Today, my classmate stated that
Alaska has the highest suicide rate
due to the colder climate

and I remember I was sitting against a concrete wall
that felt like it was loved by Alaska
when you told me she had your heart.
My chest did somersaults into my stomach
and I’ve never been one to take leaps of faith but
that was the closest I’ve ever been to jumping off a bridge.

I pushed my pinky and thumb to the sky
with my fingerprints pressed against one star to the next
and I told you that this was how you measure the distance between stars.

I said that the length from point A to B
was the equivalent of 1000 lightyears
and maybe it took that long for me to get to you in another lifetime.

I remember how you were always at the same place
and same time as I was
and how it meant nothing then
but a sign now.

I was always told not to believe in destiny
because the universe would take care of it
but I think this is the closest I’ll get to believing in fate.

So we performed for the cosmos
where the hilltops could barely brush its lips
against the skies
and the city lights applauded for us.

I remember how careful your hands were
when they encased my waist
as if you were the only art gallery that could own this masterpiece
and how I never could love an artist
but I so badly wanted you to trace my skin with yours.

You pirouetted into my chest with the way your gaze painted words unsaid into mine
and I remember how your nose felt when it tickled my own
 then you exhaled the word ‘patience’ between our mouths.
You weren’t ready for fireworks on our lips
but I was eager to know how an explosion would feel like.

I bookmarked an article
on how to cure stage fright
as if fear was a sickness

It said that it was simply
'mind over matter'
as if I’m supposedly mental
They’re probably right
if I’m being diagnosed by an online author

I suppose that means
people with claustrophobia should be hospitalized
in ballrooms or auditoriums
with space bars lining the room like tapestry
because that’s all they really need and
living in a box would probably kill them

Arachnophobians would be rehabilitated in air tight chambers
because anything that tickles their skin
that doesn’t feel like it’s human would give them a heartattack

Patients diagnosed with achluphobia
would rather die and see the light today
and would rather make love with flashlights
than have the lights turned off for a few seconds
but say that it’s because he wants to see your orgasm face a little clearer

So that means there’d be medication for sweaty palms
and a vaccination for s-s-stuttering
during presentations about speech communication
and irony
but the only language I wanna learn is your body
and you’d be the only solution I’d need.

Your skin is the only bravery in a bottle
that I would crave to consume
and your eyelashes are the only needles
I’d want to be injected into me.

And even when the moon is full
and it’s the dead of night
you’ll cling on to the repetition of my words
and the clashing of my syllables
You’ll say that it’s the most hypnotizing sound you’ve ever heard
and tell me
that my fear is beautiful.
Then I’ll be cured.

What if men had periods?

They’d crave chocolate cake from Costco

They’d refuse sex and avoid swimming pools

then say their manboobs are tender

Their tampons would be Q-tips

They’d have violent cramps like earthquakes on their insides

and say that it feels like they’re

pushing a watermelon through their urethras

 They’d feel constipated more than usual

and crave more Marzipan chocolate

They’d go to sleep with clean sheets

but wake up laying on a Japanese flag

they’d get weepy over TV

and burst into tears when their girlfriends confront them about silly little things

like washing the dishes

 or actually flushing the toilet

They’d have their hair tied up

and won’t bother with manscaping

they’d be the ones to worry about birth control methods

and would refuse to wear white jeans

Actually they wouldn’t wear jeans at all

They’d complain that they feel bloated

and prance around in their granny panties

then crave more chocolate

They’d have ghost pangs of labor in their cramps

and weep over old pictures out of happiness

They’d cuss out every driver on the road

and flash their finger around as if they just got engaged

then threaten to smear their

used q tips on their faces

They would endure whispers of

 oh God, it must be that time of the month

and when they get passionate about something

or don’t feel like dealing with somebody’s shit

the Government would be shut down for days

and wars would be started over who got

the last shipments of chocolate ice cream

And men always said that they wouldn’t trust anything

that bled for 7 days and still lived

Ich hab dich Lieb
Saranghae
Te amo
Je t’aime

I love—

when I tell a corny joke

about how chickens crossed the road

and how you still laugh,

I love the way your nose wrinkles up like a mountain range

and the way your eye lashes kiss your cheeks

I love the way your freckles look like constellations

And how they spell out wishes in the sky when they dot your I’s with star dust

I get lost in your milky way every time we lock eyes

You make the darkest of nights the brightest

even if you embrace every side of the world

I want to rotate with you until the sun supernovas

I love how your arms are like parentheses,

And the way they isolate thoughts

I want to be the conversation you have with yourself

The object to your subject and every verb trailing “us”

I love the way you read my lips With yours

As if you’re trying to keep a secret That’s felt and not said.

