there’s an angel on earth (an impartial observer) come to witness the folly of humanity to watch, unsleeping, unbreathing, unliving

(it forgets itself)

it sees the dapple of light through leaves and the rippling of fresh river water and (it forgets itself). it goes to sleep.

she wakes up to an unbearable weight. the world itself sits on her chest, calls her to the stand, in a court of outdated history, the judge bears a gavel made of convention and the jury hides behind masks of tradition, they deem her unworthy. millions of eyes open (millions of eyes close) she does not want to see.

she wakes up to blood staining the sheets, buried deep underneath her nails, flushed down the unsympathetic toilet. she takes a pill to dull the pain. she takes a pill to dull the pain. she takes a pill to dull the pain. her mind writhes and seethes but she must remain emotionless. in the mirror her halo drips red.

she wakes up empty, her shadow screams in anguish (something is missing) her mouth doesn’t move. she makes no sound. to be human is to be holy. (to be human is to be forsaken)

(where are her wings?) (where are her wings?) (where are her wings?)

it will never fly again

(alpas [v.]- to become free, to break loose)

the first, the last, the light, the dark, she was it all, she was the world, she was your all, she was your universe, you’re going to forget her name, eventually, but you’ll remember her, how she-

how she looked in neon moonlight, only existing in the nightlight hours, only in the darkness beyond a rainstained window, smoke in the daylight, unimaginable in the sun

how she talked with celestial words, everything you wanted to say, to be, (everything you could never say, never be.) she took your hand and she said- “come with me, come find out what living is”

how she tasted of cherry and cigarettes, toxic and addictive, a crown of poppies a match made in suicide’s heaven striking a fire beneath your ribs, high as cosmic infinity, nothing mattered but her

you’ll remember how she laughed, edged with desperation and despair, ringing out over empty parking lots, and the sickly yellow glow of streetlights, laughing, crying, (nothing’s real anymore) nothing’s real, nothing but her hand in yours

and she’s everything, she’s all there is, the world will hold its breath for her, (it can do nothing else in her wake) and, suffocating slowly, gloriously, the world will fall to its knees for her, and die

(forelsket [n.]- the euphoria experienced when first falling in love)

dying of old age is naive optimism so wipe your nose and swallow your tears stand on broken bones, raise bloodied hands and die young, die screaming, a martyr

they’ll take your name, they’ll take your story, they’ll write it down, they’ll hold it up, they’ll turn you into something worthy of glory, and forget you as someone worthy of love

you were a child, you were a teacher you were just walking down the road you were a mother, you were a son you were just living your own life

now you’re a modern day god a tragedy, a warning, a catalyst, a boiling point they’ll immortalize you in hashtags, cardboard signs they’ll remember your death for decades to come

but they won’t remember your life

(lassulus [adj.]- worn out, having one’s strength exhausted by toil or exertion)

it’s raining outside, (i think i love the rain) but I’m sitting inside, safe, and I wonder, my fellow poets, do you ever think about how in a hundred years, a thousand, your writing will be incomprehensible, unreadable it will have meaning known only to your rotting corpse in a form of language now obsolete and outdated

and, how, if you’re lucky, (or not) they’ll pin your words down with marker to whiteboard, chalk to blackboard, like a butterfly to cork killing it with kindness, dissecting it with nothing but their eyes and knife-sharp minds speculating endlessly on what you meant when you said you loved the rain

forgetting,

as scholars tend to do,

that you loved the rain for being rain and nothing more

you loved the rain for being rain and not for how it fell outside the windows a decade ago, a percussive accompaniment to the song you sang in choir when you were too young to know what it meant (too young to know why it was cut from the show)

you loved the rain for being rain and not for how it used to turn into snow back when you took the cold for granted, back when you lived somewhere completely different, before you moved five hours away by plane (before you moved five centuries away by mind)

you loved the rain for being rain and not for how the puddles on the ground mirrored your face back at you as you cried freshwater tears over the bloodied bathroom sink (the bloodied bathroom sink that no one else noticed)

you loved the rain for being rain and not for how the sound of it on a tin roof could be mistaken for the bones of your grandmother rolling in their grave as you said you loved a girl instead of a boy (you loved a girl but the girl didn’t love you back)

you loved the rain for being rain and nothing more

so, do you ever think about it? (about how no one will know what you meant, when you said you loved the rain?) my corpse rests under rain, now, unburied unbreathing lungs drowning, clothes soaked through with bone-deep cold, no brain left to feel it my organs spread out into words, words spreading into poetry, water drops splashing into blood and gore

