Someday you’ll find a girl who writes manifestos instead of poetry,
and she will make you happy in the ways you had to teach yourself to be,
and everything that we ever did and said to each other will just be a silly dream,
or a movie that you used to watch all the time, but got tired of.

I’m so excited when my friends write please write more thank you bye


You know, I could get used to bad movies and shitty internet,
Your one-room apartment, queen sized bed,
A dog named Maebey and the Vonnegut on your bookshelf,
And you’ve got three bookshelves, and I like that.

I could get used to wine at midnight, frittatas and pancakes at noon
(I can’t believe you spent an entire hour making me breakfast),
The Jack Johnson Pandora station playing from the living room, and your sarcasm.

I could get used to waking up at 6 in the morning with your arms somehow around me
(Even though I clearly remember falling asleep a few inches away; I sleep like superman),
Your sex drive, insatiable, and how I have to stand on my tiptoes to give you a kiss.

I could get used to your small car crammed with sailing equipment,
And your stated attempt to dress in a way that would turn me off
(Although you looked really cute in your shorts and your old fraternity sweatshirt, so I forgave the shoes),
And driving over cobblestone to get back to my house.

I could get used to stubble brushing the back of my neck,
And your hands on my naked back, and kisses on the nose,
And most of all, the unspoken understanding that we will never fall in love.

If I’ve learned anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as a fairy tale romance,
There’s just people you can get to know,
And things you can get used to.

It turns out my heart can still flutter 
and it turns out there can still be a person
who will come up behind me as I wash the dishes
and wrap their arms around my waist.

I Thought of It and I Liked It, So I Wrote it Down

Sometimes we tire of writing about ourselves,
Sometimes we tire of attire.

Naked from the waist up to the neck,
because past the neck, exposure is typical,
And it is the non-naked parts of me that are the most broken,
above and below the lines where my flesh
would not be allowed on daytime television. 

How I missed the (true) written word,
I have gotten too used to subtitles.

Reading a bookshelf can be as exhausting and rewarding as reading a book;
who put those stories there? I demand to know.
Someone tell me who loved those words
at what time and for what reason?

Someone tell me why any chain of events
Can end with sniffles leaving mascara stains on a pillow
in a room where the shades are drawn.

Drawn! Oh English, I love you
For words like “drawn” and “shades,” spanning multiple meanings
1, 2, 3 in a dictionary.
Someone tell me, who created these words?
Who on Earth can draw their mind into thin silver thread
and wrap it around such a thing as language?

Signifiers, the signified, oh, and I’m shutting down as I think of it.
There is too much math in this stuffed-full brain of mine.
Even the parts that are cobwebbed 
are no longer bending into nameless shapes.
I’ve brought order and with it, straight lines,
but (thank God!) I can still cry.

And I had more to say,
but my mind turned over, the processor of my cerebral cortex
oscillating over and again, and I had not saved the data
quickly enough, and I am a poor computer,
so now I will readopt my humanity,
and breath in, and out, and sleep.


It’s all just a big game to me, 
and I’m winning, so far.

The way I see it, it’s twenty questions:
What movie should I quote to win your heart?
What poem could I reference that would make you smile at me?
Would my Russian background give you butterflies?
Do you like the bottle-red of my long, soft hair?

And so on, and on,
until you’re hooked, and trust me,
that doesn’t take long.

And then what? Well,
I’m sure you’ve seen enough films
fade to black.

Early the next morning
I’ll add up the score, and wash my face
and convince myself that, yes,
this is a good way to live.

After all, it’s just a game.
And I’m winning, I think.


Sad Brags


Sad Brags

(via perel)


where the fuck are you?
You promised—

But I guess no one can
promise me anything and I’m
alone tonight, but you know
what? I don’t know how many
more nights days weeks months
I want to be alone, so

where the fuck are you?
You said—

But I guess it doesn’t
at all matter what you
said then, because we were both
sort of out of our heads and I
don’t remember the last
time we had sex, so

where the fuck are you?
You went—

But I guess that to be 
quite honest, I don’t really want
to know anything about
you anymore, I’ll just pretend
I’ve always been alone, because that’s
easier than thinking about you, so

where the fuck are you?
You just—

But I guess that you’re a fading
memory, and someday the 
feelings will all be gone, but for now
I’ll bury them in other boys’ arms
and necks and faces but that’ll
happen another day, so

where the fuck are you?
Stay there.

Jane (n.):
1. A college student cultivating a love-hate relationship with academia.
2. A runner who hates to get out of bed.
3. A bright-eyed girl with CSS wishes and HTML dreams.
4. Single and certainly not ready to mingle.
5. Tweets out the manic and tumblrs the depressive.

When I'm sad, it usually goes here. When I'm happy, I find people to smile at. Or it goes here.

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These are not poems.

These are not songs.

Talk to me, baby.