What I love in talking to
you are the subtexts. Constantly running
around all the words we speak, roads
support me when others fail, hold
when others will crumble, you stand.

With. Every. Single. Pound
of his fist on the door your
Liv.ing.room. Compressed and I
started glancing around just
Looking. For. A. Way. Out these
walls will not contain me now they
Are.n't. Big. E.nough to try
and hold in my fears they
Ri.pple. And. Shake. Like
my shoulders try to do but
I. Am. Stron.ger. Than. This. Fear.
(I wish)

after I kissed you
brushing my teeth suddenly
became a sad chore

I often see you look at
me, your sidelong glances out
from lowered eyelids, as if wondering
where I suddenly
appeared from. Not the girl
you once had a chance of loving, before
she started living her life with
a bang, an explosion
so strong it shattered all
of your expectations, this
is not quite a woman, but you
do not know what she- I
am. You look on, dumbfounded
for only a split second
when hurtful words hurtle
out from my lips, whizzing by your straight back
and stony face, wondering
who put them these. I
am more brilliant and sharp
than you had ever
thought I would be, and you
do not know how
this could be.
Listen to me
when I tell you that this
is all to your credit. My words
are only being said in the style
of the master, she
who taught me to build bombs
of truths, to throw them
at the chinks she taught me to see
in the enemy's armor, to know
unerringly before whom
I stand. My brilliance
was a gift, too, this
is my outer shell, shining
with my blood that I tried
to keep in, but I couldn't, so I painted
myself and called myself
Red. My sharpness
is not originally mine, I
am removing the harpoons
you struck into my flesh, and
throwing them back, casting off the lines
you would hold me with. You see,
mother dearest, I am not truly, originally,
a shining star. I merely
follow the leader.

Your shoulders look so heavy
as you carry them back upstairs
and even your feet are tired
as you trudge one. step. at a time.
You say to call you only
if three or four minutes pass
and there is no respite.
I understand, you know. Everyone
needs to rest sometime
and now is your turn.
I will always admire the stoic way
you face rigid limbs
and bleeding mouths, the way you
can remain calm
as bedsprings and bodies shake as one
the acceptance of life as you
have come to know it. Yes,
I admire, eternally unable to emulate. You
know what to do. I, on
the other clenched hand,
am constantly terrified. Please
don't leave me on guard-
I will never be ready to face the monster
eating my little sister from within.

My perch up here is so
precarious. Though you led
me to this now, so surefooted upon
the steep trails we have
not dared broach for
these long months, I am scared
the warm sound of your voice
will soon fade, and here
on top of the world without
a hand to hold, though now
I am giddy, it will grow cold. You see,
on top of the world makes
it so much easier
to fall.

I hear your door
down the hall click
and know
you're awake once more.
Wild-eyed, chased by
ghosts that never leave
you alone, you emerge
from the fleeting
warm cocoon of sleep.
I am not
A ghost-buster
But I wish
I could be.

To reach out
and touch your cheek,
thistledown-light finger
upon the peach-fuzz softness
that is your skin.
I am quiet, reverent
not quite daring to believe
that this sleeping human (you
are so much more than human
and yet your flaws are compliments
to your other-worldly perfection
that root you solidly
to my terra firma) could ever exist
let alone exist here and now-
sleeping so soundly, so peacefully-
and you are mine to touch
as gently as I please.

As we walk
towards a concrete wall, towards
nothing, as you did, we
slowly, almost imperceptibly,
sink. As we walk
we are in direct juxtaposition
and symmetry to
your fate. For while we all
walk towards nothing, our nothing
will end, and you
are still interred around us.

And then I watched
as your smile stiffened
(imperceptibly, you thought)
and your embraces grew shorter
(I wouldn't notice, you told yourself)
while your laughter rang, forced,
(at least you were trying)
and when we fell asleep,
(you thought this would be)
I saw only your back.
*(more comfortable.)

I squeezed
myself smaller-
around you I
am not legitimate.

Accepting your words
           I needed
as only fear-
           I'm crumbling.

