Somewhere in there,
Maybe I could go back and rescue my mind from this sizzling bath of TV static.
But you know what they say about thinking like that.
It's just that nothing seems to make much sense anymore,
And I find it hard to convince myself to make a move.
I'm scared, I trust myself only a little more than I trust the world.

I'm not moving, just thinking about all this and then you come home.
You talk to me in the cute voice you used with your cat when you were in Oregon.
It wakes me up.
I was unsure about all this at first,
And not really even aware of it,
But you've grown on me.
You've grown roots into my heart. I know what they want... and I couldn't bring myself to rip them out and walk away.

Because I looked down and saw that I'd grown roots into you as well.

your words exactly:
"i believe our paths were meant
"to intersect,
"but not to sustain.
"to touch,
"but not to cling.
"to meet,
"but not to unite. "
and i still love you,
despite.

The pharmacist at CVS says I am not prescribed an inhaler anymore.
so in it's place.
I prescribe myself cigarettes

I need something to inhale
cigarettes seem a logical alternative to inhalers

deliberatly I decide to not drive
to the cigar store.
i walk to the cigar store.

it is far enough to be inconvenient
which means maybe
If I am not destined to buy this cigarette
I will receive an overwhelming sensation to turn back

I always add time for potential divine intervention to my agenda.
It happens often enough to be logical

we may have different definitions of logical

the cashier asks my age
And I tell him 21.
I am 22.
somehow In the confusion of waiting for god to prescribe me an overwhelming emotional reaction to not buy cigarettes
Instead of an inhaler.
I forget a whole ******* year of my life.

this is great context for
How I trust myself when making decisions.
which is to say
I don't trust myself to make descisions.

I buy the cigarettes.

upon searching for the optimal location
to loiter and slowly **** myself.
I stumble upon the old teen center.
the first place I was a mentor.

Out the side of the building
There's this rock
Long enough to sit five or so children
two laying down.
it's Perferated like a candy bar
each rectangle curved slightly
custom fit to years of munchkin ****

this slump right here
this slump is my munchkin ****.

each break of chocolate
on the candy bar rock
has a ladyslipper growing behind it.
tips of the five purple flowers
stretch to align perfect with the tips of our childhood belly buttons

humbled, I brush the leaves
excavate delicately
this heirloom.
I had forgotten.

The sky is recovering When I lay myself on the rock.
light grey clouds that want to cry
an optimistic sun that won't let them

I Cover my face with an old journal
made of old book smell.
I smile into the pages.
my lips barely touching the silk threading of her binding.
I've never breathed so intimately
a new lover.
the tip of my nose tucked into her spine.
honeymoon phase, Intoxicating.
Still excited to be in love.

there's breath here
wisdom in the records of
loving young,
cherrishing this new book smell.
Filling your chest with it.

When memories are tangible
There are no more expiration dates

Fill my lungs with
the crisp of unturned pages,
worn leather covers
Soft silk crosstitches

Kiss air into me
from the space between your lines.
I know how intimate an untold story can be.

Today I started breathing
I fell in love With a metaphor.

I never did smoke that cigarette.

I'm a little too familiar with
gas station coffee
(and restrooms)
I know all of the roads and the mountains
that line them
I have known every cheap motel
stared at every continental breakfast
(burned coffee and rubber eggs)
and I can pack for anything in ten minutes or less.

I have known cities lit by the night
and passes comfortably fringed by fog
skeleton trees on dead beaches
gas-station Cheetos eaten at 3 am
sleeping on a friends shoulder
or listening to another iPod playlist
alone in the dark
the casual immodesty between traveling partners
and wearing 3 layers of sweats
to ward off the cold of the journey.
I re-read poetry by flashlight
while ghosts of headlights flutter
as I leave everything behind me
again.

I love the road blazing by
because it takes me a way from everything I remember
away from the family that is not mine
away from the cages and bars and lies about my beliefs
about my identity
the oppression of mandatory religion
the self-destructive hate
who I used to be.

I wrote poems about my knives because they were my comfort
they were beautiful to me
I romanticized my pain because I was a romantic at heart
but a romantic without love
and so I turned to blood and knives and tried to make it into poetry
thought that it could somehow be beautiful
and the sad thing is that it was
it gave more comfort than my family,
it was closer than my friends,
more reliable than any god.

The road scours that all away, reminds me
that I can leave, I am free, there is more to the world
than what I grew up knowing.
More than Rush Limbaugh and misogynist preachers
more than latent racism and open homophobia
more than my shame in my acceptance of these as normal
there is a whole world where
people don't live chained to bibles
and that gives me hope.

I have never known home here,
but driving and driving and driving
shows me that the world is larger than I know
and maybe I can find it somewhere.

That person where you think of when people mention "The One". That person where your heart skips a beat when you see or hear their name. That person where you smile when they start a conversation. That person where you want to wrap your arms around them. That person where you post something online, wishing they would see it. That person where you write every **** thing about. That person where you want to impress so badly. That person where you lie awake, conjuring up different scenarios in your head. That person where you stay up, writing a story or song about. That person you want to share your life with. That person who is the sole inspiration of everything you do. That person. I want them so badly.

-m.b

I hate how old people look when they drink water
I hate when a girl with Irish skin makes my chest hurt because she’s not mine
And I hate not knowing how I feel

I hate how pretentious all my ******* writing is

So here’s something honest
About loving your lips
And the way your head fits on my chest
And loving to kiss your wrists
But still not loving you

I ******* hate how much I love the Smiths
And how I can’t tell the difference between drugs and mental illness
And how scattered my brain is
But she’s still so stuck in all the pieces

I hate the back of your car
And the way it makes me vulnerable

And I hate when my mom cries because she’s watching something she created die
And she can’t help save him

And I hate when babies are boiled in blood
But I’d hate not giving woman a choice with their body

And I hate God for not being real but making more rules than politicians who just manipulate money and religion

And I hate to complain, but I do it anyway