Our cold hands are grasped
as I rest my hungover head
on your shoulder.

I watch you drive
the salt-covered streets
of my hometown.

I smile gently at myself,
as I coat you with lies,
daydreams about our future.

Reminding myself that in a few days
I must leave again,
and it cannot be like this:

Normal.

There are more important things than the way I was at fifteen.

That was when I cried over sweatshirts and said obnoxious things.

The days I let you take my insecurities and throw them back at me.

Back then I'd beg and plead with you to keep me in your dreams.

Now there is nothing left but for me to understand you crushed me

And I have long since sewn up the seams.

heave into
my structure
with the force
of a calamity
the clashing of
bare skin the
shaking of
metal bed,
low breathing
breaks the
silence and
meshes with
the clanking,
one last
shove before
we collapse
as if each
other is the
floor after
a long
hard day's
work

I have more than pieces of you.

I own chunks
and hoard them among
my own demons.

You have yourself under control,
masked by a smoky layer
of ****

Yet I am a puppet of my own

Peddling backwards
up a steep hill
gets me nowhere

Instead it ends up
with me in a
heap at the bottom
gasping for air.

Shame, I think;
the weather could be nice up there.