I should have known not to
make homes out of boys, because
unraveling  like the binding of a bible
in a bathroom stall as unfamiliar
as he’s become isn’t romance.

I’ve bit my tongue so long
I’ll never taste anything
but rusty quarters again.
No toothpicks could pry
his name from between
my teeth.

When you laugh, loneliness
falls out like sunshine
dripping through tree limbs,
a world beyond our school.

For now our only world revolves
around our insecurities, my compulsion,
the emotions churning through your veins.
You rip yourself apart because you're terrified

of losing instability, fully functioning adults laugh
with a content emptiness, there is nothing
in their veins but blood.  Does craving

loneliness make you ****** up, or more
cultured?  Does not being perfect
make you normal

or the loneliest piece of art there is?

When the first boy who leaves
goose bumps trailing your skin
plays your favorite Death Cab for Cutie
song on guitar--stop him.

With the notes wedged under
his fingernails, stuck
like they are in your head,
you'll never be able to listen again
without cringing.

It's 3AM when you're clawing
bones to hold yourself
together, you wonder:
"Is the memory of me a light
peppering his ceiling,
keeping him awake?"

"Love" should have stayed
a word, not a fight.  Loneliness is a date
spent sniveling into the sleeve of a
different boy because Chili's played
your favorite Death Cab for Cutie song.

But if he comes back, asking
for a poem--don't write one.
It won't be any more appreciated
than you were two years ago.

I'm in anther room, my own
surgeon, slicing myself
open in search of muscles
aching with worthlessness.

I'm a soldier who missed
his homecoming, I shouldn't
be here, but anchored
to the bottom of a lake.
Choice weapon in hand,
looking to the surface
with glassy eyes.

I'm here, staring
through my feet
as they sink
further
   and further
      into the dirt.

I'm the chain fallen loose
from my father's truck
as he drives at night,
chasing him home from
                    ..."business."


My father is Lake Michigan
in January--cold and restles.
I'm the bystander of a shootout
between my family.

My father is a carpenter
painting my goldenness
gray.  He's the voice
in my head, and I am
                 ...worthless.

A Boy never had the chance
to break my heart, because
my father already had.

They say not to build homes
in people, for when they leave
you'll be empty and dry
as a forest creek in July,

but the sun shines from
inside the lining of her skin.
Her crescent moon smile
feels like home.

I've read ink stained pages
of 1000 books, but nothing
compares to the emotions
written across her face.

There's a toad nestled
inside my throat, hopping,
making it hard to ask
her for forever.

If I could, I would pick up
my ink pen, drowning an ocean
into you, instead of drowning
you inside one.

Wash away rotten feelings for sake
of ignorance.  Carve scriptures into
your minds delicacies so you no longer
dwell on "imperfections."

I would write you through every depth
of "crazy", only without the hurt,
so you no longer perish
on the idea of "death."

I thought you were dying
but you're just painting
red into black and white world.