And
I feel like an onion. Layer after layer all
gone with nothing to say,
nothing but skin.

They're kissing and holding hands and
I think I'm going to be sick.

and,
I've come to realize that almost every poem
carries a cigarette, and that I'm burning away.

and,
I've spent years dying to die
aching for you to return my calls.

and,
I've spent $5 a week,
replacing your breathes
and promised pain.

They're whispering and telling each other how much they are in love and
he holds her close.

and,
now all I have is the hope that this rain will wash away our memories.

From body to box,
Sunday brought back the reminder that death,
is the only thing permanent in this world.

Tears burning a hole in my heart, thinking back of days
in which I was dying to die,
and what for?

I have yet to figure out why we
live, or what I'm supposed to
do. The complication of that thought
processing through my anxious mind
drives monsters in my stomach
and brain
to start tearing their ways out.
Leaving each new finger print
a face to forget, and each new sent
one to remember.


I'm confused,
as to why we bury what we love under
dirt, but really
why the box?

Why not let our remains be the sprout
to courageous wildflowers and
sweet nectar.


The past four years have brought change in
everyone, and everything loved. Battling with myself
for rights and wrongs and unknown
crumbling pavement.

Haunted with "Where will I go when I die?"
Who's to say when I'm dead, because by my definition
that was April 18th.


These questions
and jumbling
blurred
thoughts
pour out of my eyes, mouth, nose, and ears
Imitating some sort of overflowing volcano
of insanity.

What do I write
when the ink has seemed to freeze.

I'll stay up until 2 -
or something like that -
trying to get
some words to drip.

These sleepless nights
leaving me with the wonder
if my veins are imprinted in your heart
as yours are in my skin.

Slips of promises
that twinkle in our eyes
seeming to be strangers.

What is running through these memories.

"Cigarettes are nasty"
smoke flows out of us
onto that slab of concrete
we called home.

Burn marks
leaving the same scar
as your touch.

you've taught me
how to turn myself
inside out
and come home.

frozen blades of grass
brushing worn soles
cushioning the pathway
back to your house.
I passed out
and dreamt that familiar faces
swore for a world without me.
I believed them
unconsciously pouring out more tears.
broken nervous words.

I know the roads
that will take me to your street.
too terrified to walk
knowing that it's abandoned
leaving broken glass stuck in my feet.

I've laid here long enough
to realize the pain in my stomach.
Who are we to become so busy?
Who are we to forget?

Holding back
as lines start to blur
we forget who we were
with no answers on what to fix.

cold nights shake me.

"I'll stop believing in you
when you stop being real."

Screams won't ever do justice
to what i'm left feeling.
No more
nonsense.
pity talks.

Golden ornaments
circling my vision
became a cycle of falling
all over you.

My fingers
can't hold the times
you've dropped me.
****** and bruised.

Envious,
of dying plants
sitting in the corner.
Beautifully decomposing.

what more is there to say?

My eyes won't stay shut.
Overflowing with tears,
and every broken promise.
Haunting shadows.

This is a nightmare.
This is today.

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?

weekly episodes of panic attacks.
minimal motivation.
what have I become.

what have we become.

I love you.

and all three of those words
create an uneven frame,
hanging you up closest to my heart.

each night
before I leave,
I reread the sweetest combination of words
anyone has written to me,
and I pretend that you love me too.

I've been blinded
by your sweet eyes,
and forgiving embraces.
Knowing,
I'll never let myself  
look away.

Rivers of tears stream down my face
as I wait for a response
of any kind.
because your company kills me,
but I much rather prefer it
than being alone
on these cold
winter nights.