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.'
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