I’ll treat you better.

“If you don’t leave,”
he whispered,
“I’ll treat you better.”
In fact, he promised,
He wanted to.
He said.

“I don’t know why
it’s been so hard
to like you.

Dealing with your criticisms
And incessant need
For more

Makes me hate you.
Loving you
is frustrating.

But it can’t be
impossible
to act like I care
While slamming your face

Into everything you
do wrong.

Please don’t cringe
Away
From my words.
I can love you

Through my resentment.
If I can remind
You

You’re wrong.

I’ll apologize.

I’ll treat you better.

If you deserve it more than before.”

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I lost my hero.

Robin Williams has always been my hero.

And I’m heartbroken that his laughter has been silenced.

I feel like mine has been too.

I loved his silliness. I love silliness.

And I can’t tell you how many times I’ve either watched or have casually thought about his roles in each of my favorite movies. His standup acts. His interviews. The silliness. It makes me love the world so much more than the moments before I’m graced with his laughter.

Robin Williams helped the world realize it doesn’t always have to be So Sensible.

And it was also him that taught me I didn’t have to be.

That I could be free to be weird. and silly.

Hook. Actually. Was one of the first movies I ever personally owed.

My dad bought it for me as a gift. I can’t remember how old I was. But it was my favorite. Until I saw What Dreams May Come. and that was my favorite until I saw Dead Poets Society. Which was my favorite until Patch Adams.

I think you get the idea.

When my dad died, I didn’t want to talk to many people or do many things. My world stopped and watching Robin Williams in all his roles helped my life find happiness again.

When my life was falling apart, I made a list of all of his movies and watched as many as I could.

I, like millions of other people, was lucky enough to be warmed by his contagious laughter.

And while this laughter was juxtaposed by the world’s darkest secrets, I appreciated him that much more.

My worst moments. My hardest losses. My ugliest truths.

Could always be shadowed with lighthearted silliness.

Even if only slightly.

Some things sound funny. Swearing at inappropriate times is liberating. Changing our voices to make them squeak and sound like people very unlike ourselves. is entertaining.

I rejoice in our sparks of madness.

And it was Robin Williams that helped me realize that this was okay.

That it should actually be celebrated.

My heart is broken. But that’s the way it should be.

The world lost one of its greatest laughters.

And I lost my hero.

quadrupled.

Deep breathing returns
our even spell of sanity.
But in its pause—

I appreciate
inappropriate appetizers,
backward glances,
awkward stances,
time retold,
and mistakes redone.

Stolen syllables
and feigned excuses
anticipate our alliterations
and readied followed rhymes
but while our code

is drenched in silence
and stumbled laughter
forms us dual liars,

tangled words distort believing
no one can hear
(not even the other)

excessive thumping
artery pumping
or see quadrupled fire

of hoping. of wanting
dreaming of loathing.
fashioned of craving.

I woke up with my love beside me.

I was rereading a few of my old things. poems. scribbles.

And I found a poem/minddump in an old file.

It doesn’t have a date on it. Because, for several weeks last year, I irresponsibly neglected to include dates and thus have no recollection of when exactly some of the pieces were written.

Regardless.

I remember writing this one and being so frustrated that I couldn’t figure out how to make it sound the way I wanted it to.

But when I read it a couple days ago, I actually liked how it was in its half-poem-half-rant form that really has no rhythm or flow at all.

Instead, it has personality.

Here you are:

i woke up with my love beside me

he’s large and black,

furry

and a dog.

he keeps his head on the pillow next to mine.

interestingly enough-

the pillow had belonged to his namesake.

occasionally, he snuggles under the covers– but he’s not suppose to do that.

when i wake up, i can put my arms around him

and remember how he’s more snuggly than any other person who has lied in the same place.

to be honest

this probably isn’t their fault.

with my habit of pouring gasoline on the parts of life i actually care about

and freezing out the people i don’t,

well. you can see why i wake up with my dog to cuddle with every morning.

i don’t resent this

i actually prefer it.

i dream and scribble while he lies at my feet

he always goes back to bed after we’ve woken up, and i’ve made my coffee and let him out

so he can smell the dirty city’s morning air. 

really though- he’d be okay with any morning air.

he’ll sit on those steps out back, and when he realizes how long it’s been since we’ve talked,

he comes back inside to be my shadow.

i type. he snuggles.

he doesn’t know 

how terrible i am at being next to people

as i wrap myself in all my own thoughts

and resent anyone’s misunderstanding

of how i have to be.

he doesn’t mind 

my secret soaring and crashing

the way my mind resembles a poorly flown airplane.

he doesn’t beg 

for my attention when i just don’t have the time

to give it.

wait. 

yes he does.

he’ll sit there and whine and cry and bark

until i give him every ounce of everything i have

but for some reason

i don’t mind this as much. 

he’d never use

me for my extra words and 

my spare moments of affirmation

he’d never forget

me on the corner of some dark and dreary memory

he’d never neglect

to say goodbye if he decided that life 

just wasn’t for him.

he’d never lose

himself 

in such a way

that would prevent me 

from wrapping my arms around him

from snuggling my feet under him

from cuddling next to his hot breath.

from hearing his loud heart beat. 

that reminds me 

of what it’s like

for someone else 

to exist next to me. 

woof.

january.

the world has fallen apart

carefully crafted

perfectly placed.

and beautifully demolished

with silenced little girls

and sad little boys.

As time has tried

to mend the broken names

mixed with

the forgotten faces

we’ve hidden our loneliness and

we’ve carried our burdens as

our disheartened dreams

our unlivable hopes

are haunted

by children dying.

part of me is made of glass

part of me is made of glass

the kind that shatters,

ruins photographs

the kind that cuts,

opens veins.

part of me is made of glass

the part believes

in ever afters,

in perhaps

the part shatters–

–curling itself

with desperation

the part fractured

your face.

while.

attempting.

to mend the broken parts

of my glass made day.

the splinters stretch

across your face

as i crumble

into the parts of me

that are made of glass.

i hear them cracking–

–carving life back into

the bleak source

of oxidized vexation.

the glass edges burn

yes.

but self-inflicted fire

is more edible than

emotional fragility.

i broke the perfection of your face

staring from the past’s last breath.

i broke bits of useless armor

stinging from

glass bites.

part of me is made of glass

the part fell and shattered

the part bled with ease.

part of me is made of glass.

it’s filled with your hands

…can you see

that the way you move

unnerves me.

(it continues).

and that

the way you breathe

reminds me

of what it’s like to be

speechless.

i stumble around

for short phrases

of.

i can’t even remember

the words.

they’re hidden somewhere

behind the

heartbeats

filling my ears

(i think they’re mine?)

but as

i miss each step

each silenced word

attempts to remind me

how to

.

string letters

.

together.how to make the curl of the s

the lines of the L

the cross of the–

–and then.

.

my pen stops as my entire mind

runs out of ink

it’s filled with your hands

and every sentence

i could only wish to complete

is interrupted.

by your eye color

i don’t even know what to call it

since language

coincidentally.

has stopped.

i try to practice

rhyming

and

scribbling

but your warmth

tricks me

into omitting syllables.

my cursive falls to the floor

along with my rationality

i think yours too

has fallen

somewhere in the pile

of forgotten bits of

paragraphs in

all my lost

adjectives and each

of

my neglected nouns.