If these poems are my children
I wanna give birth underwater
so these words can swim
like you've back-stroked
through my cranium
we are an unopened biopsy
tangled between growth and tumor
for your birthday
I bled out a stanza for each year
I'm not allowed to put your name in.
you find sanctuary in the undefined
when you're impossible to call
So I leave you tangled in radiowaves
waving goodbye
through shattered frequencies
I'll just say you're that guy.
That guy,
who makes friends like rabbits make babies
won't commit to disliking anyone
That guy, who crushed peanuts
to properly demonstrate
how something is snorted.
who is convinced my aorta is leaking
excreting his name
hoping he’s one who broke it
Remember when you told me you wanted to peel off all of your skin?
I silently agreed.
You found me wounded.
my chest sliced open.
I've earned the right to see your bones.
You can connect my scars like constellations
but you don't know how cool I can be.
I've crinkled the horizon
played hacky sack with a sunset
You degrade my charisma into chaos.
Yet you told my defective stand-in
She’s pretty amazing
So thanks on her behalf.
Remember when I assumed
you were an ultra-flamboyant gay
and you thought
I was a really annoying bitch?
Well I still like white rappers, and you're still a drama queen.
Your hands are bugs.
Amazonian bugs.
I swat them when they’re gnats
when they become fireflies
I clench luminescence between my knuckles
afraid to let go.
I'm not sure if this is a poem anymore.
I'm not sure if I'm a poet anymore.
If I was a poet I'd explain it's good you're reckless,
but you need to figure out
the right things to be reckless about.
You've put the he in hedonism,
sponsored irresponsibility
yet you're never wild enough to let yourself be happy.
You're not numb.
You're not that guy.
You're the guy casted by Judd Apatow
but written by Nicholas Sparks.
You say things that sound pretty.
Chase girls who let you be ugly.
You hate cliches you can't live in.
Though I've sure as hell enjoyed helping you try.
You perform honesty
Give them everything
to know which weapons to flee.
Sometimes it works.
I know because I'm that girl.
You're that guy who told me I was too honest.
That guy who's worn
the bicycle cop costume
way too many times.
I’m on that fabric.
Stop wearing your dirty laundry.
I'm sorry this poem is so much about me.
It was meant to be about you.
Can we settle at us and be even?
I always accept your apologies.
I never say I'm ok.
17. Remember the time we absorbed shooting stars?
You penned on my hand
I wish I knew what to wish for next.
I wanted to ink back
Wish for me.
I wouldn't have meant it.
We like the fantasy.
We're not each others'.
17. There are no more shooting stars.
But this is your 19th birthday poem
the receipt for a fresh wish
Wish for a map.
You're no good at being lost.
When you find yourself, rescue me.
Because I'm still
17. Repeating my number of years
because I don't know what else to count on.
I should've numbered scars
private ruptures we exchanged
You have a photographic memory
remember what my cracks look like.
where to burrow in a crowded room
I’ll use my echoic mind
to fossilize sounds,
your voice explaining
the broken
you fill by swallowing yourself
I know you love being that guy.
But I'm in love with my guy.
The man you’re afraid to be.
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