I could just **** as I masochistically type your name into the search bar at the top of the page.  
I want to erase you from my memory,
but my browser catches your cookies.
I don't even know what those cookies are.
the cookies from the jar?
the cookies from my mind?
the cookies from my computer...
the cookies you ate that one time.
Oreos.
Those were your favorite.
Who the **** brought up cookies?
I could just **** as I masochistically type your name into the search bar at the top of the page.

There's this mermaid girl I knew once.
She had long blonde hair,
and she smoked tobacco under water.
She defies the laws of the universe.
She had deep green eyes
that screamed the names of lonely sailors.
I hear they got lost in her eyes,
so lost no nautical device could guide them away.
Her ******* were covered by shells.
Sea shells that glowed their gratitude as they lay on her chest.
I hear she moved exactly like the ocean, or maybe the ocean mimicked her.
When I heard her voice,
it was like bubbles.
Like bubbles that begin at the bottom of the sea and run through the water to so delicately burst on the top.
But even delicate bubbles have capacity for violence.
We, they, you, have reverence for a voice they tell stories about.
Her face shone like the ripples of light at sunset that stunned the sailors in awe.
Her hands, smooth like pearls.
Her lips, tantalizingly terrifyingly beautiful as all the reefs the wrecked the ships.
I knew a mermaid girl once. She had long blonde hair and she smoked tobacco underwater.

I was told told this was the place.  
Here you'll find your destiny.
Between these desert brown sheets.
In an effort to find who I am
I leveled myself down,
digging through the sand.
Unaware the sand was sinking,
hushing my thoughts for over thinking.
I performed the sacred desert dance,
in the name of romance.
Still searching for who I am,
digging deeper into the sand.
The faster my body moves,
the more the ground begins to ****.
My conjured romance,
Is just another ****.

My feelings are unprocessed quinoa being **** out in whole chunks.
I stare at them in my toilet bowl of a brain.
"huh, you look exactly the same... maybe a little *******"
They say those words back to me.
Savage little beasts.
They tell me my body was supposed to take them in, absorb them, and be healthier.
Well, I was always taught to try , try,  again!
So I valiantly scoop my handful of **** from the toilet and scarf down my quinoa emotions... they taste even worse the second time around.
I cross my fingers as I gag down the last bit.
Will swallowing my emotions clog me up?
Maybe this time I'll be emotionally constipated, again, for weeks!
Until my insides internally combust and paint these frustrating  yellow walls around me **** brown,
To match the matte nails I got last Wednesday.
Or maybe it'll induce explosive diarrhea!
And I'll **** out every thing lining my insides until I can't even feel my metaphorical *******, while word vomiting my secrets to people I will later deeply regret.
Or maybe, just maybe,
My body will do what it's supposed to do,
And my enzymes will ferociously come to my rescue!
Maybe I'll feel it all being broken down inside me,
And released.
Released.
I'm so sick of eating ****.

I'm tired of relentlessly digging up my own guts.
Insides wrenching until I feel something close to empty.
Empty.
Sometimes empty seems so loud.
To escape the confines of my hollow silence,
I plead with my whirlwinds to redirect my madness.
Madness strung hand in hand with the outlawed 40,
and over rowdy yuppies that are too old to illegally sketch their rebellious spirits on ads that taunt them with their own insufficiency.
The sounds of smashing glass invite me to **** up my blackness into the midnight hours.
The smell of defacement summons me to heave my loneliness onto someone else's tangible reality.
But even in the electrifying twilight, I can't help but feel tired of digging up my own guts.

He tells me my name is baby.
And I let him all the same.
My self respect brushed under the carpet
with the promise of quick fame.
He tells me my name is baby.
It makes my mother sad.
She shakes her head in disapproval,
and blames it on my dad.
He tells me my name is baby,
and I let him all the same.
My self respect brushed under the carpet,
and I'll later name it shame.

Sitting with the ironic weight of my cigarette smoke resting on my shoulders.
My body filling with worse things than tar.
Your name crosses my mind like an uncontrollable twitch,
again,
and again,
and again.
Some days it becomes comforting,
like a metronome.
Until I look down and I'm marching to the beat backwards.
Into my Parliament lights I think I've floated away,
only to see my exhales spelling out that name.
I beg to be introduced to a new beginning, as I so gently kiss them.
But they only know of one.
Their ***** souls are but feathers in my lungs.

