Fingerprints on coffee cups,
Stale air, exhaled,
still circulating through the ducts, and
Crumbs pushed into cushions
that vacuums will never find.
We can try to clean up
the mess we made
but there will always be pieces left behind.

I Hate These Human Bones,
And The Olive Skin I Wear,
I Hate My Perfect Smile,
And Every Dark Red Hair

I Hate These English Words
Which Run Through My Mind,
And I Hate Every Calendar,
Because It Reminds Me Of Time

I Hate Every Dark Memory
And This Grey Sky Above,
I Hate This Aching Feeling,
Of Needing To Be Loved

I Hate All My Hatred,
For It Makes Me So Blue,
And I Especially Hate My Heart,
Because That Thing Fell For You

who I want to be is
trapped beneath my
skin, stretching
stretching,
tearing at my
seams.
she cries, "let him go
and the wound will
set me free. oh, god,
please."