I loved the rain

I loved the rain

(I loved the rain)

(pluviophile [n.]- a lover of rain)

grass stains and ladybugs sky blue as those eyes hands twisted in soft ground there are words to be said, but they won’t be

half-finished flower crowns, stems tangled and broken, half-finished thoughts, i think we forgot something but now it’s too late

lying next to someone, their hand inches away, you’ve been doing this for too long, say the birds up in their tree, you’ve been doing this for far too long

and, dear birds, I would love to stop but this burning ignorance, this agonizing denial, we’ve known it for longer than anything else, I can’t imagine a world without it

water stains and crickets, sky grey as saltwater tears, hands twisted in coarse hair there are words to be said, but the time to say them is over

(alexithymia [n.]- the inability to truly express your feelings)

savior, please, I am drowning, they’ve chained me to the seafloor, and taken all my breath

savior, please, you are the sun, its rise your crown, its set your throne, you are holy

savior, please, I am drowning, my crown is twisted and broken, my throne is dark and cold I am forsaken

savior, please, reach out your hand, beneath the waves, for the sun is all that is good,

for the sun is all that is good for the sun

(heliophilia [n.]- desire to stay in the sun; love of sunlight)

i am sitting under blue lights shaped like snowflakes but the snow has not touched this place in years, i have not touched the snow since I was a child- driving away from the only home I had ever known to fly across the country to a place where it can’t follow me (it doesn’t snow here)

the lights strobe a heartbeat on, off, on, off, on, off flashing silently in the living room with no one but a cat and the stars to see them on, off, on, off, on, off (i am an intruder in this new home)

i have been here 9 years i have been here 9 years and I still remember the snow outside the car window i have been here 9 years and I still remember the j-shape of the driveway i have been here 9 years and I still remember the shadow cast by the swings in the backyard (i have been here 9 years)

the truth is it didn’t snow the night we left. but it snowed the winter before, I think that’s what I remember snow and the yellow-gold-white of the chandelier in the hotel the red of the gilded carpet in the halls then and the red of the wall behind the piano now the blue-black-blue of the string of snowflake lights in the living room i was alive then and I am still alive now (i was a child then and i am not a child now)

i have been here 9 years and i am remembering i will not return to the snow- but i will keep it alive in my mind unmelted (frozen in the light of plastic snowflakes)

(apricity [n.]- the warmth of the sun in winter)

there’s a shovel in my hands and grass stains on my knees I’m going out digging (I’m going out burying)

the moon is high in the sky and low in the dewdrops, there are crickets singing in the grass (they don’t know what I’ve done)

I dug a hole six feet deep, with crickets the only sound, and I buried you there (I buried you there)

there by the old oak swing, there by the dried-up creek, there where I used the catch the crickets (there where you would let them go)

my hands are empty, my knees scraped and scabbed, I’ve been out digging (I’ve been out burying)

the crickets are singing (the crickets are singing) they know they know they know

(whelve [v.]- to bury something deep; to hide)

i’m climbing up, up a tree, reaching for a sky far beyond, but oh- my foot catches, i fall, i hit the ground-

wake up! wake up, they say, with wet noses and eager paws, there’s a ladybug in front of my eyes, and spring flowers in the air, wake up, it’s time to go!

and I do, I wake, I go, away I run far and I run free through trees and forests, through lakes and sky wings of birds on my back and feathers in my hair i am awake now, and that was all just a dream

so please wake me up I don’t want to dream anymore wake me up let me never sleep again

(noctuary [n.]- the record of a single night’s events, thoughts, or dreams)

tired of being young, terrified of what I’ll become scared I’ve wasted my childhood, mind drunken on the lies of hollywood

they say life doesn’t start till 30, when you know yourself, happy and carefree, but i need to know yesterday, if possible, for colleges, the answer isn’t optional

stress is the only constant of teenage years, minds slaughtered by constant fears, we’re supposed to rule the world, but how, when the world wants to kill us now?

too young to know, too old to ask, too late to hide behind a better mask, to die of old age is wishful thinking, when we stare down oblivion, eyes unblinking

(insipience [n.]- lack of wisdom; foolishness)