Give me
cigarettes or razorblades,
because baby, all I want
is to self-destruct.
You're an addiction
I'll eventually kick,
hide you away in a little black box
next to everything that ever made me smile.
   You gave it all back,
   Like it meant NOTHING
   to you.
But for now,
I keep a regular stock
of things to hurt me:
clove cigarettes for when I want it artistic,
old journals for when I want it nostalgic,
alcohol for when I want it dull,
razors for when I want it sharp,
and you for when I want it to almost kill me.
   Just almost, though.

I was like, "Ugh, you're acting just like the crazy ex girlfriend!"
And then I thought, "Wait a tic, I am the crazy ex girlfriend. Might as well go for the gold."

What I do when I should be sleeping

If I were a musician,
I would write myself a lullabye
and try to get to sleep.
But that's your dream.
I'm just a poet
who pulls all-nighters,
while my eyes go soft focus
and I think how cool this picture would look
with a cigarette
and you in the background
sleeping on a couch.
Hell, the picture would look good
with just you and the couch.
I guess that's how I imagined it would be --
us together, slender bohemians
living off music and words
in a one-room apartment.
Well.
Everyone's allowed their fairytale, right?
I should probably stop this,
but fuck it --
I'll write you as many poems as I want.

Another Notch in the Wall of Poems to You

You'll be gone in a few months.
Off to the middle of everything,
alone,
leaving me behind.
I hope you still have
my shampoo;
hope you think of something happy
when you reach for it
through the steam.
I could fill this poem
you'll never read
with the typical questions
that I already know
most
of the answers to.
Or
I could end it like this,
knowing that you probably
wouldn't understand
all the unwritten lines.

As I move forward in time,
everything goes dark:
all light sinks with the sun
into the sea
and is engulfed in thick, black blue.
It occurs to me
that I would never know we were falling
if not for the feeling in my stomach.
I receive no such alert
and arrive safely in a light-polluted
Stockholm airport.
I walk down a long corridor
toward the light,
which does, in fact,
lead to some form of purgatory:
I am surrounded by Svenska--
the air language--
and nervously wondering
if he forgot my promise.
Then I see the golden-blonde head
of the wolf-king,
purveyor of Swe-punk and Adrian Alexis,
and frequenter of underground gothic cafes.
I hear his loud, excited "Hej!"
(One of the few words in my limited vocabulary),
and run giggling to tackle him.
Lungt, I think with a smile.
Lungt, big brother.

(conversation before boarding a bus in our pajamas...)

  "What is this madness?!" The looks on the college students' faces were affronted. Bewildered. Confused. They were lost in a proverbial sea of pajama-clad high school students and didn't quite know what to think.
  We sat proudly in our flannels and dessert-coated cotton shirts, laughing triumphantly and brandishing our pens at a highly skeptical world. "This! Is! SPARTA!!"

I never would've known
that Dante's Inferno
could lead to swapping Chaucer tales
on a too-small bench
in a V-shaped room,
where the only warm skin
is the skin that you're touching.
I never would've known
that German could ever be as sexy
as it was
when you said you loved my feet,
or translated Himmel into my ear
without using the book.
I never would've known
that I could have such
random, intellectual conversations
with someone who
a.) I met roughly 6 days ago, and
b.) Is putting together a puzzle
while conversing on human psychology
and the brilliance of classical composers.
I never would've known
that I could
be myself so shamelessly
laugh so endlessly
snuggle so comfortably
and communicate so intelligently
if you hadn't had
such an attractive voice.

Sorry babe,
I'm all sexed out for the night.
I've lost interest
in the drive of your primal urge,
the words that take little thought to say,
and giving you what you want.
(It's a lot less than what I'm looking for.)
The games are fun enough,
but I always go home
feeling like a lie,
because I took a piece of myself
out of order
and concentrated it
until it seemed more like your
neonlights and cherry lipgloss,
and less like my
dusk-lit, tentative fingers.

