Hateful post because you Aren't.

{Found saved as a Draft on 2/13/13}

I'm thinking of how you aren't.
How you aren't the same person I knew
Who dreamed of the world and
knew he couldn't have it.
How you aren't the only one who cares,
or even someone who cares at all.
You aren't you, and I'm not me.
You aren't the narcissistic maniac who,
sometimes,
had a moment of sanity for me alone.
Instead the sanity is opened to an apathetic audience
who applauds your normality as you crowd-surf on their bias.
You're attempting individuality but only conforming to the norm
And I hate you for it.
I'm thinking about how you aren't.

about a nobody.

Interlaced in your fingers is a twine made out of stars, twisting and swirling their light between your rough knuckles. Your hands remind me of the kind of worn-down sandpaper that tingles your skin when it makes contact and is thrilling in a strange, whimsical way. Euphoria and insomnia are your favorite words and, as much as I hate to admit it, I love them because you do. Your hair reminds me of the spun gold in Rumpelstiltskin, and your eyes leave traces of forever in every place they wander to. I think it's the freckles that invite me so willingly to remember and the never-changing smile that reminds me of the nearest future.
Please, start running and never come back.
Please, find a portal and enter in without hesitation.
Please, give me a reason to rent a moving truck.

JUST LEAVE ME ALONE OKAY

I never want to see those handsome dimples again.

If you think you know who this is about,

it isn't you or anyone else.

It isn't nobody.

sweet apple cider

All I'm thinking about is them, and you, and spices that smell like Christmas Eve in Germany. My senses are imprisoned and all I can think about is that sweet apple cider, sitting, steaming in a mug, waiting, wanting me to sip until every ounce of me is drenched in Johnny Appleseed goodness. Pour it over my worries, refill until my anger is emptied and my sadness is dissolved away into a solvent of apple cinnamon. It warms my stomach, and heart, and head, and I'm happy. I'm happier than you were on the day your dad bought you your first piece of piano music, and I'm even calmer than your mother when she knows you are sleeping safely at home. Puncture my heart, bleed my veins, enslave me with your scent, all can be undone in one simple sip. The image of your face no longer ripples my memories and I've almost completely forgotten (except some days when I'm leaving the house without a key and want to tell you how much I love a certain morbid poem). All I'm really trying to tell you is that I'm drinking hot, sweet apple cider without shame and hoping against nothing that tomorrow it will snow glory from the skies and delay the long weeks before Christmas. All I'm saying is that if you could dance outside right now, I would dance with you, and I might even leave my apple cider behind for you, unless you might want some, because you like it as much as I do.

filth

I'm swimming through the filth of disgrace,
                                                  disappointment,
                                                  degrading
filth that clouds my vision and penetrates my skin,
                                                                   flesh,
                                                                   veins,
eating away every bit of sustaining meat that surrounds my
                                                                                  your
                                                                                  their
faces and I cringe when I see the skeletons of their thoughts, sleeping away their time in a corner and eating their cake like it just came out of a warm oven and laughing when it burns away their tastebuds. The acid that once scalded their membranes is seeping out of the soil and they've learned to live and breathe every bit of it while whistling endless tunes such as "Blow the Man Down" and "London Bridges." And every once in a while they look over at their companions in the public tomb of humiliation and remind each other that "It gets a little dark down here, mate, but you'll adjust." After all, they are missing their eyes,
                                                                                                                      hair,
                                                                                                                      hearts.
Sleeping away every minute of their mindless, dead existence and waiting for new rotting flesh to join their crypt of faith. If only they could hear the world only seven feet above them, whirring,
                                                                                                                  spinning,
                                                                                                                  racing
ahead, past morals and past technology and past every imagination they could have ever imagined in their lifetime. If perhaps they could glimpse the present, they might understand and be grateful for early death.