To 213

You know someday we will meet,

We met across words, the way magic does

We already have...

I won’t live up to your hopes and dreams.

And I hoped for dreams

I can't recall what wasn't there

I’ll be an imperfect fantasy,

That would rewrite my imagination

I hold to my memories

That would make me almost as sad as

And change my perceptions

I couldn't bear to have you sad

Never meeting you would.

The way meeting you did.

We'll meet again. Promise?

To 118

I’m the boy of no one’s dreams,

I dreamed I was flying

I wanted to dream about you

Unless they only have nightmares.

Then I opened my eyes, and was falling

They were never nightmares

I have more faults then you know, or

I wanted the boy with no name to save me

I know you--isn't that enough?

I think I do anyway, and I have more scars

The boy with the smile that hurts my insides

I think you're perfect as you are

Than you’ve seen, the emotional sides

The one who burned himself into my skin

Even if I've never seen emotion in you

Of the scars are hard to find.

He's all my scars.

And scars are only skin deep.

10/28 Shorts

I

She was wearing pink

and green

and glasses

and she smiled

the way a fearful dog might

while begging for its life

at the hands of a violent owner.

Dumb bitch.

If she were my dog,

I'd kill her.

II

Two men walked into a lunchroom

and sat down.

Usually it's a bar.

And a joke.

This time it's real,

and there's nothing funny

about them.

III

Four math majors sat down

at a table. They talked about

parabolas and equations,

algebra and calculus,

radicals and imaginary numbers

until the English major

ran away. Then one math major

turned to another.

Have you read the newest

Harry Potter book yet?

IV

I stare at words

until they start to bleed

and I think I begin

to understand, except

when blood actually

touches the page.

Then the ink blurs.

V

A young man stands by a table,

announces that he's lost

and leaves.

The girls at the table titter.

All the boys are silent.

He left his food,

one finally says.

VI

You are a trace of nonsense, nonsensical

in a nonsense world

dedicated to dreary past times

like breathing.

No one needs that much air.

VII

Sometimes I stare at beyond the glass

windows and wish I had wings

so I could fly

instead of falling.

But those are only the days

when suicide sounds like a waste.

They're getting fewer

and farther between.

VIII

I dreamed

a professor (my favorite)

killed my roommate (who still talks to me),

then himself.

I wanted him to be alive again.

And I dreamed

a professor (still my favorite)

came to kill me (in my room)

but he didn't.

(We fucked instead.)

IX

I was a small child, once, and

I told my stories in pictures, back

then. I told my stories in pictures

done in marker on the bed sheets

until my mother made me stop. Then

I told my stories in colored pencil

on the floor until my father took

those away. Then I curled up

by the white walls until both

parents asked what I was doing.

With a crayon in each hand, I

said, Telling the truth.

X

Every moment is a reminder

to me. That being alone forever,

even with people,

is so very,

very possible.

Makes me want blood.

Maybe theirs.

Always my own.

Because then, at least...

I guess I'm not hurting anyone.