An Open Letter

You should be made illegal.
You should not have met me, I should not have laid eyes on you.
You should be against the law, and away from me.
You should not be allowed to be so nice, and giving.
You should not be so gentle and funny, and smart.
You should never have befriended me.

You should not look at me like that,
with your eyes half open and groggy from alcohol,
a loopy grin playing on your lips,
and mischief just waiting in the air.
You should not worry about me,
and make me feel important,
like if I disappeared you'd care.

You should not make me laugh,
and make me feel like there's life in my veins,
like I'm eighteen again with no scars on my heart.
You should not make me feel safe,
even when I've just given you the key
to get past my defenses.

You should not be able to brush my embarrassment under the rug,
like it never happened, like it doesn't matter.
You should not be allowed to make me feel at peace,
even when you're driving half-drunk down a deserted road.
You should not make me feel like you won't break my heart.

You should be made illegal.
You should not ask how I am,
if I've gotten home safe.
You should not text me back,
you should not ANSWER.
You should not take me to places
that take my breath away,
because you felt the same way when you first went.

I should not so easily have fallen for your gentle charm,
and the way you speak so softly.
I should not have let you in,
and felt your warm presence.
I should not have felt that pang of jealousy
when she put her arm around yours 
and you smiled at her the same way you do with me.

Check List

Give me someone with fire and courage, 

someone with heart and passion, 
and love.

Give me someone who sees the stars in people's eyes 

but loves the constellations in mine the most. 

Give me someone who likes to make people laugh, 

but realizes mine is their favorite. 

Give me someone everyone can depend on 

but allows me to lean on them when my defenses are weak. 

Give me someone who respects everyone and everything accordingly, 

someone alive, not existing. 

Give me someone who makes everyone feel at ease 

but makes sure I always feel safe. 

Give me someone who likes coffee and good food, 

who will take me on adventures physically, mentally, emotionally; 

someone who can find the beauty in the forests that have overrun my mind. 

Give me someone who will look at the broken pieces of my glass heart 

and make them into a mosaic. 

Give me someone who understands my love for books 

and my need to express my opinions. 

Give me someone who cares enough to listen, 

and loves me enough to argue sarcastically about the most mundane things. 

Give me someone who will laugh at my troubles 

but hold me close when my demons come knocking. 

Give me someone 

with passion, 

with heart, 

with courage, 

and love.

Opposites and Synonyms

It's a storm inside this heart, underneath the chest muscles and the bones, and the self-made fortresses. It's a hurricane in this brain, under the hair, the skin, the skull, the obvious consciousness. It's a mess, this body under the perfectly pressed clothes, under the practiced smiles and lined eyes and painted lips. It's the ocean and the shore, and mountains upon mountains of ashes buried underneath the waves, it's salt and tears and cold whipping winds. 

It's not simple underneath this deconstructed facade, it's death and blood, despair and the moon pulling the tides to and fro. It's lullabies and screaming songs, soft strums and wailing electric guitars, it's red roses in pretty vases and forests of giant trees at the same time. It's the tiniest kitten with the loudest roar, and the battle-scarred wolf with the softest heart, it's opposites and synonyms rhyming all at once and never again.

It's a mess inside this body, it's all bruises and self-inflicted wounds. It's casket upon casket of dead selves with flowers sprouting from breathless chests and hearts clutched in frozen fingers. It's where the world ends and where it begins, and it's the meadows in spring and the deserts in summer, it's the rushing river and the dry river beds. It's the thunder storms and the shining sun, and they're all together and separated; and it's every bit confusing and every bit beautiful and fearsome at the same time. 

It's reds and blues, greens and oranges, purples and yellows, and blacks and whites all together, in equal measures. It's the tempest and the calm ocean, it's flame and ice, it's life and death; and it's underneath our skin, below the muscles, the tendons, the arteries, the blood, the bone, the marrow. It's in our souls and the mitochondria of our cells. It's who we are, who we want to be, who we are not, and who we become. It's our storm, and our hurricanes, and our mess; and it's glorious.

Hello, Again

I saw the horrible boy who made me laugh today. I was out on the town for business and had to walk a back road through the old churchyard to get myself a cab back to the office because the Park's streets were packed with festival goers. It had been a long day, and the afternoon was not even halfway done yet. I finally got a cab right before the road turned in to the church. As I was seating myself, I saw him walk out of the double doors and turn to the direction where I stood seconds ago. Five more seconds and he would have seen me. I was relieved, at first, like I had dodged a bullet. But a few seconds later, as he began shrinking away in the distance, a heaviness settled over me.

