I’ve been around long enough
to know these wounds don’t heal.
I will wake up tomorrow
and put down half a bottle
of hydrogen peroxide,
hoping the void inside
my chest won’t get infected.
This ribcage is missing
more than just bones.
The black hole I met
in my living room
decided to stay for dinner.
He said you’re doing great.
I poured another glass
of regret and told him
that’s ironic.
I’ve realized this is just what
“okay” has become;
fists embedded in sheetrock promises,
sitting alone in the rooms where
everyone told me they would stay.

Here I am, looking up causes for headaches
at 1 am
when I know it will always come back to you.
My hands found the bottom of the ocean
as I cleaned old movie tickets out of my car today.
I can see your honesty from here.
It took my composure on its way out the door.
I’m not bitter anymore.
I’m just tired.
And I’m tired of being so tired.
I’m sorry you didn’t stay.
I’m sorry that I apologize
for all the times you didn’t.
I keep forgetting these things
are not one-sided,
and so,
I’m sorry I gave you everything
for nothing in return.
You tasted like love,
and I was parched.
Still am.

Im in a tailspin. Trapped in the push and pull of your moods. Living in a day dream that I've prayed to god would come true. My flights of fancy are too big to contain. The sound of your voice is so intoxicating.

I'm drunk on you. Stuck on you.
You say that you'll call but you won't. You say that you care but you don't. I've talked myself in and out of this mess. But I can't let go. No, not yet. I'm drunk on you.

I understand the position that you're in. The stakes are high love and you might not win. You have every reason to fear But god I just want you here.

I'm drunk on you and all the lines you threw. You say that you'll be here but won't. You say that you know me but don't. You are the sun, moon, and stars to me. Why can't you see? Why don't you see?

I talk myself in and out of this mess but I can't leave now. no not like this. I'm drunk on you.

I look for you in songs I know to find something familiar. How you always trace the lines on my hand the way an artist does his picture.
I get lost inside the music and I can't help but remember. The way you spoke my name and followed it with forever.

I was working the suicide hotline
that Friday night her call came in.
She sounded hyped up, frantic,
toying with the ultimate sin.

Her boyfriend had just left her
and she had no cash for the rent.
In the background a baby was crying,
The last of her patience long spent.

She rambled about her existence
as I passed a note to an aide.
When she told me how much she had taken
It was the first time in years that I prayed.

Blue angels with sirens were coming
for the girl with the tracks on her arms.
She increasingly grew incoherent,
Then, silence, I knew she was gone.

That weekend, I read in the paper
How an “Accident” claimed her young life.
A pretty brunette, about twenty,
all done with life’s struggle and strife.


That Tuesday, I stood in the distance
as the hearse brought that girl to her grave.
I wept then, overcome with sorrow,
for the young life that I failed to save.
.

I'll never forget the way he smelled at the
park that first day in his flannel shirt
with the water dripping from his
hair. While he pushed me on
the swings, a cigarette in his
lips and the rain falling off
of him and onto my face,
he tip
          top
                tapered
across my rib cage
and into my veins.
His fingers felt like
they did the same
most quiet nights.