so let us fall to sleep.

A headache started in the earth, a tremor, quake, a shift,
it traveled through my barefoot soles;
it vibrated into my bones, shook the towers, tibia,
and clung to my pelvis a moment,
like a desperate lover--or a cloying cliche.

It curled up there and rested in my hips,
losing oxygen fuel before bursting out for lack of air,
like an inferno, into the cavity of my chest,
where it caught its/stole my breath then gripped my spine,
continued its climb up the vertebrae ladder.

A headache traced my shoulders' curves
and slithered down the length of my arms to my fingers
where it paralyzed the fifty-four parts,
the fifty-four fragile pieces that hold the pen and romance guitar strings,
that sketch, reform my vision to things beautiful.

It left my chest as useless, immobile as the rest
before proceeding to fill my head,
to scrape the base of my skull and
turn the spaces of my eye sockets to a vacuum;
a headache inhabits my consciousness.

why do you care anyway?

"Some day you'll change your mind, you'll want a family."

But what if...

I don't ?

What if I want a girlfriend? 

Or a best friend? 

Or two dogs and a van?

What if, huh?

What if my body is all twisted up inside anyway, and I can't have kids?

What if I never even get married?

What if I live in a commune and smoke pot until I'm old?

What if I don't change my mind?

Will I be worth less to your society, without a family?

I think it's fine.

I just need to be happy and try not to hurt people too badly.

Dear dear,

Hey. In case you were wondering... I'm alright. And I'm pretty happy.

I still sort of want to be the one to steal your kisses and make you laugh. I want to hear you play songs. I want to make you angry and also happy and I want to know the real parts of you that you hate and hide and need to let go. I could be something great, I'm sort of not so bad and I'm cute sometimes and I can protect you as well as a man ever could. I don't know, I guess I loved you and thought maybe... But I'm just confused. Not everyone can love anyone. And probably definitely not you.

But yah, I'm alright.

Just... Every time I try to write you another letter, it ends up like this, all strikedthrough and uncomfortably bitter. When did I start lying to you?

Steel trap caught the crafty paws, mimicking her that caught sweet-hearted mice before, stilled quivering little whiskers and cracked thin spines at necks.

Rusty metal teeth drew and poisoned the blood; it flowed like glacier waters, frigid, frosting blue, down obsidian fur.

She grinned at them with the Cheshire’s citrine gaze.

It grins at her with grey and red-brown jaws.

Oh the irony.

I've tried a thousand times to write
and tell you how I feel felt,
but we all know that would just be
fuckin stupid.

a myth of little meaning.

Hush, remember August.

 Though the northwest has never been home to the fireflies, I do believe our glowing deities gave us their blessing that night; the light that births worlds, birthed incomprehensible feelings inside.

... Or at least inside of me.

Our system's summer star, forged by those same fireflies, bleached our unkempt, sea-spray curled hair to a blond near white. Hay-stack dry from being carelessly air-dried, the pale crowns we'd failed to grow out clung to our sweaty necks.

Here now, I cut out pieces of my mourning veil, make paper dolls of black Chantilly lace. I string them up inside my rib-cage; they complement the elephant ivory tusk bones that failed to protect the contents of my chest.

The gods made us all too fragile, and I see now we were not blessed, that August, but I was cursed! FUCK!

Now you lay in your casket all gold, gold, the fireflies forsook us, I am what's left.

My problem with the Bible... is that it's, like, a book.

We're all going to get different things out of it. Sure, we all get that David killed Goliath, Jesus died on the cross, whatever. But everything that's not narrative like that becomes dependent on the individual and deconstruction is sort of necessary.

If it were all a little more consistent, maybe I could believe that book is more than just paper and ink.

But for now, I don't really like the Bible. Or God.

Oh well. 

Peeve.

Desperate girls.

You want a man? 

Well it's not all romantic!

Half of it ends in divorce.

Awesome, right?

And that's where you're headed,

creating these shallow relationships.

If you want a man, be a whole person first,

someone who is fine on their own!

Someone who has lived a bit of life on their own.

You haven't even learned to be yourself yet, 

but you want to try and make "us" work.

If you can't love yourself, by yourself,

how can you expect anybody else to?

If you think you're pretty shitty, truly, 

how can you give that to someone you "love?"

You have these expectations, like

"He should get the hint,

He should know what I'm thinking,

He shouldn't be confused by me."

Don't drop hints.

Say what you think. 

