I can't take it slow

You,
of whom I felt loved to death.
Upon our first meeting,
You
embraced Me like a close friend,
when I was still unfamiliar to touch
and grossly deathly afraid of the
skintoskin.

Oh
You.
I loved that,
and I loved how I met
You
under no special circumstances.
When
I was I,
and Me was Me.

You,
of whom I was drawn.
But you discovered the secret of Me.
(MeplusMe)
It was no lie; I couldn't hide it.
My contents spilled and leaked,
and I was there limping
on the floor of the counselor's office,
drenched in foreboding lingering regret
etched onto a memo pad:

Your Sophomore Schedule,

and it was done.

You
and Me split.
(we split kindly; the way that lovers do NOT do.)

You
discovered my secret--
my name is anonymous;
unknown and devoured by Your sumptuous lips.
my heart spilled that day,
and it rained of purples, greens, and reds.
and personalities, and characteristics, and apparently
our forgotten memories.

Your
mind had been reset;
and
You
asked me years later,
about how we had met.

I am sorry that I told You.
And I am sorry that I really know now,
that all that we had in the past is perfectly null.
Because...
You
can't notice me.

- - - - -

This is not a love poem. (Hm, I hardly ever write love poems...) This is a friendship poem about someone I've known for a few years. This is also about the difficulty of finding my identity (in the most obvious of ways). And the capitalized "you" is NOT making a religious reference. I make a play on capitalization in this piece. Everything (grammar, spacing, punction) is important. At all times.

It's always about you, isn't it. You can't even remember...

Your Window

You walk around with your head held high,
Expecting to be adored, patronized, loved.
You walk into the room knowing that I'll look at you,
Because I've haphazardly fallen for you and your
Incessant, annoying and persistent late night phone calls,
Your jerk-ish attitude but calming laughter,
Your brutal honesty and your
Fresh-from-the-laundry scent.
Gosh--I hate you...
I hate the way the corners of your eyes form wrinkles,
And the way tears drop when you're breathlessly
Bursting in a booming laugh.
I hate the fact that I know how you think
But I don't know your thoughts;
I can predict your every move and
Logically explain your every excuse
For doing (or not doing) what you're supposed to do.
I hate the way I look at you from across the room,
To assure that you can still drive home,
And you catch me.
Then, with a bottle in one hand,
Leaning up against the wall,
You wink and smile and act like all is fine and well.
What I hate most is that I expect that from you,
That I can't pull away from your stares,
That I actually want you to see me--
Even if it's only as a friend.
Because those winks,
Those tears, and
Those wrinkles,
Are what opened me up to see and love
Your innocent, oblivious and vulnerable soul.

Together

What if we
danced forever?
I'll lead,
you follow.

What if we stayed up
all night?
Taking about movies
and jello.

Would you be
happy?
The tears on your face
say "no."

Have you laughed
this week?
Looks like it hurts
to swallow.

Is this a week
to remember?
Goes by fast
yet so slow.

But what if we
kissed?
Would that break your rule?
I want us to grow.

When will things get
rocky?
Our love is something
I want to flow.

What if you
were scared?
I would hold you
and never let go.

Congratulations You're Alive.

You know when you sleep all day,
And you're like, "Damn, I wasted a day sleeping."
Sometimes I feel like that except -
I didn't waste the day sleeping.

MY ATTEMPT AT REDEMPTION.

i am what isn't most.

i am physically stronger than most (even though i'm not strong enough to turn a stubborn pipe valve with my fingers).

i am more honest than most (even though i can't follow through with my own occasionally found philosophy).

i am more realistic than most (even though it often costs me a sound and temperate reputation).

i am more aware of my dignity than most (even though i struggle to resist and i make those intentional slips).


even though they are unable to slip through a pair of jeans,
and look satisfyingly slim and decently fit,
my thighs are stronger and more shapely than most (even though i'll never come to terms with mod-coined cigarette pants).


although i am shorter than most,
i am more curvy and physically healthy than most (despite my naive disorderedly eating habits).

i am a flawed, finite being.
but a flawed, finite being who looks into the mirror day after day to assess who she sees, who knows what undying guilt feels like, who contemplates over every helping hand she's offered and every bloody nail she's hammered.

i am a flawed, finite being who remembers everyone she's hurt and struck with a fiery blaze and left behind with a blinded gaze.

before i can embrace another, i must embrace myself (including my thighs and derriere).


i may have a black heart now, but it wasn't charred to begin with.

Irvine Essence

Rich.
Girl.
Stomp ing shoes.
Wind between her hair
(always blowing in her hair).
Sun in her shades
(never sparkle with a care).

Thin.
legs.
Glowing in the night
(even though there is no light
where she's from).
They say that she's a feisty one.

Nice.
Clothes.
They always tend to see
(prices far beyond the fee
that they can pay).

Cold.
Stares.
Coming from the one
Who has opted out the fun
that is here.
She brought out everything she had in fear.


And still,
She is
un.
hap.
py.