I had half a mind to ask the driver to stop, no, I changed my mind, I need to speak to him. In my head I had already ran to him, a big smile on my face, ready and willing to continue our camaraderie as if the past two years never happened, as if he never broke my heart. In my head, I had snuck up on him and looped my arm in his, only to laugh as he would panic and push me away. He always liked his personal space, and he was never one for random touches. Then he would laugh, too, and it would be like it was before, I would feel nineteen again, alive again. He would ask me how I was doing, and I would tell him of the hellish day I was having, and the problematic people I was dealing with. He would laugh at my troubles, like he always did, and then put an arm around my shoulders, comment on my height and tell me I could handle it in the most backhanded and cryptic way possible. I would have left my cares by the road as we walked down the path he was headed and talked about movies and existentialism, and the coming elections.

But I didn't tell the driver to stop. Why risk opening the floodgates of emotions that you so sturdily locked away years ago? I watched, still, as he disappeared when the cab turned the corner, and I remembered how he used to make me laugh at everything: my stress, my problems, the characters I so loved in the book I was reading, myself. I miss telling him my ideas and watching his eyes light up with a million stars because he was thinking the same thing, and our ideas would get crazier and funnier because our cuckoo minds would meet each other halfway.

He was the thunder to my lightning, and although he judged me, and he judged me heavily, he understood. He was a horrible, horrible boy, but he knew what to say to make me angry, to make me smile, to make me feel. I was grateful for that, and had I not handed my heart so carelessly to him without his knowledge, without his consent, we may still be friends now. Because what he told me when he broke my heart would not have hurt so much. He did not ask me to love him, he did not want me to, but we love who we love. I think that was my fault, I have a tendency to feel too deeply, to love too much.

But there he was and then, just like two years ago, he just wasn't there anymore. I miss him, very much, and that, I guess, is my fault, too.

The Horrible Boy Who Made Me Laugh

I fell in love once, just once, just the one time. At least it was as close to love as I thought I would ever get, I still think it is. You see, I fell in love with a boy who had a mind full of thunderstorms, hands like roses, and a silver tongue that stung.

He was not like the sunset, although his eyes did turn molten gold in early morning light. He wasn't an Adonis, and neither was he a Hercules. But his wit was as sharp as the arrows that flew from bows in the stories of myth, and his laugh felt like the rain on a day when the sun would shine so hot, the sidewalks seemed to melt. He was a horrible person, really. Spoiled and overly self-confident, he took his intelligence and used it as a weapon. He was underhanded and mean spirited, and made me feel like shit half the time.

But he made me laugh, and that was very important for me, at the time. All I wanted was someone who made me laugh. I felt horrible about myself already, anything he said, or did, did not hurt, at least not so much. He also read the same books I did, and as a teenage bookworm in an age where the boys thought reading was uncool and nerdy, he was a Godsend. He was opinionated, and unafraid to say what he thought, which, most of the time, was what I thought as well. He made me question things, he made me question everything, and he pushed me. Well, he pushed me away in the most hurtful way possible, but apart from that, he pushed me to do things I never would have. He challenged me, literally. When I'd tell him I wasn't sure of doing something he'd say "I'm doing it, so I guess if I get it I'm going to be better than you." He didn't get it, I did. Because he told me to.

He also intimidated me, and that is no mean feat, I may have hated myself, but I knew my views and my opinions and I knew how to voice them eloquently. I could intimidate the best of them, but him, I couldn't. He'd brush it off, and laugh in my face. It was refreshing. He had scathing retort after every scathing opinion, and he hurt my feelings at least three times every week, but he'd come up and wrap an arm around me when he knew he'd gone too far. He never said sorry, the unapologetic bastard. All he would do is sit next to me on the bench, and put an arm around my shoulders, or lean on me for a few minutes, transferring some of his warmth; and for some reason, I didn't need his apologies, I didn't want them. We'd sit there in silence, with him sometimes nudging my shoulder with his, or poking me in the ribs until I cracked a smile or pushed him away. He liked when I pushed, he'd laugh and then do it again until I started talking to him.

He read my poetry, and gave me constructive feedback, he drew at the back of my notebooks, and made me feel safe enough to say what I really felt, in the language that I could express myself best. He UNDERSTOOD. I could get lost in the stories he would spin, the way we talked about books and movies, and people we did not like. Every day would find me waiting for him because for once in my life, I valued someone else's opinion over my own. He slowly started to feel like home, like a white picket fence and a small two-bedroom house. I fell in love with him. I didn't realize it then, but I was.

Needless to say, he broke my heart and it felt like a punch to the gut. I was winded. But I didn't show it. I knew, you see, I knew. I was not his type. I was the furthest away from his type. But, God, do I miss the bastard. I don't hear his laugh anymore, we don't even talk. He's too far away for that, and I've pretty much severed that connection. What was the point of remaining friends if he still made me feel like shit at least three times a week, and he wasn't there to put his arm around me anymore?

I grew up, I guess. I love myself more now, and it's taken me 22 years to do that. I'll be damned if I let some boy bring me down again.

No, My Darling