even when the night changes

I. i’m the kind of asshole who will stand on the other side of the room the whole night, silently hoping you will touch me. why ask for the things i want when i can do nothing and complain? very sensible.  perhaps i’ll go outside and beg the dead trees for money, next. II. all this is to say that if i don’t ever find out what your hands feel like on the backs of my thighs i will set this goddamn house on fire.

DO DEMISEXUALS ONLY SLEEP WITH DEMIGODS demi is from the Latin for “half” and there are so many nights where i feel that in my bones half-human the bed half-full my body less lush oasis and more desert at night half-eaten the ragged edges of my self catching on the smiles of men i’ve known so long that the half-window of opportunity has long been slammed fully shut even though i am wanting and wanting there are no half-measures about the way that i think about the men who no longer think about me

He said, “I never want to pull out of you” and I think I fell in love. What a fucked up thing to do. And this wasn’t supposed to be a fucked up poem but it’s turning into a fucked up poem because I haven’t been able to cum in three years without thinking of his hips sliding into mine: like first base, like second base, like third base, like home.

just to let you know i love the direction your poetry is going in. you're a gift to us all.

This is the part where I Google signs of emotional abuse and wonder how many I have to tick off to prove there was a problem. The part where our friends wave away the details and say that they love us both anyway. The part where I take the details to bed with me. Hide them like baby teeth. Keep waking up hoping for change. This is the part where we fake it for everyone else’s comfort. The part that has nothing to do with us. We sit alone in two different apartments. We write our separate poems about nothing. You don’t mention how I couldn’t sleep in the bed when you were in it. I don’t bring up how you used me like an ATM. How you masturbated loudly every night in the other room. How we never touched. How I said we needed to talk about it and you said no. How I could have picked a better hill to die on than one with nothing at the bottom of it.

bad times with adhd:

I. you’ll need soft, thin muslin and a needle and thread. trace him out with a crayon. cut with a steady hand. cut with the sharpest scissors you own. my mother always said, you have to make it so your seams don’t show. that means tiny stitches. that means slow going and a sure needle. take your time. soon you’ll sew up all your heartbreaks by hand. II. fill him. fill him with beans, kernels, seeds: something organic, something hard, like he was. stitch him tight up the back. let your fingertip worry the seam like you used to stroke his spine. i wouldn’t suggest kissing him–he’s cool to the touch, all lumps and cotton when your lips only remember silk– but there’s no harm in it. not anymore. III. pour yourself a glass of wine. pour him a draught of lighter fluid. toss a match with one hand and toast him with the other. close your eyes and listen to his stuffing clatter to the ground. it will sound like hail, fireworks, gunfire: a punishment, a revolution, a warning. IV. this is what you make when you keep leaving fist-sized holes in the walls. when you can’t stand the idea of hurting him, but you can’t stand him, either.

i just want a week where the worst thing that happens is that i forget to pay a bill on time. or that it rains for two days straight. or that the dog peed on the carpet again. i am so tired of treading water, of talking myself down ledges, of surviving half-catastrophes: you know, the ones that send you to the bottle but not to your grave, the ones that manifest as toothaches, as chest pains, as bad dreams that keep you up nights. the cat sleeps on my chest because she finds my heartbeat soothing. inside it feels like a hoofbeat suicide, a ticking grenade, swelling and thudding with its own explosive potential: HEY, KID. ARE YOU READY FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?

me: writes an over-the-top, emotional post that exposes my heart or w/e