Joyful feels like

this. Running streams of Christmas down my back,

and into my middleness.

Hearts, close hearts.

And suddenly I feel a rush of belonging and (loving),

their candles break through the darkness of the night;

warmer than heavenly beings,

(but sent by Him only) echoing the love found above.

I’ve amassed a bulge of crumbs inside my organs,

hoarding the remainders of incorrectly factored equations until I am weighted,

down and bitter by the life lost in carrying this garbage. I feel me slowly tearing me apart, inside to out.

All the wrong ways and down ways,

and I want to expel this

heaviness.

I’ve piled up to my lungs and it clutches my throat, causing poison to seep out. The byproduct of garbage is garbage.

And I lie,

and lie surrounded by insects that crave to consume

the waste I have become.

And You come, to burn me with Your holy fire and make it hurt. You take away the numbness for a moment, and I feel

the realness of You near.

And You come,

laying in front of me a choice, a great operation, so vast and complexly considered that I cannot peer at the whole of Your plans.

And when I say yes, You come, to cut out the lies and greed I’ve hid in fatty tissue,

and with a gentle breath, sweep aside the crumbs and lint, giving way to

an empty room.

And I will praise only You, because You come, to undo me, and then remake me fully,

to renovate Your sacred temple.

Waiting for me to invite you in, to sell myself entirely to You.

A space meant for You to expand Your spirit in, for You to work until the finish.

I don’t

(think), I know

I can’t do this anymore.

I am so tired of your,

kiss me clean. The scars you (pretend to) hide are stick ons and your pretty is dirt.

I tried to mend everything you gave.

In return, it hurt.

You are a double edged destroyer, and

I don’t believe in you anymore. The stories of locks for locks friends, were more of the tales that don’t come true.

Hate is a strong word. I’m too weak for it

anymore.

My skin is whittling                                                                                                            itself wood grained as if my body knows                                                         it is time to disappear into my chair. Ready to                                                                 commit my mind to graveyard                                                                                     thoughts,    where forgotten truths lie. Others                                                                                   will work harder using me as an arm rest.

I did not sleep at all, my mind would not shut off. So much bitter and so much sweet.

I am leaving for college tomorrow, l e a v i n g.

I used to think you were

a scab, pulling the seams of papercuts

together. Temporary

attachment, necessary

for reconstruction

but we have become mutually dependent, coiling golden

tendrils to pruny arteries.

So make permanent this union, surge full around me into a

mollusk’s salvation.

You are,

the forgotten words I drape over my back

before sleep. Heavying heartaches to breaking and 

braking my plans for the chance of

change.

6/22/12 breakfast for dinner, libraries, and fireflies

he’s got sharply dark freckles pinpricked across his skin, and i picture them everywhere (if ever the chance, i’d kiss them all), and at first hidden kaleidoscope eyes. i know what expressions he’s making even when it’s dark, and i dream of him when it rains. my touch has never been unrequited, and his heartbeats poorly muted beneath fragile layers of love. so for us, compromise is meeting in the middle, between our flurried fingers and my frenzied mind, to form words and shapes on skin and bones.

I feel you like I smell an oncoming storm. So don’t leave me, don’t you dare leave me again. I’ve never felt so full, I am one rainfall away from overfalling into you. Keep raining on me, pour out and fall. We will rush together, onto soft wood forests and rusted tin roofs. Don’t leave me again.

I think it is kind (and nice too)

that every sunup I wake feeling you a bit closer in my heart.

Your midsleep movements used to scare me

but now they make my valves and ventricles contract

to curl you closer to my center.

I hate the whole world except for dark blue sweatshirts.

God, Your plans for me are greater than I could have ever written. You are the author of time itself, of tree branches stretching, and the minds responsible for dreaming fairytales onto pages.