You are every blue hue in the sky from powder to navy & you are the sun that occupies it. You are light, you are light, you are light. And when wind rips through the ocean and drags salt water ashore in electric rhythm, I hear it in the night's silence and I text you "what's wrong?". You are power, you are power, you are power. And when I try to close the door but it is heavier than ever before, and there is thick mud holding it to the floor, it is because you think there's more to stick around for. You are strength, you are strength, you are strength.

it's too early to get drunk
& it's too late to go back to sleep
so i'll sit up in your bed,
pretending that i'm not in over my head.
you know,
my lungs have been full for years,
i've been breathing through a mask.
i get scared when you get close,
cause i'm afraid you'll hear
the machine tick
& you'll wonder how long i've been
on auto pilot like this.
you'll wonder if anything
i've done
was ever really real.
(of course not)
i have answers to the questions
that i know you'll ask
but lately you've been going off script
and i can't get a hold of it.
come kiss my thighs,
i'll make the noises
i'm supposed to make.
the ones that make your legs shake.
look me in the eyes,
i'll say the pretty words
you've been begging to hear.
the words that make your
stomach ache.
(i know you like it this way)
(i know you'd rather me pretend
than whither away)
so stop right there.
don't pick at my brain.
i know you can see
that it's only a scab,
and once it comes lose
there'll be nothing left
but blood beneath your nails
so,
porcelain love of mine,
with your dark red lips
& bright blue eyes,
don't you dare go searching
for something that
you're not ready to find

the winter is the prettiest
in the dead of summer,
and your bedroom smells like cherry blossom,
but only when it's 43 miles west of my flesh...
the present moment always tastes the same,
hot blood like rusted metal
collecting in the deep ditch of my gums,
i am biting the barrel of my very own gun,
wondering what i will grieve for tomorrow,
this fear hangs quiet in the still air i inhale,
if it is not growing in my chest,
well then i mustn't be breathing...
shaking to sleep,
i haven't lost a thing
but then why is there this hole
in the pit of my stomach,
so raw that the air penetrating it
feels like a scolding blade?
i have stuffed it full of cigarette buds,
birthday cards,
paint brushes,
glass bottles,
and sterile needles,
but the wind still whips through it somehow
early in the morning
and late at night
when my bedroom is silent
and my eye lids are heavy
and i am starving
but i have filled myself
with so much
that there are
starving artists,
journal entries,
tv shows,
concert venues,
outdoor tents,
decorated novels,
inside jokes,
and beer pong tables
pouring out over my edges
so what do i use
as gauze for these opened wounds
when there is no fabric left
anywhere in the entire universe
of my head
and not a single clue
of how i collected
such romanticized injuries
in the first place,
other than this
constant & sharp
general yearning for
anything but this,
anywhere but here,
anyone but me
?