of missing on fridays

on mondays, you complain.
on wednesdays, you gossip.
on fridays, you eat.

but what about
when i see your eyes,
shining through the toaster oven?

is it a good time to tell you
"you are missed",
when i just burnt my bagel
in that same
translucent toaster?

"do you want toast?"
"mom, make it look like it did
last easter."
when it was light and yellow,
the butter tossing its hair
down flights of steps
where the split ends
reached my split toenails.

i guess i could reach you,
if i really tried.
pick up the phone,
spotlight your locks.

instead i'll munch
on two dark brown circles,
wishing i was really eating,
and not just missing.

what are you?

if you don't call me when i'm away,
                                                             what are you?
if you don't know what i've done this whole year,
                                                                     what are you?
if i have to tell a story that happened at the beginning of freshman year,
                                                                              what are you?
because you're not my friend.
friends fill each other in on what's happening,
when, why, who, and how.
maybe i'm a friendship idealist,
but i don't want to be meticulously placed into your schedule,
i want priority dibs.

why have i lived 18 years
yet haven't found but one person at a time
who puts in the time to trust me,
let me trust them,
talk to me,
let me talk to them,
love me,
let me love them,
and then walks away without a glance back?

we're not old yet,
we're supposed to be wrecking shit.
throwing rocks at windows
and building treehouses.

but this is real life, and not a fairy tale.
and like that guy told me several years ago,
i should get my head out of a book.

dust

sometimes i miss
your textified blush,
the way you held
my hand without
ever
really
touching it.

other days, i'm less forgiving.
i clean
things that have
to do
with you,
lessen my load
and wipe up the dust.

if you're still
having fun
i wish you hell
and if you're tired
or sick,
i've got a loaf of bread
that might do you well.

you make me use
words
i'd never think of saying
not even typing,
so i won't,
i'll suck them in.
and my belly will grow,
my aches will show,
but i'll remember
the dust you let fall on me.

tuesday

sometimes i look at your art and i want to vomit.
sometimes i count the days till school will end.
sometimes i walk in the free store and walk out without a sorting hat.
sometimes i look at your face and i wonder why we're not at the beach.
like in the shoebox project
only there was disaster there,
so maybe we'll head to the woods.

pennsylvania

i live in a state
that forbids me
from saying "I DO"
to
the one who i miss
before they leave the room.
the one who, if i confessed their PREFERRED pronouns,
would make you do a double take.

"the hell is a preferred pronoun?" you ask.
well, babe, try googling PRISM.
is it an acronym? no.
does it have meaning? yes.
does it want jackasses like you
parading through the room,
"saying 'SCREW the world,
because it's better than feeling something'"?
no.

cuz i can assure you
we're not all tibby rollins.

for me,
every day is a PRIDE PARADE,
a tour of love, a song of intimacy.
what you do behind closed doors...
well, i'd GAG if i knew,
too.

so flush your prejudice
down with your sorry goldfish,
package your HATE up in styrofoam.
i'll always be here,
regardless of your bigoted,
two-faced,
furrow-browed,
spineless,
grinch-like,
lie-spitting,
soul-splitting,
self.

you're probably one of those assholes who leaves TIME on the microwave.
and i'll never let you close to my GIRL.

Rhythmical

on the night you called, i stayed up until 10 am.
i never questioned our sanity or my drooping eyelids.
"do you have feelings for her?" you asked.
"no, that's gross."
we all knew you had feelings of a different kind,
feelings that could break glass,
the kind of shards
you step on
at 4 am
(or maybe 10)
when you're too tired to notice their glossy tint.

i spent so much on you -
money, call minutes, and
the energy that goes into
my hugs.
i never stopped to think
maybe i'm lonely
while you were making friends,
making pizzas,
going to class,
dressing classy,
earning a new freckle every day,
i was on my gray painted floor,
cutting rhythmical questions:
will you be my internet girlfriend?


"i know," she said,
after that 8 hour phone call.
my phone's on fire,
and it's all in vain.
for all the times i tried to please you
yet you walked out the door
to the other side of the country
embracing the palm trees
like your relatives
that's when the fault lines formed.

no matter how many times i say it,
i feel greedy.
guilty.
too honest.
too loud.
but i know pittsburgh is telling me to
just do it.
just say it.
get it over with, ya whippersnapper.

it's my job.
my job to put you on the spot,
to tell you how you tore
my willingness to make friends,
my anticipation to hear the birds sing,
my drive to get behind the steering wheel.

and there's something sick about it.
i can't help wanting to go back,
but it's a cheap memory.
one that cost too much.
friends that were never going to last.
flowers that were never going to bloom.
i overestimated you.

the other night

i met andrea gibson.
she told me that maya angelou once said that a poem unspoken was a half finished poem.
i want to speak my words, but i'm afraid of dirt.
everyone's words get jumbled together, and in the end, will it even matter?
today i pocket dialed my brother while i was talking about how much he looked like dustin hoffman.
in his glory days. that is to say, the graduate.
things that scare the crap out of me: public transportation, packing, making a drawing worth $190, being sick, 8:30 am german class, and reading for sociology
but at least i don't have a final for that class
i can't wait to go home but i know i'll miss katie so much
i don't want to cry on tour
please don't let me cry on tour