Precursor:

I met a girl who ran from her own footsteps. The harder she ran, the louder the pounding, the greater the fear. She either couldn't stop moving, or became paralyzed.

and this is for you.

I wish I could write poems for you, but I can't quite pinpoint your soul on the map of my heart. It's expansive like the ocean- sometimes you're Christopher Colombus, and sometimes you are North America. Complex like the wonders of space. More captivating than a dying star on it's last stage of nebula spilling light and color into the cosmos as it kisses the darkness goodbye. Your soul is a locket and the universe is inside glowing against your human heart, and your eyes aren't big enough windows to see it all. Your fingers are secret entrances into the place that no one goes as you solemnly strum out your sorrows and joys. Sometimes you are the ocean, sometimes you are the bottle, and sometimes you are the message inside! Moving along with space and this thing we call time~ you are revered. A goddess amongst humanity for the sprinkle of divine that's touched you, kissed you, birthed itself within you. You may refuse to see the halo floating above your ether, but I promise its golden light shines upon those who forget that they are not alone. In their hurt you remind them that this is what it is to be human. You are what it is to be alive. Changing with the wind you fear your face is a facade.You are not who you were, and you don't know who you will be, and whoever said it must be one way has robbed you of the truth. Because constant consistency is for the complacent and change is the destiny of the alien angels that inhibit this earth, moving us towards a higher consciousness. Your secret language you hide between your bones is craved by those who are controlled by silence- bring them to life with the breath of truth you possess. Your fear makes you selfish, so steam forward full force, with self abandonment.
You, my beautiful.
You, my love.
You, are meant to change this world.
If I had to pinpoint your soul on the map of my heart,
I might guess you were an extraterrestrial threat- an alien-
born among us to bring heaven to hell. So let your burning heart go among this icy world. Don't fear the unknown, it's pertinent to your existence. Someday you will know, but for now, let your heart speak the things your mind cannot comprehend.

I think I may like pictures too much.
Hanging on walls, and hiding in boxes.
Smiling,
bottled and happy.
Captured.
Stuck behind a glossy film.  
Trapped in a nostalgic circle.
Unhappily barricaded behind the happy glossy lies inside my own mind.
I think I like pictures too much.

I watch you destroy yourself one sip at a time.
Spending late nights searching for your ***** sprite,
asking people left and right,
if they got that medicine that's gonna make you feel alright.
Just lookin' to get a few sips,
take a few hits,
maybe see a few ****.
Because that's gonna make you feel alright.
I watch you destroy yourself one sip at a time.
so ****** up you can't walk a straight line.
Wonderin' if this is really how your spending your time!
****.
a few more sips and you can put that thought out of your mind.
I watch you destroy yourself one. sip. at. a time.
Hollowing out your own god ****** heart,
ripping the fibers of who you are apart.
no identity.
afraid to be,
wanting to be,
struggling to be,
What's that word?
free.
I watch you destroy yourself one sip at a time.
Couple drinks in and you're thinking you've found your destiny in the *** of some little dime.
Can't get a grip.
Blinded by
hollywood
materialism
narcissism
and all that *******.
And your EGO
E
G
O
Is edging your own god out.
feeling sick and full of doubt.
Caught up on the wrong route.
Youre being misguided, mislead, ill advised,
but your bank account has all those digits,
so who gives a **** that you're destroying your insides.
I've shoveled more **** that I wish to admit.
I've had my fair share of different kinds of sip sip sips.
I know your game, and I know why you're running.
But "****** up"?
Isn't very becoming.

My sad and sweet name twisted around his tongue with drunken fantasy.
Merely an expression of something else, made in his head.
Manifesting before him.
Manifesting into him.
Manifesting for him.
As he grabs a fistful of my hair and pins me to the ground.
Manifesting.
And then I can't breathe.
Is it the body unconsciously laying on top of my tiny corpse?
Corpse.
I was dead.

You are like a one way mirror obliviously standing on the other side of yourself.

poems of boys broken boys breaking boys boys breaking
silly little girl you never thought your world revolved around your involvement with boys but even distance was deliberately calculating their gravitational push and pull silly little girl i say to my old self i wonder what my future self will think of me?