214. Suicide Attempt #18.5

If your mother is in the garage
with the car running
that means it is Tuesday.

On Wednesday, only one of you
will remember this faux pas
and for the rest of your life

You will be the one who remembers
the most in any pairing.

*

By Thursday,
everything is a weapon.
You are dreaming

Of your little sister again
and the monsters she does not need
saving from.

You have all grown up
into different kinds of flowers
and creatures.

213. Premature Hauntings

I began writing about you
long before we met.

Strange little prophecies,
bloodied roses thrown
on the snow.

They call this the wolf moon.
I would like for you to come over
and devour me.

212. Plight of the Cartographer (Please Come Home)

You want to be made
out of maps? 
It's too late 
             for that,
love.

211. War

Be selfish.
Dig into him
with your bare hands.
The sky will be red
no matter which path
you choose.
Cover your knuckles
in little plums
and do not apologize.
Not everyone wants
the olive branch,
least of all you,
you cold sad thing,
living on animal
instincts. Let the winter
turn your bones
into steel. Do not stop
for anyone, do not
turn back, for risk
of snapping your neck.
Bury it. Do not come back
until spring.

210. The Mathematics of Magnets

All of your bravado.
All of these circles.
No one shall ever touch you.
Tell him that's what you want.
Make him believe it.

209. Kentucky Derby

Loss is like an old lover
whose bruises you still carry
because you never learned
how to say I'm sorry
or I forgive you.

You try to learn how to behave.
How to sit still with a person
or a place and have it equal
contentment.

*

All good things take time, yes,
but you did not even think
that you would make it to thirty.

You owe the world now.
All the prayers it said for you.

*

Do not love him, do not love him,
do not love him.
Turn this into law.
Repeat it until your stomach is full
and you are sick.

He is outside your window,
singing. He is always singing
and waiting for you to tap along,
not understanding what it means
for your feet to be still.

208. Birthday Present

I suppose you'd like an invitation.
It's not all spun sugar and confetti here.
My palms pressed to my eyes.
I will offer what I can,

call you handsome and let you stay the night.
You have come
so far, haven't you?
The warmth of your hands
finally reaching the shore,

wrung and tired and aching to be clean.
So this is the trick to happiness.
You on the bed with a mouthful
of patience. You in the stairwell
holding me up against the wall.

You have all the answers,
so tell me: Why keep this many
of my slivers in your memory
if you're not going to touch me
in an interesting way.

207. Vaccine

I refer to men as fevers
Because of the flush
Because of their lifespan
Because I feel much
More like myself
After they've gone.

206.

Maybe I love you,
maybe I don't.
But I know the electricity
generated by my body
when you walk
into a room.

Dear Readers,

[Pictured: Doodles and drafts, from an airplane between Tampa and Baltimore.]

This blog has a strange reader-writer dynamic. We are very quiet with each other. I could probably count on one hand how many times I have posted a note to you in between poems. And the rare comments and emails are almost always left anonymously. I know bits of your stories, bits of your feelings, often only attached to an initial. I don't thank you enough. This blog has existed since 2008. I do not promote it anywhere, and nearly everyone that I know in my tangible world does not know about it. Yet still, you've found me and followed, and I could not be more grateful. For your support, for your stories, for your sharing, for knowing that someone out there can relate to the silly things that spill out of me here (and not always in a very beautiful or even decent way).

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

At the very beginning of 2012, still spinning from the end of a relationship and needing arbitrary goals, I decided to write and post one hundred poems by the end of the year. I didn't fail. I ended up at one hundred and three, not included drafts and fragments that were never posted here. I do not have a similar goal for 2013, but I do intend on continuing to write and post, but without the unnecessary pressure. I do not know what is going to happen here.

However, there is one small addition. I understand that many of you have found me through tumblr posts, so I have created a tumblr that will hold identical content to what is found here, in hopes that this will make reading this a little more convenient for you. Let me know what you think?

As for 2013, I think that Neil Gaiman has said it best: "So that is my wish for you, and for me. Bravery and joy." 

I love you, strangers.

205. On New Year's Day:

Nobody could find you at midnight.
I'm beginning to wonder if you were something
made up by my imagination
to push me through the autumn.

I went home with somebody else
and didn't feel anything.
This is why I miss you:
You shook me awake
when everyone else
kept me dull and tired.
You wiped my eyes
clean.

This is a poor description.
I wish I could articulate
you better.

We collect the things that we relate to.
Jars of dandelion, photographs
of county lines, shards of glass. You?
You have not let another person
into your apartment,
and the company you keep
remains a mystery.

I would not know what to give you.

Haunt me.
Be the voice in the night,
the presence in an empty room.

204.

If I could wish
anything for you
it would be
that you fall in love
with the person you are
and learn to forgive
the person you were
and see all of the room
you still have
inside of you
and finally allow
something to fill it.