You wake up on someone's front lawn, covered in dew. You brush off and drive to school. The teachers can't pin you down because you're always picking leaves out of your hair, but you're crying when they read Pinter. You're not good at explaining yourself, so you stop trying altogether.

You love me, but she's pretty.
And it makes my ears all red and my head feel so heavy, like it's been forced into a 45 degree angle.
I walk wobbly. I remember I haven't eaten, but don't tell you about it. I don't say anything.
I try harder to be prettier.

I swore I'd never grocery shop with you again because I hate the way you make decisions. You made me feel like the "frivolous" items you always ended up putting back. I should have been firmer than the other fruits, but soft enough for you to give it a try.

Sometimes you are absolutely paramount to my existence, my ability to walk down the street. When I hold your hand I feel like an infant learning to grasp for the first time. Kissing you feels like pronouncing my first word.

There are days when I wouldn't say  I'm haunted. There are other days when I am held down completely by the ghosts in my head.
One memory stands alone, like a video game boss. It's the big one in the shape of an idiot with two roaming eyes and there is nothing worse than a villain who thinks he's done no wrong.
I made my intentions so clear. It was one of my rare moments of pure elation. I wanted to dance forever and see paradise.
Paradise is, evidently, a ***** basement. It is getting drunk at 17 and forgetting that no one actually cares. It is being touched by a pair of scary eyes and then even worse hands. It is saying "no" and being ignored. It is wishing you had listened to your mother.
And on the other side of Paradise is a shame that keeps you silent. It's a bed you can no longer sleep in. It's a handful of pills and bottomless *****. It's your own fist punching your legs. It's a lie you tell yourself.
Today I'm selling tickets to my haunted house. The catch is, if you happen to find an exit, you have to tell me.

i wish i could remember the very last time i saw you,
where we were
if we even spoke
what shirt you were wearing
if you had washed your hair recently
if you had trouble putting in your contacts that morning
if there was wind
or rain
or sun
or nothing at all
if you were smiling
or giving that intense look your face seemed to like so much
if you had food stuck in your teeth
         (you had such cute teeth)
if you were writing something down in your goofy handwriting

i hope you were looking at me
and thinking oh god oh god oh god.
i hope you write something like this one day
except can yours start out like,
"I remember the very last time I saw her,
we were..."

i carried your dog
across an ocean
or half a street
i can't remember.
his tongue wagged
but his tail didn't
and i think i had ****
on my pants.
both weak
in different ways,
we passed him back and forth,
like a baby,
who had your girth
and my laugh.

i think we'll love again,
you know?
everything is alright.