Twenty-seven.

I want you to
want me like you've
never wanted
any one in your life.

I want you to
yearn for my touch,
my smile, my presence,
even if I don't say
a word to you.

I want you to
shiver when we touch
in a crowded room.

I want you to
watch me walk away
and hope that I'll
come back before you
have to leave.

I want your eyes to
follow me across the
room and watch my
hips when I dance.

I want all of you,
burning inside for me,
the way I do for you.

Twenty-six.

Hold me down,
pull my hair,
cover my body with
yours, tell me
how much I want
it and what a
whore I am and
what a great
cunt I have, tell
me everything
you're thinking
when you fuck me.

Twenty-five.

On nights like tonight,
with thunder rumbling
and the rain leaking
through my ceiling,
I feel like I could
throw away this
unhappiness, shed it
like a skin, that
each rain drop sliding
down the wall is a
fresh start and
the cracking in the sky
is God telling me to go,
to pack up and
head for higher ground
but when the rain stops,
when the puddles all
start to dry up, and
the storm's passed
over head, my fear settles
over me like a cloak and
I convince myself that
tomorrow my unhappiness
will miraculously end, that
I will be happy being a
nine to fiver, a slave to
a desk, a drone, in an
office with no windows.

It never does and
I'm left with a
yearning for the rain.

Twenty-four.

Will we ever have
that Happy Ending
promised by fairy tales?

Or will we pretend
nothing ever happened,
that being friends
is the closest we've
ever been, that I've
never kissed your smile,
that I've never seen
you cry.

We could do this
forever, it could
shred my insides,
but I can be the best
actress once my
heart is gone.

Or will we finally
stop playing? Will
there be a magical
moment where you look
at me and know we're
meant to be? Will you
stop pretending you
don't love me as much
as I love you?

Twenty-three.

I can see the clearing
at the end of this path
for the first time
in twenty-five years.

I'm being pushed
towards it by my age,
my education,
and I don't know what
I'll do when I get there.

It's a joyous moment
cloaked in fear -
now my choices
are my own and so
are my mistakes.

But with each step
my head is clearing
of the forest's fog,
of the voices that aren't
my own. Still the
end is so broad, so
bright, so terrifying.

Twenty-two.

All I ever do
is whine about
love.

It's so pathetic -
you'd think I
never did anything else.

I have a whole
life outside of
pining over my lovers.

I have whole
conversations
without saying anything
about love,
or really,
about heartbreak.

Twenty-one.

I never thought
that I'd be at this place,
where seeing you
doesn't feel like a punch
to the chest.
But I'm looking
at your beautiful face
with your bright blue eyes
and it doesn't feel like
it did before, the pain
is a dull ache
and it doesn't paralyze
me like it used to.

Almost.

This is really just
wishful thinking -
that one day I will
see you and it won't
make my heart
pound, that I won't
dream of you that night,
of what I wish had
happened, instead of
what really did.

Twenty.

My whole life
I always thought
my belongings would
make me happy,
that having this season's
newest would somehow
mask how lonely I am,
how pathetically sad my
life is, and when I had
it but was still miserable,
it was always because
I needed something
else, my ennui was
never a reflection
of myself, although
now I know it is.

I look around
my apartment, at all of
the things I own and
am so unhappy it
is palpable, I feel
my loneliness, hemmed
in on all sides by
the things I own,
like a cage.

Nineteen.

My grandmother
cried in our kitchen
the morning my
grandfather died,
rather than the
home they'd shared
for fifty years.
She said she couldn't
bear to be where he'd
taken his last breath
that Christmas morning.

Eighteen. Poetry won't make you rich

I think the
end is coming.

I think the sun
is setting
and the moon
is rising.

I think I'm
almost ready
to go, I
just need a
few more
minutes.

I think I'm
finally in a
place where I'm
comfortable.

Seventeen.

Sometimes,
when I'm at my worst,
I dream about running
away, about taking a
chance on the only thing
I've ever loved to do.

But I never get
close enough to leaving
before the worry kicks in -
I have a pretty sweet deal here,
what happens after I give it
all up for possible failure?

It's like my body freezes
and I tell myself I wouldn't
succeed anyway, that I don't
even know how,
but isn't life about scaring
yourself to live bigger?

I just haven't reached that
point yet, there one where I'm
willing to give it all up
for uncertainty,
I'm not desperate enough,
yet, but I'm getting there.

Sixteen.

I've lost track of
how many times I've
tried to forget
your face.
Every time I think
I'm finally through,
you glance at me
and I'm down again.
I hate myself for
being your puppy
but I can't seem
to stop,
no matter how
many times
you kick me,
I don't learn.

Fifteen.

I'm not sure there
is any way I could
explain how I feel
about you.

I try to pick
the best words,
the best flow,
but nothing seems
to work.

You're an illusion
slipping away
the closer I try
to get.

There isn't just
one word to
stick on you
and I won't try
to push.

You'll just have
to trust that
I know what
I want and
not believe the
trash coming
from my fingers.

Fourteen.

Every time I try to
touch you,
your shape is a
wisp of smoke
in my hand.

You never let
anyone get close to
you and I know
why, but I
won't stop trying.

I just want
you  to feel
the same way
that I do.

I want you to
think about me at
the most inconvenient
of times, I want you
wet at the worst
possible moment, yearning
for me like I do
for you.

But I think
that already happens,
you already want me.
Its your fear
that stops you.

Thirteen.

I'm not sure there's
ever been a moment in my
life that I haven't been
afraid of what people will
think -
until this moment.

You've filled me
with strength
I thought I
was incapable of.

So when you say
we can't do this,
that we should just
be friends, all I
feel is pity for your
fear.

Now I know
everyone is scared,
well I knew that before,
now I know that
the most terrified are the
ones who say
they're anything but.

Twelve.

I will be the
writer,
you will be my
pen.

Together we will
compose
verse after verse,
we will be
renowned.

Eleven.

I wonder if there's
anything
I could do to
change
your mind,
to keep you
from leaving
because
I am looking at
these photos
of when we were
happy and when
you weren't worried
about what people
thought
and all
I see is your
smile.

Ten.

I thought
I could write
you
out of my
heart
even though
every time I
try
it doesn't work
and
I want
you more than
ever,
more than
I ever did
before
you told
me we should
just
be friends.

Nine. Love you like a love song

This is a poem about lust.

When you talk
I watch the shape of
your fingers as you
move your hand and
wonder what they would
feel like inside me,
curling against my most
private spot with your
wrist between my
thighs and your
mouth on mine, your
chest pressed so close
that it's hard to breathe.

I can hear the way
you grunt against
my collarbone,
feel the way you
roll your hips
against my thigh
for friction even though
it must be too slippery
now, with my hands
touching your hips,
moving you back and
forth against me.

I want to press my
mouth to your fingers,
your neck,
your shoulder blades,
your breasts,
that quiet space
between your legs,
and watch the way you
unwind when you
finally let go, when
you are searching for
pleasure in another.