Stop being confusing.

Even outside romantic relations,

you should be like this.

Or else people will probably sort of hate you.

Also, dating just because someone's there
is stupid.
And you'll end up hurt,
even if you think it's no big deal.

I'm sorry, I'm being judgmental again.

But I don't actually care.

Because people like this make me want to lecture.

Not that I should tell anyone how to live...

dear mom

i was going to say a lot of things
but i just decided all that really matters is...
i love you.

and if i love a girl someday, too, i'm sorry if you're disappointed.

for now, it's just a haircut
and sometimes men's clothing.

it's okay, really.
it's just me figuring myself out.

hiding in a man's sweatshirt
peppermint on her breath
just gotta be tuff, hold out
it's a lion mane sort of day
it's a hide your chest sort of day

she cuts her claws so she can play guitar
but they've grown out long for now
she muzzled herself so she couldn't steal that one's smile
but she's stretching her jaws now

she pretends it's a cigarette
she's basically a kid
peppermint on her breath

this is a proposal or something.

"Ugh. This is so uncool. I know. Emotion. Scary.

But I guess what I'm trying to say is... You wanna live together forever? And play guitar in a mediocre way together? And cuddle and eat fruit and be sweet, always? Can we have a fight every now and then, and make up in the best ways? Can we get a dog?

I'm good at making gifts and giving praise and holding hands. I don't know if I'm good at kissing or not. We can try if you like. I'm loyal. And even if I don't believe in love, I believe in us, and I think we could be okay.

Be my best friend forever. It's stupid to be lonely. We can be chill forever. Okay?

Goddd, what am I even saying?"

And that's how I felt for a second there.

"I really fucked it up this time. Didn't I, my dear?"

I'm trying hard not to judge people, alright? I'm trying so hard.

I judge people for being judgmental. That's the stupidest thing ever.

And I judge kids for acting like kids. What?

But let me just say, we're all fuck-ups. 

So that helps a little. Not that it makes me right.

Don't worry, I've already scolded myself plenty.

And...

We're all okay. Alright?

stabilize.

Again and again, I'll bury bodies under rugs!

Never fall in love with an idea.

If you do, hold it close to your chest and run away
So it can't rot--
Can't rot like the bodies that I bury under rugs
After I grow emotional at the death of an idea.
I fell in love with an idea.

I'll build a new house.
And I'll buy new rugs.
It's alright.
It's just scary that they saw the corpses.

still, sorry.

I hate saying sorry.
And I hate that I always do it so easily.

Either be one of those people who doesn't care at all.
Or be one of those sappy self-hateful sorry people.

You can't switch back and forth, stupid.

Or I could give up on being any kind of person.
And just go for it.
Like always.

"I'm a big believer in metaphor, Hazel Grace."

I really like windchimes

and watermelon 

and using chopsticks 

and laying in the grass

and metaphors.

Metaphors are probably my favorite.

But sometimes beating around the bush is stupid.

And metaphors make it all too easy.

You're butterfly's wings.

You're a shoe-box full of secret things.

And an ancient trunk full of nothings.

You're an unsmoked cigarette, held between my teeth.

And I'm holding the lighter all too close

to this killing thing.

not really bad, i suppose.

It's raining, damp west coast air drenching fur coats.

Camouflage shades of flames and sunshine drip down storm drains

As the wolves slink back to their apartments.

Their catches are held between their teeth and

The prey's natural orange slowly dulls.

They'll share a bed and a home, 

And grow grey-brown together.

All of the burrows lay empty, now.

That life was never practical anyway.

We can trust the smooth concrete walls of the apartments.

It's a decently satisfying life.

And in the end, it's okay, right?

It feels fine.

melting sometimes.

Cool it.

Trying to be likable isn't your thing.

Being likable probably isn't either.

You're ice.

Don't worry, they'll be fine.

And you don't have to try to fit in the picture.

So...

Cool it.

There are reasons you shouldn't say what you're thinking.

There are reasons you shouldn't be honest.

There are reasons, and we've ignored them.

There are reasons.

Now all that's left is us

and a pile of reasons ripped away

and a thousand judgmental

or true

or harsh

thoughts, piled on the ground.
But I guess it's too late to stop, now.

Sorry, mom, and emily, and you, kid.
I could stop
but being free of reasons feels good.
Even if it hurts sometimes, I just want to be true.

I'll try to think nicer things, though.
As best I can, I mean.
So that I can say those, instead.