did someone tell you to treat me differently was it a conscious decision because it's 5:39 in the morning and i'm struggling to understand i'm prying my eyelids open just to write this down to get it off my chest and even worse, what gave you the right to suddenly treat me like dirt? not even an employee, not even a person you treat me like dirt yet you treat everyone else the same as you used to treat me. what changed? who said something to you? what did they say? it effects me more than you know. to be singled out in such a way. because i'm in love with my manager and i'm not sure what to do. please help my find the words to say.

You cut your foot on the floor of the laundry room,
We dressed your wound in kisses.
You pointed to a path that led to wildflowers and tall grass
And shattered beer bottles like stained glass littering the ground,
It was overgrown
Like his hair in the summer.
Something about cruise control and two left feet,
And second hand smoke from the passenger seat
And drowning the butterflies in our stomachs with seltzer water,
Because it burns like gasoline.
I'm sorry I'm not everything my first impression made me out to be.
I am a flower growing through the crack in the sidewalk but not as beautiful as the roses he got me.
Holding secrets deep like salt in wounds,
Or caskets filled with forever sleep,
Because I didn't want to hurt you and you didn't want to hurt me.

once again my head is buried in the sand,
and all the cigarettes i smoked and all the hearts i broke
had you feeding the whole pack to me out of the palm of your hand.
it was a stroke of luck that i lucked out, clucked out like a chicken without a head,
no direction where to go and using my  feet to guide me instead.
and it was a stroke of genius that struck me out,
we twisted words we crossed arms
we bit tongues until bloOD WAS RUNNING DOWN THE SIDES
of our chins like a mudslide
and the hairs on our skin
prickled up with anxiety when we realized that this mortality is more/less a gift than a blessing,
so i'm done second guessing everything that i see.
i'm relapsing back into hiccups and cigarettes and you're relapsing back into me.
how am i to trust my eyes when the foundation of everything i once believed is now a pile of dirt?
twenty seven seconds left on the microwave and you took them for granted
just like the garden you planted to try to feel alive and alert,
but what would you with twenty seven seconds on your death bed
screaming happy crying hurt
sending fists and laughter bouncing off walls

after all these years, you're still
chugging the bottle to the bottom
but what you don't know is,
the bottle is a bottomless abyss.
and no one is waiting on the other side
for you.
your candied cancer lips closing in on my throat,
your hands
so elusive
like smoke in my brain,
like death in your touch
you held me and it felt like the return of a long lost friend
i made you coffee
i made you think
i made you late for work.
i was the only thing you had
and you we're the only thing that never loved me back.
so how many more poems do i have to write before you let me in?
how many scars do i have to slice open again
until i have the heart to taste you?

We preserve flowers after we've cut them from their roots because we want to prolong their beauty.
But isn't that what we do to our dead loved ones as well?

sharp eyes, sharp tongue, sharp nails, sharp shoulders.
it's a wonder
how you are not bleeding out on the floor.
you said it was rare to see
the roots of my hair.
(well that's because it falls out
when i dye it)
but little do you know, i'm still dying inside.
i just wore masks to hide it.
so i use my life to give birth to symbols and those symbols are pregnant with a plethora of words
that nestle themselves into cocoons in my dreams,
to hatch the next day with elegant wings.
my limbs are not rungs on the latter out of your personal hell.
you know i slack off and slouch against the sofa and the couch
when i sit and smoke and i wake up.
we set ourselves up for failure and we sell ourselves short.
i wanted to just be a friend of the sort,
not bathing in your shadow.
i resort to
failure.
failure is easier than anything else,
i don't care about myself.
it's easier to condemn yourself to your doom
than to be consumed by success.
there's an undertow in life and that's why it's so hard to swim back to shore,
i'm sure you know.

in making Marjorie god hurried
a boy’s body on unsuspicious
legs of girl. his left hand quarried
the quartzlike face. his right slapped
the amusing big vital vicious
vegetable of her mouth.
Upon the whole he suddenly clapped
a tiny sunset of vermouth
-colour.  Hair. he put between
her lips a moist mistake, whose fragrance hurls
me into tears,as the dusty new-
ness of her obsolete gaze begins to.  lean….
a little against me, hen for two
dollars i fill her hips with boys and girls.