I'm losing track of all the different colored pills I have.

For these few hours
I close my eyes and
Radiate nothing.
The opposite
Of infinite.
I am gone.

I used to spew--
Now only leak out
In half-assed phrases
And "I like you's"

There is a diner down the street
Where we sit to talk and think.
Our own Thanksgiving:
In the middle of June
In the middle of the night,
In some god-awful town
We couldn't wait to get out of.

Do you remember?
The waitress asked if we wanted coffee.
You were so out of your body
You wept.
I apologized only for embarrassment.
Don't ruin this for me.

You looked good.
Your once sunken, steaming eyes
are bright.
Not bright enough to be a picture,
but pretty **** close.

Reach your hand across the stained table,
to touch mine grasping a pink package,
of kind-of-sweet sugar.
The clock watched my eyes look for ghosts to talk about.

You don't have to be sorry
for the night you went too far.
I know that is hard.

I'm writing you a letter now.
I'll smudge the return address.

I hope you are thankful for someone like me.

I've still got blue on my face.
I'm coming clean, and I hope you will go away.
I'm still drowning.
I have come to learn these things are better left said.

I cried when you cried
and kissed when you kissed.
Now if I died,
I'm unsure I'd be missed.

Remember me?
I told you it was OK
when it really was not OK
when you touched me
inappropriately
on my own couch
that one night
after we saw the film
about a graffiti artist.
It was not OK,
I'm still not OK.

Remember me?
I said it was no big deal
when it really was,
obviously,
a big deal
that you started liking her
instead of me.
It was a big deal,
when I asked you
to kiss me in the halls.

Remember me?
I'm not your little girl anymore.
I am seventeen years old,
and I can't breathe most nights.
Things are not OK.
Things are a big deal.
So much so,
that it is
OK.
It's fine, really.
No big Deal.

I'm running out of things to say
to the lady I pay by the day
to tell me how my life has gone to ****
to tell me, however, I should not quit.
I'm running out of ways to write
that I cannot stand the sight
of my eyes looking back into mine
the knots in the mirror when I stare at my spine.
I'm running out of ways to feel
the urge and need to ****
so I figured I ought to love instead
but all that disappoint got to my head.
I'm running out of trust to give
such a fact prevents my want to live
I wish more than anything
to feel at home again.