Ms. Lonely, circa Summer ’16

This is for the
sieves like me.
For the girls bleeding out
and feeling empty
amidst the company.

This is for
every time my fingers
locked up at the joints
instead of typing
“Miss me?”

This is
me trying to find
peace
of mind
instead of a
new “piece”
for me.

This is Sargent Pepper’s
Lonely Hearts Club
with my heart as
drum beat.

This is all the friendships
I left out at sea.
This is symphony
of summer 2016.

This is trying to be okay,
right now,
and positive,
someday
I will be.

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Shadow Self

This time hurts more
than the first.
You can celebrate that small
victory.

I miss ______
more now than I did then.

I miss my confidence,
and my laughter.
I missed the faces I’d make without
second question.

I miss feel worthwhile
or interesting
or even like somebody
other people want to talk to:
not vent to or hook-up
with.

I miss being a person
rather than a body;
I’m tired of dressing a certain way
to make myself feel
pretty.

I don’t think I am
pretty.

That’s a shot at my ego
that shouldn’t matter as much,
but—

Today a crush
asked about some girl
who’s your typical
definition of American’s
sweetheart mixed with
perfection….

and you knew,
for sure this time,
you’d never be the one.
By “you”, I mean “I”,
I’m still trying not to be sad
about it,
but sometimes

this weather cloys the air
until all I want to do is
sleep
and wake up and you,
yes you,
be there and apologize
that I’m having a bad dream.

Like that would fix everything.
Like you’d try this time to fix
anything.

Most of all,
I miss my sense of self,
my pep talks,
the security in my being
knowing who I was,
who I am
is good and
enough.

I made some people
laugh today.

That is the only thing
I am capable of
that makes me feel like
me.

When “The Best” Comes

“It will be something simple like:
we will dance
in the kitchen,
and I’ll be cooking something edible.
And you will hold me from behind
still swaying to the music playing off
of whatever medium it comes through.
And our shoes will be kicked off
and the table will be set
and there will be a vase full of
lily of the valleys or hydrangeas
or peonies
and from the window,
light will stream in.
And I will sit across from you,
we will join hands and
thank God for the food,
for this life,
for everything that aligned 
just the way He wanted it, too.

Waking Up to You

This is how the daylight spills over you:
Fast;
Flashes of skin and muscle,
taut lines,
softened edges,
shadowed jaw,
twinkling eye,
waking up maple syrup smile,
slow.

This is how the daylight spills over me:
motionless;
then,
blinking eyes,
blurred rays,
expansive plane—-
of flesh
of muscle
of the small home his arms create,
swelling heart
constricting sigh,
ever moving.

I just wanna feel safe again

This is the thing about height,
that for once,
I’m shrouded by someone that can make me feel small again,
easy to carry,
wrap,
and engulf in one steady breath.

Like my outside matches how
I’m feeling inside
and someone is taking care of me,
for once.

It’s always
“for once”
but never twice
because otherwise
I internalize wanting to be this feeble
thing that craves protection
and affection
and forehead kisses like they are
all the same thing,
found within the same person.

That my life is (once) again
under his control
and I am no longer brotherless.
That hugs and hand holding are understood
to make sure my fingers
can still make contact
with warm bodies
even though I’m freezing
from the inside out.

I missed the memo where
depression
turns warm.

Night Wonderings

I want someone to talk to.
To want to feel my pulse in their ears when my head hits the pillow.
To wake up buzzing with the thought of my skin as an echo.
I hope they dream of the smiles that they could carve on my face
like Michelangelo.

I hope they aren’t all like you;
that some find me good enough,
and others refuse to let go.

Glorious Ache [Rest]

Stop holding out your hand
like he can see the baggage that
twisted Indian burns
onto your fingers.

He doesn’t know the difference
between your lowest moment
and your highest,
the same way he doesn’t know
why one of your front teeth is chipped—-
all he sees is your smile.

We always talk about scars,
us poets;
our demons,
our pasts,
how one of us
is more
unlovable
than the next.

We don’t realize that
scars come from wounds that have healed over,
that demons
are just fallen angels,
that our past does not have
to repeat itself.

So take my heart in your hands
like a stopwatch.
We can run this race together
or wait until the alarm goes off.
Either way,
we will be together,
sprinting or benched.

I have not wasted bandages
to never risk re-opening my wounds.
I have not tried my hardest
so the next time could be easier.

Love
is all about that glorious ache.

That fear of falling before you fly.
That jump you take,
where there is no him,
or I,
but an us,
and goddamn it,
he will not notice
the blood under your fingernails,
or the dirt on your knees,
so please,
just realize:

You are covered
in new beginnings.

He does not see your failures
in the gaps of your teeth.

Let him peel off your layers
only when you’ve found peace.