I'm not sure why.
It was everything and mutual but ...
you were my best friend and more, a little bit.
it pretty much sucks that you guys are so far away from me right now.
i'm so tired of seeing this breaking-up,
getting back together breakingupgettingbackgettingbackbreaking
i wish i was there to boss you guys around so i could save you from all this shit
you don't need to make these mistakes, i swear you're better off with some lessons unlearned
didn't we learn that at the end of the day, we're too bloody young- don't give me that "i'm 21 shit-"
"don't give me that i'm 19, i'm immature, it's my fault."
don't give me that, don't don't don't.
it's not your fault.
you're still young.
you're not immature.
just if i could only...
i'm no saviour, i can't help everyone, i know.
but fuck that relationship shit guys.
(boys are such a headache with their crushes and sweaty palms, especially when the girl is
nothing special at all whatsoever and way too short and yuckylooking & loud and complicated and justttt...)
anyways whatever join a nunnery i feel safer that way, with you guys there.
because it's big to you guys but oh so insignificant later (it's not enough for baggage i swear don't let it)
because the world is so much bigger than this? you know?
i'm here for you, and you know that. so keep calling at 4 am falling apart & i'll keep picking up.
I'm holding here a book; notable, but not the greatest, stolen for me by the latest in a long line of thieves-I kissed you on the street that night on the far side of four. But I didn't like the taste in my mouth or yours....-ANI DIFRANCO
and crush lemons and strawberries
between our toes-
lick off each film of blistering taste, until we turn to dust.
I want to see you in sepia, in slate, in pearl-
shuffling your steps towards pressed elation.
I want to corrupt and debase every tangled
misword against your temperate name.
Flush them down the sink,
along with the toothpaste and of course
In the high of your chafed scowlings,
I want to let you keep my sedulous adulation.
We could be electric, rhythmic, elliptical.
If you let us.
You had said, “place a finger through this
chasm and let each pound- thump thump thump- embed themselves into each
echelon of your inner self-” like you are important, like you’re someone, like
you are a fortune cookie or Gandhi or my neighbour’s dog- (I don’t even like dogs)
and now I’m frowning (in indifference)
because I can feel your heartbeat (much to my dismay)
and you are expecting me to simply dive back into you even though last
I recall I was submerged headfirst without a life jacket or adequate wading
skills and most importantly without so much as a glance in my direction from
you, the certified instructor, the avant-garde liberator, the affable, cordial
Back track to my unwavering mortal reflexes, the innate requisition for
I’d find my way back up.
It’s not even that you left a wound because I’m breathing aren’t I?
Poised, I surfaced, with my hands searching, attempting to grab onto nothing
It’s that you left me there, flailing uselessly, naught in the
direction of aid, or even a smile.
(So here we are.)
A hole in your heart left by my gun and my
fist leads you back to where we stand and while I stare into your frighteningly
cerulean blue eyes and your matted flaxen hair (look at you with your palms
facing down and that shamefaced grin, you may surpass me in age but you’re no
more than a boy) I’m grateful for this calculated self-created deficit of
I won’t allow for more than what we’re here
for. (I won’t succumb, not again.)
There is an awkwardness in you I am
It must be that I can see right into you,
and at any moments time-
reach out and-
Oh you’re defenseless and I haven’t got a
bandage made for that sort of perforation.
(Play dough would cover the draft but you’d
like that and I’m not here to amuse little boys.)
Let’s just keep this between us and move on.
I promise, at best, that when the hurricanes come, to stand in front of you so
you won’t have to feel the storm pulsating through you.
At least, for the first five minutes.
in a stretch of dependence, i let myself into you.
holding you, with your jubilant smile,
speaking in moderated tones, with gentle,
we fall asleep together.
despite your insistence on keeping me near
you do not drive me away.
your archaic virtue, the unworldliness
is undoubtably endearing
the soft of your back is spongy, delicate.
i can’t imagine
that i was once
we were all once you.
i am afraid of rolling over you in your sleep
the air in my lungs crushing both of us.
you are hardly a person just yet.
just enough to mollycoddle
when i try to roll away from you
to put you down
you cling to me, tiny hands clutching and pulling
at my hair
i realize then, what it is like– even if, for a transitory moment
what it is like to be truly needed.
in that moment, you, the most susceptible
stricken with this bit of humanity,
& sometimes we don't change.
I wanted to explain to you once, the differences that make the lines between us
but in my flustered state I must have inverted or subtracted or multiplied;
I made an entirely macabre mess. I was never good at mathematics.
In allegories I speak my truths, skimming around it with my spoon,
lapping up the ends and licking to every last bit of everything but the middle.
I’d never get right to the point. I’d never let you in. Never fully.
I gave it a chance, just a little, with you.
I let you in through the backdoor before I let you know my surface cover.
(Imagine seeing the skull before the face. )
I let the spoon graze the middle. I’d have to agree that the hereafter is this,
tastes in all the weather—the middle is fresh but never the first bite.
It’s always backwards, everything, here, under this skin.
I should have never tried math.
I should have never ate from the middle.
I’ve made yet