It amazes me your gentle hands could create such pain.
My heart of scars, shaped in your name.
A shallow act.
As low as dirt.
Has bent and twisted, had it's way. 
Changed me, made me stronger today. For a scar is not a mark, sported by the weak. But a guideline of who to be.

i am smoking a lucky strike clamped with old tweezers.
i am sitting on the back porch of my friends house
he is asleep. it is 2 pm. i am alone with the rooms of accumulated years.
i feel like an intruder. or maybe a burgler.

there are children next door screaming as i tap out the lucky strike into a dish full of his siblings.
i wonder if he knew them. there were 20 packed in tight.

i am wondering why i instantly personified a cigarette as male. i am worried for the implications of this.

i am hungry and still somewhat thirsty. the cigarette is drying my mouth even more but i don't have the will to rise.

a lawnmower has started up two backyards away.
i am worried for my strange superiority complex regarding suburban life.
i wonder if i am better than the mundane despite this observation.

my friends dad put his arm around me and patted me on the back. it is the most physical contact I've had with a male figure in about a year.
i hope he didn't see the discomfort.

i am writing a poem in this style because the matter of fact is all that comes to me. i am realizing i will probably never write anything worthwhile and spend my young years in the halls of retail: customer service. fast food. i will not travel the world. i will not take Polaroids of incredible things. i will only have my body to sell and the tasks that it can perform. my mind will be placed elsewhere for safekeeping. i am writing a poem in this style because i do not need to write something good. i am not a young genius. i am not a prodigy. i am smoking a lucky strike with tweezers, if that gives you any idea. i just want to write. i don't need to be beautiful. i can be an important ugly, a clunky tongued verse. a bad poem. this does not ruin me. this releases me.

give me that meaningless *******
sweet nothing nonsense
sonneting on & off & on again.  
everyday, all day
we were softer shades of comet spitting stars across the cosmos

I feel awful about feeling awful this morning. we were alone together in the dark
lost for the most part.

the sound of lights                
of day & of night inspire me
& I'd like to try to fly even though I'm
really really tired
&I; know I'd end up this
amorphous red inkblot
of blood & chunks of flesh
on the sidewalk.

just an absolute mess.

the fever broke then settled in &
I went the way
of the sugar rush instead.

I like you to death.

Part one:
I wake up. Everything's still kinda quiet. Except the highway. I've slept next to a high way since as long a I can remember. Has everyone? How far do you have to be to escape the endless trickle of passengers and their escorts tumbling down the great divide of one way or the other, compressing and condensing the magnitude and grandeur of the space between them? I like it that way. Always wondering who's face has crossed across your conscious space, that has drifted to the back of your brain. How alike are they to the innumerable faces you pass in the midst of all manner of journeys. Yours is as irrelevant to them as theirs is to you and yet for a split second, you both simultaneously glance over at the precise moment and you know, there's gotta be something more than this.

I am constantly growing. I am constantly changing. I am reaching inward and holding on tight to anything that feels right. I am tearing out from inside anything too sharp, anything that cuts for all the wrong reasons. I am scraping together all the love I can find into small orbs of light I can hold in my hands. I am raising my voice. I am lifting my hands up toward the sky and asking for more and more and all. I am vibrating with such intention and I will direct it at anything that makes the blood boil under my skin. I am here and I am awake and I am alive and I have never been so ready and so excited and so terrified.