Your mouth is a fingerprint

and I am glass,

I want your breath to linger on my skin
like a pinky promise that was never meant to be broken

I love how you trace signs on my back

like a crossword puzzle that can’t be solved

And the way my goose bumps respond with the answers in Braille

A love like this

is not like any other

Its rawness is liberating

Its honesty its freedom

and trust is the key

We are not prisoners of this war

who are hostages of commitment

We are revolutionists

Rebels against confinement

citizens of no nation

loyalists to only each other

whose kisses are laced with permanence

Love is a crumpled piece of paper
and no matter how many times it’s unfolded,

the creases are still there

They’re ever lasting marks of each time I bent over backwards

with forever tattooed along my spine

They are stretch marks

imperfect but scars of growth

Love is an impression

you are my starry night and my lily garden

We are a masterpiece

we are forms of expression

and more than just a language that everyone speaks

 infini

inpinitu

infinito

unendlich
We are—infinite

My gaze is an iceberg
that I crashed into
and melted under the public eye.
These
are not tears anymore,
these are tsunamis.

I’ve lost myself in this whirlpool
of reclaiming my image
and I thought Liam was my life vest
when I was his anchor.

Dear society,

I am constantly swimming in paparazzi
and was baptized into the realm of media.
I was transformed by contracts
and bound by what others wanted me to be.
I was Christened into the religion of fame
and was resurrected into a god of the prepubescent.
I
didn’t want the best of both worlds.

I no longer have copyright over my own body
so I tattooed wrong on every inch of visible skin and
bleached and combed the sides of my head off with rebellion.
I am not a seventeen year old savior for preteens anymore.
I
am the mistakes I was never able to make
and the lessons I never got to learn.
I am everything the public never let me be.

Pop culture has stripped me with their judgments
and raped me of my freedom to change.
I’ve never felt more vulnerable.
My walls have been demolished
and I never thought
that my audience would be the one to break them down.
I have been crucified on this wrecking ball.

With love,
Miley

I want to write about prisons
and how we are conditioned to believe
that our body is one.
We are no longer temples
or
sanctuaries.

We are residents of personal hellholes,
rats in sewers,
and vandals of our own homes.
We have spray painted our insecurities
under the welcome mat
because there is nothing welcoming about low self-esteem.
We have learned that it is acceptable
to graffiti on our least favorite body parts
as if our exterior is a canvas that was meant to be ruined.

Let me tell you this:
Your body fat is not an organ jumpsuit
and your disproportions are not handcuffs.
You are not shackled to your imperfect bed frame either.
How dare you hold yourself hostage
and starve yourself of self-appreciation.

The scratched on the back of your thighs
are tally marks for every 5 pounds you gain
and you have bruises on your hips
where your fingertips kissed your love handles
as if pinching your skin
is the most love you think your body deserves.

Your ribs are not prison bars
that you can drag a spoon across in hopes of hearing the echo of an apology you owe yourself
amongst the metal friction.

You are a spark, darling,
and soon, you will be a flame
that will burn this prison down.
This—
is not self-destruction.
This—
is reconstruction.

I want to write about prisons
and how we are conditioned to believe
that our body is one.
We are no longer temples
or
sanctuaries.

We are residents of personal hellholes,
rats in sewers
and vandals of our own homes. 
We have spray-painted our insecurities
under the welcome mat
because there is nothing welcoming about low self-esteem.
We have learned that it is acceptable
to graffiti on our least favorite body parts
as if our exterior is a canvas meant to be ruined.

Let me tell you this:
Your body fat is not an orange jumpsuit
and your disproportions are not handcuffs.
You are not shackled to your imperfect bed frame either.
How dare you hold yourself hostage.

Your ribs are not prison bars
that you can drag a spoon across
in hopes of hearing the echo of an apology
you owe yourself
amongst the metal friction. 

You are a spark, darling,
and soon, you will be a flame
that will burn this prison down.
This—
is not self-destruction.
This—
is reconstruction.

I remember how you felt like the sea
in the middle of July;
cold, yet beautiful

I remember how I was the sand,
and when you embraced me,
I drowned but all I wanted to breathe was you.
You poured yourself into me with uncertainty,
engraving your name into the corners of my mouth
as if salt was supposed to taste like forever
when it felt more like it was rubbing into a wound.
I never wanted you there to begin with.
You baptized my land unexpectedly,
asking for permission when it was too late to be granted. 

Once the tides massaged the shoreline,
you took your footsteps with it
as if your secrets were written between the grooves
like how you weren’t too keen with PDA
yet your waters will still exchange kisses with the shore
and I never know when
I’ll stop having conversations with the ocean

I hate the way you look at me
with your chocolate dusted orbs
and how your gaze
says that I am the constellations
swimming in the Milky Way.
I knew you wanted
to plant your wishes in me
but you were the moon
when I needed the sun.

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