I am moving very very soon. This is your last chance to send me the 5 dollars. So, please do that. Because your lack of doing it is making me quite sad.
Thinking about you hurts.
You in front of the window,
you beside me in bed,
you holding me
all of it hurts.
In a few weeks
I will leave this apartment
and I am afraid
your ghost will leave me.
I’m aching for it all the time,
it is always there
you, you, you
the way your skin felt
the way your face looked
I miss you.
I spend all of my day
pretending that isn’t true,
I spent years planning a life
I don’t know where you are
I’m scared to know.
Are you happy?
Do you miss me?
Do you think of me at all?
I loved you.
I loved you so fucking much
my idea of the world was defined
by your smile
you are gone
and I am leaving this home
and I will live
somewhere you have never touched
and god I miss you,
I will pretend not to.
Anonymous asked: who do you write about?
Myself. Even when I’m writing about or to someone else, it’s always going to say more about me than it does that person. Sometimes it doesn’t even say that much about me, they’re just passing thoughts or feelings, or completely unrelated to me just brought on by the muses or some shit. Poetry is really weird for me, sometimes the poem has nothing to do with me and sometimes it’s everything I am. I think that I start poems and then the poem finishes itself. They also can’t be taken as fact, they’re completely based on subjectivity and not reality, and they tend to not even be what I really think. It’s weird, alright?
I want to say I’m sorry
for holding you in my hands
and thinking that meant
I had touched all I needed to
to know you.
I was wrong about that.
I was wrong about a lot of things.
for putting a weight on you
that you didn’t deserve
that you couldn’t carry.
I didn’t know it would be so heavy.
I’m sorry for this,
I am dramatic
and too many other words that mean
I got caught up in it.
I’m still trying to sort out for myself
what was really there and what wasn’t,
what was concrete,
and what I only filled in with my own ideas
is I am as broken as I said I was
that I made myself believe things
that were not quite real
and not quite false
and that part,
was not your fault.
This my apology
for the poems
(for this one, too)
for deciding that I knew you,
(that I loved you)
without having any idea
what I was talking about.
I am not good at this.
I am trying to be better.
I know this sixteen-year-old boy,
and his heart is being crushed,
for the very first time.
And it’s all declarations,
And I keep thinking about you.
I love you that way,
you loved me too,
but now we don’t speak at all.
I’m wondering if every love gets less grand,
if at forty-five I will love a man,
and it will feel a lot more like peanut-butter,
than crashing waves and devastating fires.
All I know is you fucked up,
and now we’re both lost in mediocrity.
My Bipolar, Part Two: Mania
In which I discuss the “manic” part of being manic-depressive and say “uhm” way too much. (It comes from being uncomfortable talking about things)
I’m moving out of this apartment in a couple weeks, so seriously, if you haven’t sent your $5 yet (and most of you haven’t) I would greatly and deeply appreciate if you could.
I traced the steps of your ghost
through town tonight.
I sat vigil by the willows
and remembered being kids on a bench
making promises we didn’t understand,
holding your hand like a tether to the universe
and loving you.
I went through campus,
now filled with construction signs,
the walking paths cut off
saw the light reflecting on pools
made by the sprinklers and remembered
the times we fought, and made up, in it
the times I spent moving my feet and my body
in an effort to miss you less.
I stood outside of my dorm building
and saw reunions and goodbyes,
I heard For Emma echo through the arch
I saw the bench
filled with apologies
and phone calls
I remembered the month and months
over and over.
I crossed the mile from my studio to yours
and thought of kisses more holy
than half the preaching done in churches,
and of the lonely walks home after fights.
When we left each other
it was like a cell splitting into two,
it’s taking us that long to let it go
because this body has been grown by us both
and there is so much of you in here.
Outside of your apartment
I could smell the coffee from all the times
I spilled it in your bed
(I could feel the echo of how gentle you were with me)
and cigarette smoke
(and the long silences, waiting for you to speak).
I remember the comfort of your t-shirts
and your hands
and the way your lips tasted
after ice cream.
I remember loving you,
more than I knew how to.
I’ve been telling everyone I can’t wait
to go anywhere and not run into you
but the truth is
even when you leave this town,
I will still be seeing you around.
—A long way of saying I was happy to be your temporary home
A Thank You