I went home.
Body swore
from you slamming into me.
Gliding my hands
over the cactus,
******
become another face
that forgot.
Summer melted away while
friendships froze,
just as they said.
Sticky fingers
placing prints on new skin.
Everything diseased.
Crossed legs;
bottle of whiskey,
face dripping
with battle wounds
from a war like storm.
We should have broken the mirrors.

Stand in the street.
Four hours of Wednesday
marking me with gray bags
on my not so innocent teenage face
and tears painted across my forearms.
A canvas.

Letting candle wax
burn my crooked skin,
cigarettes are sewn together
one by one.  

Sloppy handshakes,
cold coffee.

It's covered my toes now.

A piece of art
is never finished
though.

So what am I becoming?

He was angry because the boy with glasses and a gamer shirt had told me he wished he had a girl like me.
It’s not you, it’s me. And the fish bowl that was twice the size of your head.
Punching the wall, I knew
jealousy was a
understatement.
it crawls under your bed and waits until it is four in the morning and you have nothing left
Except tears and yearning for something different,
yet you know you cannot have anything different,
because the thought of mornings without him,
and the thought of phone calls absent of his vocals
makes you want to rip open your ribs until you color his
freckles.
He was angry because he was threatened,
and it was so stupid, so animalistic.
I am not territory, not a tree you lift your leg to mark on.
I am a human, a human, a human, I just want to be
loved.
the door broken, his lips bleeding,
he kissed me until I thawed.
his shoulders shook as he cried and cried and cried,
please be mine, please be mine, please be mine.
jealousy is what we romanticize about,
yet it is the monster we will
become.

Sometimes, I want to die.

Not because I am unhappy

or lonely

or tired or scared

Just to see if I’d get the chance to do it all over.

If we would get the chance to rethink every thought

to take back a kiss or a silence or a ****** essay we wrote the night before it was due

a do-over

But if we knew that we would

what would we live for?

she texts me
i check my pack
6 cigarettes left

i count how many i lost to my lungs
8 yesterday
not too bad.

i make my way downstairs and meet her behind our building
she's a quiet girl
thin
makes me feel like an avalanche when I talk
and all we have in common
is our index and *******
clutching softly to yellow filters

i can't hear her
all i can pick up is the sound of the ember engulfing more of the tobacco
the heat crawling closer to my fingers
it's all i can see
or hear
or feel

we burn down to the bone
we remember each other
crush the boagie
beneath shoes freckled with the scars of cigarettes past

our collective head rush too severe to take the stairs
i press the button to call the elevator
and complain about how long it takes