You wake up on someone's front lawn, covered in dew. You brush off and drive to school. The teachers can't pin you down because you're always picking leaves out of your hair, but you're crying when they read Pinter. You're not good at explaining yourself, so you stop trying altogether.

You love me, but she's pretty.
And it makes my ears all red and my head feel so heavy, like it's been forced into a 45 degree angle.
I walk wobbly. I remember I haven't eaten, but don't tell you about it. I don't say anything.
I try harder to be prettier.

I swore I'd never grocery shop with you again because I hate the way you make decisions. You made me feel like the "frivolous" items you always ended up putting back. I should have been firmer than the other fruits, but soft enough for you to give it a try.

Sometimes you are absolutely paramount to my existence, my ability to walk down the street. When I hold your hand I feel like an infant learning to grasp for the first time. Kissing you feels like pronouncing my first word.

There are days when I wouldn't say  I'm haunted. There are other days when I am held down completely by the ghosts in my head.
One memory stands alone, like a video game boss. It's the big one in the shape of an idiot with two roaming eyes and there is nothing worse than a villain who thinks he's done no wrong.
I made my intentions so clear. It was one of my rare moments of pure elation. I wanted to dance forever and see paradise.
Paradise is, evidently, a ***** basement. It is getting drunk at 17 and forgetting that no one actually cares. It is being touched by a pair of scary eyes and then even worse hands. It is saying "no" and being ignored. It is wishing you had listened to your mother.
And on the other side of Paradise is a shame that keeps you silent. It's a bed you can no longer sleep in. It's a handful of pills and bottomless *****. It's your own fist punching your legs. It's a lie you tell yourself.
Today I'm selling tickets to my haunted house. The catch is, if you happen to find an exit, you have to tell me.

i wish i could remember the very last time i saw you,
where we were
if we even spoke
what shirt you were wearing
if you had washed your hair recently
if you had trouble putting in your contacts that morning
if there was wind
or rain
or sun
or nothing at all
if you were smiling
or giving that intense look your face seemed to like so much
if you had food stuck in your teeth
         (you had such cute teeth)
if you were writing something down in your goofy handwriting

i hope you were looking at me
and thinking oh god oh god oh god.
i hope you write something like this one day
except can yours start out like,
"I remember the very last time I saw her,
we were..."

i carried your dog
across an ocean
or half a street
i can't remember.
his tongue wagged
but his tail didn't
and i think i had ****
on my pants.
both weak
in different ways,
we passed him back and forth,
like a baby,
who had your girth
and my laugh.

i think we'll love again,
you know?
everything is alright.

I'm sick of finding my mother's things at thrift stores
pictures on the walls of my old house that drew my eyes when i couldn't look at anything else
i can't stand the thought of some slug picking them up
and demanding a cheaper price
for the pictures i knew for over a decade,
now labeled "$2.99"

you don't live here anymore,
but there's still a blue shirt
and a pair of shorts you should have tried on before you bought
they were too small.

it's been four days
and i still haven't slept in the bed yet.
i'm terrified of smelling the pillow i'll go ******* insane
if you're still in there.

******* it all i keep finding empty packs
of your cigarettes and i think
i see a sock in the corner
please no **** **** **** **** **** i can't take it
there's your tooth brush how the **** could you forget that?
one more bar of soap and i'll have to set this entire apartment complex
on fire.
the movies are all mine but we watched them together
and the two chairs i have are still positioned the same.
i know, i'll throw one off the balcony. okay i'm making progress.

one chair down
the past year and a half to go.

you never gave back the key when you left,
so when i'm lonely i don't put the chain on the door.
sometimes the cat just sits there for hours
and she's never done that before but part of me thinks it would be stupid
to blame that on you. she's doing it right now
and i can't really take it.
i saw a picture of you today
and i could hear your voice and your laugh and your smile. yes, even your smile.
i know it's for the best that you haven't called,
but it ******* bugs me, man. it really ******* bugs me.
if you love me so much,
why aren't you trying? why aren't you using that ******* key?
it kills me not knowing what i want.
i want to hear the rattle of you coming back
i want to forget you
i want you to lift me up and squeeze
i want to burn the clothes you forgot
i want to wake you up in the morning
i want to meet someone else
i want to kiss your blond hair forever
i want you to stay away,
etc.

i've done a bad thing i know i shouldn't give songs to others that you gave to me but i want the words to mean different

things now like our lives did when we split i think about you all the time and especially your teeth and your taste. you're

a reference point, youre the top of a flow chart you spin like a top and i don't have to guts to make it stop. i can't find

your letters i can't find your poems maybe i threw them out to find better homes. like i threw you out to find a better

bone. oh how foolish was i but how wise i see now. better to get it all out and done before i only had myself to cling to.

oh it's so stupid i do look for you i do i've been settling all this time my god but i'll never have you again. we said

we'd meet in our 20s by chance and resume. my second decade has just begun and i'm already holding my breath, but someone

else is holding yours. you wouldn't understand my teeth are yellow. im the top of the cons list, i know, dear, i know. i

left you for me and i ******* us all over. cant we just sit down and talk about this? would you hate me if i were a

character in your books? would you make me smell bad? winter's coming and that's what you smell like. a few months out of

every year, you come back and i can't touch you. like a dog searching for the body, i come so ******* close, a scrap of

your shirt in my mouth. then spring comes and i'm thrown off the scent, pacing back and forth for nine more months.

i'd follow you like a little puppy dog
and i better,
as you've got me on a leash that
you bought on the internet
for this specific purpose.