And after everything, I think
I can finally say I am beginning
to understand what you have been trying
to tell me for so long.
And after everything, I still
get scared sometimes, terrified that
everything I think I am understanding
is my own brand of idiotic hopefullness, or
worse, I have understood, but
you are feeding me empty sentiments, sugar cubes
to quiet a squalling baby.
And after everything, I see
in mind's eye, our figures
tied together, not mine
vainly trying to lasso yours, fine as shadow,
as I did for so long, and more
than that, I see us holding willingly
to this rope, precious more than gold
or anything anyone could offer me.
And after everything, I trust
not blindly, as I did before, but honestly
not the trust of a sun-dazzled fool
to her betters, but the open
and honest trust to a flawed human
who deserves it.
And after everything, I can say
we are not hurt, we stand
strong, I have predicted well
and we have survived, and your fears
were as unfounded as I said
they would be, (as unfounded
as my very own).
And after everything, I still
love you, and more
than I could before.

We walk in
to the barracks, where only
silence reigns. Any laughter
any chatter, any
noise at all, even
our footsteps, fades,
becomes hushed
and humble, to evaporate
into air, the air
we breathe, the air
so many choked on. Now
only the quiet explanations
and the muffled sniffles of those
who try not to cry
hang around our heads.

Tiny dots line up on
my screen with the flick of
my finger. Right now I could
be reading and expanding
my knowledge, I could
be writing and expressing
my feelings, I could
by doing anything
worthwhile, but I couldn'’t
care less.

I sit here and the sight
of your shiny wounds
makes me want to cry and
scream and rip all
of my skin off. These tracks
you create, as if waiting
for a train to arrive and take you
away through(from) your pain
are seared onto my eyes
and mind
and heart.

Maybe music is just
an abstract form of
water. It dances and
flows, currents swirling
over my head until I think
I will either drown or become
one with this element. I don’t
think I could live without
these ringing melodies, like when they
say I'’m impossible and must
need water to function normally, I
return that I think rather
music must be what I need
in order to lose myself and so
stay sane.

My poems, my thoughts
my pain on paper
they're all me.
Me me me me me.
I write these things for you
to find
And offer up my pain as
a selfish gift
an offering
a sacrifice.
Look at me.
Understand me.
Me me me
me me.
I give these things as barter.
I know you, your desire to feel
to see pain that isn't your own.
To think that
maybe
someone else has it harder than you
and secretly, happily
embrace the pity.
I understand and still I ask
Accept my offering.
And in return, give
Me me
Me me me
a feeling of understanding
like somebody cares.
More.
Give me
selfish me, twisted me
tired me hurting me addicted me
my drug.

So long ago, I raised
this up, all of my
expectations piled up like
so many building blocks.

now I sit here, trying
to find all the hope
I had constructed
my expectations of.

So long ago, I watched
as we crumbled, all of us
and everything we were falling
down like demolished children's toys.

now I sit here, trying
to understand why, if I watched
us fall apart, knowing the end,
I am still disappointed.

"I think the
dynamic might just be
problematic." I said and
I didn't think but
what I viewed as manifest
destiny may just have been
a self-fulfilling
prophecy.

I miss
those two hours we stole
that night, the way the road looked
under lamplight, stretching out
until after our eyes
would stop seeing, until
after where the circle of electric radiance
met its border, maybe
until forever. I miss
the enthusiasm, your nodding
when I would explain the way
my psychological manipulation works, how
our metaphors, for that feeling
that seems so normal, and yet so terrible,
matched perfectly. And the cold,
the gravel road, the aching feet, all that
I would gladly take for some more time
with you.
I miss
that hour we took unapologetically
the next day, even the time we spent looking
for the right spot, long as it was,
the gentle rocking of the hammock
and the snap-snap-snap
as we both pulled twigs apart
to keep our hands busy. I miss
that one particular moment
when I made you laugh, an inane comment
about getting my shoes *****, and how
your head dipped and skimmed
my shoulder, for just a second.
I guess, though I miss
all of these moments, mostly
I miss
you.

you are not traveling far away you are not
taking a bus or a train or a plane you are not
riding on horseback or walking miles you are not
sailing a ship over the sea you are not
moving yourself further away by any measurable distance.

and I know that this will end and I know
that everything will get better and I know
this is for the best and I know
that you will return triumphant and I know
that we are strong.

But you are still leaving.
And I am still crying.