I remember telling him that if he cried, I'd kill him. I found out later that he did, after I left, and that's when I cried, but I didn't want to cry then. No one ever wants to get all choked up in the middle of a cafeteria walkway. No one ever wants to get choked up anywhere, for that matter, but some places are better for it than others. Like your dorm, all alone. I had a picture of his smile, and that's what I wanted to see.
He had his arms around me, so when I had to go, we waddled together out the door. It was bright outside. He hugged me, pressing me tightly against his chest and rubbing my back. I was trying to capture the way his body felt against mine, the way his size made me feel safe. I had one hand on his side, the other on his shoulder as he fulfilled his 11:11 wish and kissed me one last time.
Last, I thought as I walked to White Auditorium. Last, ever, never again, goodbye.
I looked back once, for the hell of it, but I didn't see him. I briefly wished for the other life we spoke of, where we wouldn't say goodbye like this.

All who wander, are not lost...

I wander,
but am not lost
among words,
among small people with hairy feet,
or his coffee-stained smiles.
I spin in gothic-hippie-sheik;
found in a neon swirl of peace love and happiness.
I grasp my own meaning
in foreign languages;
to curse, love, or sing at you, for you, to you.
I am not lost
among men in skirts,
making the music
I would sweat to
as a small child
in my mother's house.
My father's kitchen;
the smell of his masterpiece
mingling with the dirt and grass
under my toes
as I try to reconnect
with my own history
through blood memory
and her words.
I so desperately want to believe
that I will find myself alone;
find myself under his sheets;
find myself reflected by the splashes of emotion
that so obviously mean something cryptic;
find myself smiling
inside-out, but not upside-down.
Five points in a circle don't scare me,
but, my friend, you invert them,
flipping nature,
and that does worry me.
I trust you,
so perhaps I could be lost,
but I doubt it:
I know my way
through this oak grove
and can pick and choose my path
like you pick and choose your outfits.
I discard mine on the floor,
and you can't get through to my bed;
you won't read the writing on the walls
because it takes too much time,
but it is the Rosetta Stone
to keep you
from getting lost
in me


NOTE: The 'you' in this poem refers to different people at different times.

B. S.

I like the dynamic tension
of your voice on my words,
even more intimate
than you lips dusting my shoulders
with crisp, minty kisses,
because I wouldn't let just anyone do it.
You voice stumbles occasionally,
like hesitant fingers
trembling their way
across shivering skin.
Except that you never hesitate.
You said you had enough confidence
for me to borrow some,
so I will:
I'm not afraid to admit
that I'll really miss you.
I'm going to stop
before I start sounding Bryan-esque,
but know that I'll remember you in German,
and a baseball-field blue sky.

"Never care more about a guy
than he does about you,"
my mum says.
"You're nothing in moderation,"
my sister says.
I say
my arm hurts
and my knuckles are red
from beating the room
for my losses.
I say
my fingers are ragged and sharp
from constantly biting the swollen skin
around rough nails.
I say
I can almost smell Benstock
in the humid air,
little hints teasing my eyes
into looking for him again.
I wonder if my words mean
anything.

Sitting on my bed at 1am, wishing I was back where I belong...

I wanted to stay in the car
for as long as physically possible,
because it seemed like my last real link
to the perfect world,
to the place I never wanted to leave.
Leaving.
It's like a fairytale in reverse --
changing from something beautiful and individual
into something strange and laughable.
I feel myself growing smaller, plainer, wider
as the magic of our words fades away
and I'm left with a faint scent of dorm,
living group meetings,
and so much ink on so much paper.
I want to go home.

I figured, "What the hell, a picture's worth a thousand words, right?"

It seems like he was more beautiful back then. Maybe because he was more beautiful inside. Less tainted, less selfish, more of the innocent dorky boy who was so self-conscious.
She shuffles through the old pictures and wonders what happened. Wonders why she still cares.

   She reads it. Then she reads it again. Accusations. Accounts of her thievery. Apparently, he has decided that there actually was something there to steal. She snorts, furious, and yet cynically amused. She took nothing that wasn't offered. Did nothing that wasn't desired. It's not as though it's something she particularly enjoys doing.
   But now...she looks over the lyrics again. What was it that she did? Ahh yes, here it is: "I gave you my purity, my purity you stole." Purity. He who claimed to be oh-so far from innocent now has purity, or had it, until she stole it. "I'm just an effigy to be disgraced, to be defaced." Poor vestal saint, raped by that seductive, used-up whore.
   Disgusted with him, she closes the page, and thinks, "Ever the same. Always, always it is my fault."