I don’t believe in your notions of romance
I’m not disenchanted, was never enchanted
I have recanted my innocence
Give my pedestal to the citizens

Take that calcifying heart
There’s nothing left to preserve
Petrified, polarized
Lay it on the countertop
Give it an electric shock
There is no life to stop

This body is killing me
But your body is thrilling me
I find I’m dying willingly

There’s not a lot to summon anymore
Blown-up pictures of your performative self,
which you willingly handed over,
soaked with water
shredded and fragmented before
Pulpy, unrecognizable
You laud reliability
Boy-and-girl propriety
It’s why you always lie to me
You hide from me
Fear keeps you still
Keeps you thinking that you won’t when you will
Keeps you looking for a thrill
What are you doing? Drifters need to drift
and builders must build.
To be one or both,
to choose our path forward,
to give up our notions
of infinite options
to make our decisions
to draw our incisions
to accept and to care.
As my vision narrows
I could drive you there.

Okay,
what if
I mean
I’m sorry.
This comes down to something you don’t want to hear.
We’re disastrously incompatible.
I’m a complicated thing that fears feelings.
You’re a feeling thing that fears complications.
You set too much store by outdated theories,
your own theories composed of memories and guilt;
My own theories,
like little fantasies,
loathingly cultivated.
“I’ve got no claim on you now,” no, nor did I ever.
You’re an untouchable,
a live wire.
I’m a curious child with a hunch
that you will hurt me.
You’re a mockingbird that moves from nest to nest.
I’m a falcon that lives its life alone.

You fall in
I’m your net again
My acrobat
My lovely, bending grace
You point your chin high
Aim for the sky
Reaching, knowing with absolute certainty
Of success or security
The latter being me
Your very own girl-next-door type
As you dream about teenagers on yachts

You’re tumbling toward me
so I open my arms eagerly
I pull you in
like a man from the sea

I’m deep in your ocean
Flooded with thirst
Sweet tea

A boy who loves romance
with suspicion
who guards himself with the understanding
he is likely the more vulnerable one
Since I care so much about what you think
I’ve forgotten that you get carried away, too.

You know as well as I do.
You’re sailing toward a rocky shore.
My hands seek to intercept your arc,
your flight precipitated by your pronouncement–
What does it mean that she doesn’t know you?
She misses
You’re
going down
to me.
With me for a moment
but the show must go on

Changed
He changed
He used to be
on the brink of real insight
Read the Siddhartha
and dispense recycled wisdoms. Your stories of virtue
formed by the arbitrary metaphysics of your father.
He’s not my father,
and if he was I wouldn’t listen,
as they’ve all called me hardheaded
and learned to get out of my way.
She’s greedy and pale
and expects quick dividends
on an unyielding stock
who has changed and reverted
and dipped into
back to high school
back to young girls
afraid of commitment
drink a cheap beer
back to eighteen
back to
ha
privileged as you are, looking back
and here I’m forced tumbling forward
with no identifiable respite

Come back in your black shirt.
I admired the curve of your arm.
Your skin is getting pale
and you’re losing weight.
You have a new friend,
therefore you no longer need me.
Your hands are full
patting yourself on the back.
I refuse to see you as a pair.
I refuse to see you at all.

Terribly finished
Rustic aesthetic
Rich boys are thief lords
who grew up with no father
and sank into their role
It’s on me, it’s on me, it’s on me mantra
so escape is typically running away
and kissing a girl on the mouth
or the fact that cocaine tastes better on Mt Rainier.
I’ll pummel her
watching him physically raise his fists
the PTSD gives him hyper-vigilance
and he tells anyone who will listen
that he’s ready.
Rich boys manifest destiny,
mouths like slick salmon
saying
She’s incapable of love.
Psychopath.
Siren.
In another world my head does hit the step.
And then I don’t know what to say.
Fall off the radar and the plane will come.
My sense of gratitude slowly morphs
into snarling regret
then sweet indifference
saline
clinical
new.

I’ll build a cave below the ground.
Someday no one will be around
No sound
No sense
No reason in making friends
or asking you to attend.
But books could line my bed.
I’ll pretend
I’m Scipio turning red.
I know you better by a guess
it’s best
to confess
what you dreamt.

They all say they love me
and love seems so generic.
I’m starting to shrink
Will I make it?
I’m blue
I’m blue
I feel naked
I was mistaken

Why are they smiling?
Do they know my secret?
Have they seen my research?
Do they know I fake it?

You are the summer,
dewy and gold.
Your laugh rings like the Chinook.
On your brow,
the furrows of your spring are overgrown
by thick brown timothy. Somewhere I could sink
and sleep.

In this jungle
they had me entranced
by the sin of vanity,
of assumption
of belonging.
The ego
surrendering resilience
for security.
I prayed
as they showed me,
but nothing came to me.
For a moment I existed
inside of a bubble.
I gave up my white dress
to live with some purpose.
I thought it was best
or that I somehow deserved it.
He said “I know everything.
“Just try to surprise me.”
I had something boiling,
some kind of fantasy
where his honesty
was love for me.
Perhaps it was indeed.
I’ve done nothing worse
and quite a bit better,
so why can’t I get her
distaste from my head?
I wrote you a letter
with a solemn pledge,
but you gave her your hand instead.
Now in my past
are dozens of spirits
whose love I had gardened
with obsessive fire.
None of them last
or remember my passion.
Despite my fixation
she called me a liar.
Despite all the moments
in those days and these
when I think of her face
and struggle to breathe.
How we painted together.
How you danced in all weather.
The gold in your hair and your skin.
Your desire to be thin
and how much you needed him.
We decorated each other
and walked in the rain
espousing our pain. Why can’t it sustain?
Why then does anything begin?
Is the difference between love and abandonment
merely the “when”?
They tell me
all things come to an end.
They tell me
I am my only friend.
I am the only universal,
the only continuing thread.
And though tonight I’ll lie in your bed,
it’s like you
slipped
and
I slept in your stead.