it’s just butterflies in your stomach, he says,
and leaves out tragic details of
a love that was never meant to be.
on those days, she stacked her fear on empty Kleenex boxes;
only yesterday, she threw out the batteries of her clock,
the ticktocktick seconds of his absence a reminder of
her fairytale romance, the epitome of
broken promises.

it’s raw and dirty and beautiful, like something out of a movie
only this time the pills aren't placebos.

you'd think it's nice the way he
wakes you up at 4am, tousled hair and
empty eyes and the palm of his hand against
your wrist.
you'd head for the horizon in
the dim light of the dawn,
full of cliches and euphemisms so that maybe
those secret tragedies can pass you by
in return for some unreachable truth
that only his music can hide.
you'd think maybe you love him love him (not)
because he tells someone else
secrets that he can't hide anyway.

those lukewarm tragedies, you'd think,
should be cold by now.

sometimes they don’t see
the reality in our words or think about
the ordinary nights we
sit at our desks and type away on another
blank document;

it’s not all fancy journals or
the latest font trends—but maybe
a dash of our favorite songs
and dim lights to set the mood;

usually there is no extra
midnight black eyeliner
or chipped nail polish,
or even those 13 piercings and red contacts,

most of the time they don’t see
the reality between the letters
or the ordinary kid with the ordinary
laptop—

not quite true rebels but not quite real adults
just kids with
lip-sealed secrets.

they have the most unlikely metaphors
for broken hearts, even those that
dangle on their sleeves
like secret stories whispered under
the covers at night
and maybe the daybreak confessions of
a drug addict—
in the end they don’t realize that it’s all
empty words and too much prose,
and that they’ve already lost their hearts in
this clichéd battle.

these are the kids who fight to
write
against the world.
it can be crooked letters of imperfect
handwriting that stand sharp against
coffee-stained, wrinkled pieces of
ripped binder paper,
or romantic scrawls on the trunk of a city sapling
still supported by rotting wooden sticks—
someday they will fit in (somewhere), but
today they will jot their stories in
broken words on tattered scraps because
they know that it doesn’t have to be true,
just real.

theirs was not a dramatic love story,
nothing like the soap operas
on t.v.
there were no fireworks, celebrations,
(or congratulations)
just a simple touch of fingers,
lips to lips,
soft.
and.
warm—
theirs was not a hollywood romance,
but it could be the quiet blooming of a flower
in spring, still hidden from the world,
just two boys who want to be
together.

0.

she writes with a permanent pen
chapters of a life-story on her
arm and when she runs
outofspace she
writes along the curve of her long
body and around the ankles
where the neat lettering swirls into a condensed
circle and protrudes when she traces the ink over
the bone;
she takes care to cover her fingers in sharp
pen marks in a soft pattern with the words
notre amour, c’est éternel
but forgets that it is all just a (life)story played out
in her mind while she finishes this pen and reaches for
the next with childlike fingers;

1.

he is the boy around the corner with
dirt in his broken fingernails because he
chews on them to try to stop
smoking; (she writes)

with a most pale complexion and dark brown eyes that
looks right through you--
with dirty blond hair that trail messily over his face
and hang uncropped
over his ears;

he is dressed in a torn, faded yellow tshirt with dark brown
stains that dot the fabric and
jeans, frayed
at the ends;

sometimes i walk past (she writes) and he
is perched carelessly against the rusty lamp post in
the corner with a cigarette in-between his
fingers and ashes at his feet--
he inhales nicotine into his lungs and
breathes out sin so beautifully

2.

he is there at 6am, translucent and alone under the pale light
of the morning, features covered in a haze of smoke
and cigarette ashes falling, falling
falling--
like bits and pieces of a fairytale untold,
hers are the steps that don't exist,
it is the middle of an unknown battle,
bodies and body bags and no survivals
except for the single white lily that no eyes can see,
tucked away among the chaos and one petal
less; blood-stained. dismembered--

cigarette embers fade under her feet
and suddenly he is
so clear, so close;
hooded eyes. long lashes. chapped lips.
“hey baby” he says, but his lips never move,
“what's a dainty little doll like you doing here?”
she thinks it's only her imagination,
but he takes her hand and
runs dirty fingers over her
knuckles, kisses her like he means it,
a fairytale of lovemetrue mixed with stale cigarette smoke
sweet on his tongue but numb
on hers;

her white dress hooks on a crooked nail
jutting from the lamp post and
rips.