i fall in love with the way
you don't care about anything at all:
everything is funny,
we only do things that we want to do.
why did i spend so long doing things
i didn't want to do?
i don't want to feel like i did when i was 15
i feel like I'm 21 and like-
nothing feels as bad as it used to.
your lips brush against my collarbones,
i run my fingers through your hair and pull through all the tangles
until you're perfect and pure
we toss a stick back and forth for your dog running between us
and i keep catching you looking at me
and we look at each other and laugh and laugh and laugh.
the air is finally warm and the trees are blistering with flowers
pink and white and purple
in between the city street lights
and the streets are empty;
nothing is happening but us.
i trip on the always uneven brick
looking up at the flowers against the Richmond blue sky,
you laugh and offer me your hand.
we **** on your mattress on the floor
and say everything but i love you.
i never wanted anyone who cares
enough to have a bed frame
I am so alone that I am choking on it
so many people love me and nobody knows me;
fading tattoos on my body like an epitaph for my heart.
Littered in bruises from people I don't know
they might as well be from me.
It's still a better day than yesterday.
my writing isn't good anymore
but i am putting it down
until it hurts
and grips me vicariously
'til i'm twisted around-
i'm turned into a mug's handle
it's the same plastic feeling
i had before
i miss the solid glass,
and the strips of wood
i teased with my angel fingers
the mirror couldn't see me
i didn't let it.
how could i?
my eyes are too small, here
shaggy planet earth
was invaded in 1981
beginning with my first soul:
i was so young
i didn't know better
tossed out, i'm left to drink up
the abundance of this world.
swallowing more light and dark
than my small eyes can;
i turned to ethanol.
hemingway entered my life
in the fall of '09
i couldn't have been more in love.
maybe that's why
i'm pen in one hand, drink in the other.
for two years
every day had a purpose:
get more ******.
weeks became punctuated with
Narcan in mcdonalds bathrooms
and breaking your ribs
trying to make you breathe again-
when my hands come down on your chest
i go back to the seventh grade
someone is explaining that birds' bones are hollow because they were born to fly-
why is there such sick pleasure in this?
it was never as simple as wanting to get high-
first day: i can't think of the baby that died I need to get high
second day: I can't think about the boy that ***** me I need to get high
over and over and over
we would make love on the ******,
forgive our faults as soon as we found a vein
sharing a needle, you've been deeper inside of me than anyone-
i'm sober now. moved thirty miles north.
they took you away from me and the ******
my days aren't marked with purpose anymore
it's been fourteen days since I finally thought of the child I'm still scared to mourn
and the boy whose name I am too scared to whisper when I am alone
I have not left my house in fourteen days
and i can't breathe deeply;
I broke my rib on day one
it feels like the skin is at war with itself,
fingernails as artillery,
and i hear them whispering like these pinprick bullet wounds
aren't critical until i can feel the pain-
but there is a bomb that will go off inside of me
i can feel the clock ticking down inside of me so loud i am vibrating,
it's so loud you can see my hands shaking
and bruises bloom like flowers on the cemetery my body is becoming
and i can feel my blood being replaced with embalming fluid
"stop this" i moan,
and she says back, "just stop yourself"
"So I'll probably **** myself,"
I said to you,
"But not until I'm 21 and can stain my lips red
And drink for real
And get so drunk I'll dance right off a cliff.
The rocks at the bottom will hug me so tight I'll split right open.
And then I'll never be able to hide any of it
It'll all be there for you to see.
You looked at me and all you said was
its late afternoon in the winter and the sun is dripping into the horizon,
the creams golds crimsons making love to each other in the reflections in the snow. the air is frigid and whistles as i push further and further down on the accelerator.
60. 70. 80. 90. 100. 110. the steering wheel is practically vibrating and i have to grip it with both hands to keep it steady, my fingers are turning blue. there are fields and farmers' markets nearly hidden by the walls of snow plowed away earlier today. my knuckles are white, the pool of my ***** in the passenger seat on top looks like it's freezing over on the edges.
my phone is ringing, i know it's not him, i can't look at it anyway. the sun hasn't stopped dripping below the horizon, the glow of my phone lights up the whole car. the radio is playing a song i don't know, it's so loud that i can feel the beat in my heart, but not even my pulse has a sense of rhythm beating ten beats between 1 and 3, my phone is still ringing, i know it's him but i know it's not. the ***** has developed a film, this car is putrid and i am inside of it.
i know i should pull over but i can't get far enough away.
i slow back to 80 and throw up outside of the window, i don't stop.