there are two sides to a friendship, and that you can still love someone who doesn't always remember to text you back.
I hope I helped you realize who you need.

The one who's blood is made of stuff I wish mine was.
You taught me that I require solidarity.
You taught me how to clearly say "no".

The one I said "yes" to. 
You always had time, and chased away my fears of never being more valuable than that.
You took me for a ride on a big jet plane.
You taught me that spontaneity does not equal madness, and that I am in control of who is in my life, and who is not.
I hope I made you think in ways you'd never thought, about topics you dared not dwell.

The one who made me fear road rage. 
You taught me to wear the damn heels.

The one who yelled.
You taught me that surface dwellers are a thing.
You taught me not to get in the car.

The one I can't talk about yet.
Can we talk?

The one with the piercing, beautiful, sad eyes.
You are good enough for your father.

The one with whom I underdressed.
I built you in my head as a sloppy college student type with vans sneakers and a hoodie.
Not that the aesthetic kept me from being more myself, more quickly than normal.
I'm pretty sure you thought I was too good for you.
I hope I taught you that stereotypes are stereotypes.

I can't decide whether I should be sad, or mad.

Or if I have a right to be either. 

alskdfj

“Never apologize for burning too brightly or collapsing into yourself every night. That is how galaxies are made.”

—	Tyler Kent White

You lay out all your cards and look up at me.
I'll select those to complete my hand, and mercilessly toss those that don't.
With a face of stone, my stare is strong.

november

remember what is bigger.

what my eyes will see

We are so selfish.

Simply because your heels may be down,

begging time to hold still,

certainly does not inspire clocks everywhere to cease their tick.

breathe in deep

so the day comes when it's time to face

time to courageously acknowledge who you have built yourself into.

Remember,  you can decide you're not through.

again with the seas

they say that hesitation

will be the calm before the storm.

that the arrow

must be drawn back before it can be set free.

but poor aim,

and lack of compass

are irrevocable 

offenses.

poor aim.

no compass.

a purpose driven life?

i wish to wake with purpose

of all the things i am able to convince myself of

why can't i find gladness,

or even willingness

upon the very stirring of my waking mind.

when fresh a day is finally near

i am only morose

so weak, so mere.

the words

here they come

and how pretty they seem

two seas

I am tossed between

two seas

flung about in 

despair and fine melody

intertwined

with no peace between them

and every bit of will to fight.

Look up at the sun

the nights just seem
to wade on
and while my body
cries out for sleep
my mind craves
a resting place much
greater in palpable length.

Amibiguous

I used to believe firmly in the idea that the greatest force on either was passion.



That being said, passion could not exist without complete and utter devotion.



Devotion that is developed only by even the slightest hint of faith.



For the first time in my life I have a regret.