TheCourtRose

Student of mine to security guard: "I'm looking for Ms. Butler. She's the English tutor?" Security guard to my student: "Oh! You mean that tall, white girl? She's up by the library." *Bless you Chicago*

Wanting a poet to write something about you is equivalent to desperately seeking a photographer to capture "the real you." To see you as something elusive and worth capturing. It's easy to follow someone about who has the right amount of artistic temperament to attract you, but enough of the here and now to realize they're being saught. It's a dangerous game. Always in pursuit of the artist, or the muse. It's easy to love the way a poet sees the world. I love several of them. You become addicted to their words. It lifts you up, takes you away, you see the ordinary in a hyper-focused, soft- lens . None of it's real. I haven't written poetry for months. I think I've become a part of the terrible *cliche* of only writing when I'm depressed. Or maybe I become depressed when I stop writing. Chicken, egg, brain chemicals. I write when there is a need. Unfortunately, as much as my professors in Wales tried to beat it out of me (bless you Stevie!

Sometimes I want to fuck your friend because his vulnerability is intoxicating To him I am something special I could be someone else; someone new and shiny I only think this because he looks for a lost thing in me- He won't find it here I am caught in spider webs with nowhere to go and nothing to do but hang by the black-widow threads Like when you crush the bloom in your hand, only to wonder why you did when the petals hit the ground I won't fuck your friend but somedays the desire to destroy everything good will not abate lightly Sometimes fucking-up or fucking around are the only options left to believe in, even though they never work I could pretend that he would somehow save me I wish desperately that it could be so simple

I am idle and angry. Sad too, but not passively so. I am large. My universe should be as large, with loud colors and bright sounds. I am sorry that you must deal with the pieces that do not fit. It makes no sense that my universe feels soft and fragile. Lived so much, for so long. Lived so loud and so vibrantly, to feel delicate. My mistakes are never quietly made. I have used my friend's patience so harshly and desperately, but always with the quiet, sweet plea in my eyes, "Love me anyway." I do not drink enough anymore and really wish I did. Bottoms of pints, bottoms of bottles, bottoms up in the air and too many bodies to remember. I hate being a pain in your ass. Never again as it should be, but what it is , but never really good with that either. Bless all those loud, obnoxious- help me I'm drowning help me I'm lost help me, hold my hand, make love to me and call me pretty make it better because I can't make it better because I don'

This house is dreary. The floorboards are dried and squeak underfoot. If the sun doesn't shine in there is no light here. Even when there is sunlight the shadows are deep and long in the hallways. So many unused lanterns with boxes of tea-light candles collecting dust. If it weren't for the voices this house would be empty. I see outlines in the dark, so I know I'm not alone. Now I know why you craved the silence. The graveyard isn't completely abandoned despite what the rumors say. The paths are well-worn, even if the tombstones are overturned and broken. It feels untouched here, except for the plastic purple flowers. Every spare inch of land is covered in graves and weeds. If it weren't for the flowers this place would be empty. I see them scattered on the ground, so I know someone cares. Now I know why you craved the silence. This body is tired, though the lungs breathe and the heart beats. I need the sun to shine over my ever-dar