i'm tired too, thankyou for ending the dialogue.

i say one sorry and my guts fall out.

oh man i guess it's all alright now.
but the mess was upsetting and the shower stings
and people have been asking about the dark circles beneath my eyes.

"don't do that..."
he's genuinely worried and he won't look up from his history homework.
"i know."
i smile sideways and unscrunch my sleeve.

cotton crush.

i said some morbid things, but i came back to backspace it all.
i'm okay.

i'm still sorry, though. 

i'm sorry nearly every time i part my lips.

well shit.

i'm sorry i have the tact of a goat.

and i really rarely know what you're thinking,
unless you're asking me to play a certain song,
and you can't quite remember the words right
or more than a few notes and that it was acoustic.

and i hate myself sometimes,
so i figured you did too.
especially because you never told me why you wouldn't,
except that i was simply great.

and i'm a self-sabotaging asshole
who's ruined every relationship i've been in from the start.
because i dunno, i've got issues.

i am really sorry
i didn't think this through
or even try to talk it out,
because i was afraid of you
and crying
and getting a shrug for an answer.

i'm sorry.

mostly i've been scared.

maybe i should've faded out silently,
but i wanted to explain that i still think you're great.
(and part of me wanted you to argue.
to make me stay,
maybe.)

i'm just so tired.

not tired of you and not tired of the moments we're together, but
tired from the spaces between and the aching in my guts
of myself and the way your occasional affirmations aren't enough
to convince me i'm valuable or loved very much.

and there's no way i'd try to blame it on you,
that's why your sorry's make me cringe--
i'd never ask you to change
and i don't need you to apologize.

i just think i've never fit at your side
the way i felt you fit at mine,
and i'm tired from running to keep myself at least at your heels.

sometimes i get noble ideas,
i dress up like a prince and pretend i'm self-sacrificing.
"if only i can make her smile, i don't mind feeling lonely."
but it came out desperate and choked up and jealous in the end.
that's not what i wanted at all!

we have our whole lives out ahead of us,
and i think they'll be wonderful.
i hold lots of memories inside that were wonderful too.
so thankyou.
(for last summer at the lake, for all the nights on the bridge, for sharing good drinks with me, for being the only one with a comfortable silence, for staying pretty chill about my crush on you, for making me grin until my face hurt, for playing guitar with me, for reading the long letters, for being my friend this long, for everything.)

if i never came back or wrote another word for you
i'm sure you'd be alright.
i mean i think so.
i mean you never told me otherwise.

so will i, i still have lots of nice songs,
and i might move to california someday.

i'm not sure what's going to happen.
but as usual, I'm sure it will be okay.

we'll all float on alright.

i read a story about jellyfish and the ocean, and the writer made the sea sound like a prison, said that all the interesting things happen on land. but i think i'd like to be a part of the ocean, the way it touches everything, the vastness-- or even better a part of the sky, a piece of black or a speck star. and everyone on land would look out to spot me for a second, if they could see me at all, and they'd think that all the fun was where they were. but i'd be an entire galaxy sizzle-crackle-singing silence into the vacuum. i think maybe i'm like that now.

i refuse to hate myself this time.

i don't know what you want me to do
about your struggles as the parent of a queer kid.

you constantly minimize my issues and demand i
recognize and pity your place as my parent.

you're right, you didn't ask for this,
you didn't see it coming.

but deal with it.

you're a grown-ass woman.

ground bloom flower.

furiously buzzing, 

spin and spark,

i spat out ten-hundred bitter words

for each of you,

even the ones i like.

but i sputter out to a soft glow candle flame

unimpressive and sorry.

we were small with salty dirt lines on our feet,

twisted hair, tiny wrists, butterfly heartbeats.

but today we woke up as men.

when i was small,

i learned how to swallow gravel,

just so.

they filled my hands with it,

pressed them shaking to my lips,

and i took it in each time with muffled

apologies

and "i love you's."

they taught me not to lie,

or to show my sensitivity--

they taught me not to lie

or tell the truth.

in middle school i began swallowing rocks

hot like sun or cool and smooth and wet like winter.

i learned to turn my head aside and

smile

before gulping and excusing pains quickly

with half-false hugs

as that something hot or cold slipped down my esophagus

and into my belly.

high school, my stomach collected stones

weighty and shifting and sinking inside,

and i forgot how to swim,

and i dreamed about drowning every night.

i am nineteen and my body's full of boulders!

i'm so sorry,
i'm so sorry you break my heart each day,
i swear to god
i'll sweep up the pieces and hide them under rugs--

i'll swallow the moon for you.

someday.

yes i love you with all my heart and mean it,
but one day i'll just stop talking--
and i'll never write another word about you.

i won't stare at the black night ceiling with your name on my lips,
with my fingers keeping silent secrets from you,
always poised to spill my emotions and fears out
through the safety of distance.

i won't make wishes
on dandelions
or satellites
for you anymore.

that's how i go every time--
like a season passing overnight;
you'll wake to see
all the leaves dropped,
the frost gone dew,
the flowers wilting with sunrise,
the green now red and gold.

i'll disappear before you finish stretching,
before the blinds are opened,
before the first yawn;
i'll disappear like a coward
and it will be alright.

love, or like a whole lot, or whatever.

and i am only waiting for one to notice,

notice the distorted patterns in my left hand fingertips,

and the way i stand when i mean to be brave,

the smell of me stuck to my clothes,

or the sadness i hide from myself in content words

like landmines that collapse my stable structure moments after i speak them.

it's the little things that matter most

and i wait for someone to notice them,

to pluck them like tiny flowers, spin them between their fingers,

appreciate them and love them 

and press them between the pages of their favorite books.

occasionally i am just a little sick of being forgettable

and quiet in your heart.

growing up.

And none of us quite remember when we became assholes.

lost thoughts.

my tongue rubs onto the back of my teeth

the infinitely many words it holds for you

and for your eyes

and the holes they leave in me

when they light glances against my skin

like horse-hair brushes,

bristles replaced with steel wool.

if i had stuttered out only half my words,

in my own voice, splitting silence,

while my own sharp eyes parried

your's and their warning glances,

would your heart have skipped or dropped or hardened

or felt a thing at all?

i am sad, so very, very, sad.

SO SAD.

Thank you. This next one is called, 'We Hate You, Please Die.'
____________________________________________________________________