writer everyday 

even if the words don’t love you back

and reognize themselves in and order that

done’s allow you to look intelligent or kind,

like manic dslexsia as if i don’t know the words i’m saying

as though i can’t prove that i am mor than this because

the words come faster than my fingers can go. this is the unediting

of a poem that i am just typing no backspace s only misfires from my blod to my veings where the words become like illeterate children and i look like an idiot with a pen and notebook and letters i cannot even spell write to you.

i know

i know you would love me if i

looked a certain way,
acted a certain way,
had the voice of a certain girl,
smiled with a certain muscle,

and the girl you find beautiful
is not beautiful to me,
until i’ve seen the way you look at her,
only i’ve never seen you look at her at all,
but i can see her in way you look at every girl
as if they are not her, not her here.

i know you still love her,
even though it’s been years
and i wish i could understand
but all i feel is the lost of a self esteem
and not the lost of a heart,
because i don’t understand how you could love someone forever
at least, i won’t understand until i do,

and even though for now the person is not you,
it still hurts to know that i could not win over you.  

i blame the cookie

i blame the cookie for my misfortunes.
for its scripted proverb -
that was probably misquoted from the internet,
then printed in china with ink from india,
before it was shipped to san francisco,
where they wrapped and fried the dough
into fat croissants, ugly crescents -  

that said words i don’t remember,
but am still trying to constantly organize
because those generic words had a coincidence,
and that coincidence made me trust red strings -

like how you turned a book right to my name,
when i’ve been dreaming of yours all this time,
like the timing of seeing you as we walk to class
right as you are crossing my mind,
like how on the night when this love became terror
the screen of your phone became webbed, 
as i smashed mine against the pavement. 

- but the ending of this was not seen by the scripted proverb, 
someone else on the same flight probably received 
and was fooled to hope in unbalanced fate. 

so yes, i can blame myself for forgetting,
but i blame the cookie for telling me.

death and friends,

I had a friend who loved animals, 
so I wrote a story in which they all died.

I had a friend who loved colors,
and when she turned her back,
I painted her portraits black.

I had a friend who loved the sky,
a friend who loved the earth,
a friend who loved candles,
and a friend who loved traveling,
who I poisoned before,
who I broke windows for,
why I burnt bridges, just to see,
the way a heart breaks, on their face.

There was a friend who loved to love,
and when he told me what he loved,
I wrote him a letter and strung the rope
over the timber, and jumped
to my last hurrah.  

or the, xx

xxx or the zippering sound
of a mouse scrolling, xxx
along my middle finger.

the feeling engorges heartily,
the rigid vibrations that barely
register, are as tenderly
erotic as your touch, a ghostly
song that plays to hauntingly

on a rewinding
cassette tape.

i am, according to today’s session

he said,
you are emotionally
de tatched
with symptoms that are con
gruent with bipolar, but bi
polar is a large spectrum
with vast de
finitions like a rainbow
whose colors cannot be confined
when the colors touch and make
red-orange, orange-yellow
yellow-green and is that

blue? 

and you separate the physical
and emotion
al, in tiny com part ments
like
little houses,
where ben, jerry and tom live
not to coexist in a relation sink of 
ice cream and pain
but forever 

separated

which is
unhealthy as
experience should be
a coexistence to bring memory
but your memory lacks
a deeper con
nection
you see. 

so i said,
okay. when shall our 
next
session be? 

to the one, i killed

your face as i remember is being rewritten
in my mind as words that lets the bleeding out
i fill in the blanks of redemption with my name
and call out, my transgressions to be forgiven
by your face that looks at me as i look
in the other direction.

my hands shake, wrought with words i
was too afraid to say because when i told you
sorry, it did not mean the kind of sorry
that has my tongue now.  
the kind of sorry that hides an interior
an ulterior motive driven by fear,
by happiness of a future that could’ve been
but selfishly, shallowly and sorrowfully will not.  

i still listen, to your songs

You have my heart,
I will take your song.

I think of the epitome of a perfect night,
a moment that happened in the readings
and misreadings of a person
that I was never meant to meet,

in a person that should have stayed
a dream, an idea and a fantasy.

There are figments of myself that I finally understand
that are what brings someone closer to me.

Your lazy eyes, soft lips and purposeful touch
draw everything you want from me.

And what lies underneath the mask,
a picnic of rotting worms and flesh,
will not bring your sympathy.

There is something not right with my head.

It makes me feel my heart in my stomach and my heart like my stomach. I listen to songs in hopes to banish the vacuum that resides within my intestines, fill my lungs with drowning, a feeling of stuffed nerves that do not vibrate at the thought of being loved. Sometimes I feel it like a weight,
clenching on emptiness,
beating with heat,
pumping as periodically as a thought
a thought that cannot disappear.  

And my heart is a greedy beast that longs to consume.
It is hungry, asking for my eyes to eat more.
The hair, the eyes, the smile. 
It asks for the ears to swallow louder gulps of air. The conversations and the pauses where conversations may have occurred, the memorization of spaces and what-ifs must be accurate. All accordingly so for the re-telling, and re-structuring that must coincide with the comforting until the heart has chewed through its content and tells the mind that it is starving again. 

The bruises I have, I press to keep,
until they grow 
and graduate
and stay
in places they never began. 

wherever you go
I think I’ll be happy to follow
I won’t have to think twice
cause sadness doesn’t seem to be real

when you’re near me
this suffocated misreality
and I love living in fantasies.