you tell me that when
you think of me,
you think
"good person."
is that so?

i want to tell you how much
i appreciate the sentiments
or how
you make me feel just a
                                little less rotten
but the words stay
hostage
inside my mouth.

i want to be good.
i want to be kind,
i want to be holy,
sacred.
i want to i want to.

but this tenderness was forged
in the fire and the fire
is all it will ever know.

i've been seeing ghosts for
as long as i can remember now.
they sit idly on my bed,
              making small talk with
the skeletons who play poker
on my closet floor.
they call. flush, straight,
empty hands as the cards fall through
the gaps between their fingers.
together they brush worries
out of my hair, one by one.
they have nothing else to do,
                      and neither do i.

as strands of my hair are
placed gently behind my ear.
they speak to me,
but mostly among themselves.
"i can't tell you when it gets better, kid.
i can't tell you if it ever does."

when i was a child and went out during the rain,
my father would tell me
"you ain't sugar, child.
                                         who said you gon' melt?"
so i stopped dipping my toes in pool water
          and started jumping off bridges.
sometimes i would swim in fountains,
looking for kindness, but

i guess people eventually realized
      their cash wasn't worth their buck.
that no god in the sky was gonna give
             you somethin' good for five cents.

so lemme tell you, sugar. you wanna know
           the look the bank gave me when
i asked for my paycheck in dimes?
           that "you gotta be kidding me" look,
           that "wait.. you're serious?" look.
disbelief like no other.

           that same look i give you
when you step foot in the rain,
and i say "hey, careful now.
                 sugar likes to melt in this weather."

i know a man who
has been radiating warmth since the day
we met--
i know this because i've seen it
spill out of his chest, gutted, like
sunlight through curtains.
like a massacre that speaks softly.

i've watched that light
land on my skin so timidly,
almost without notice.
i've felt it tread gently
across my ribcage and
my heart stop beating
whenever it got close.
to give in to man is to
ask for mercy;
a different kind of
surrender.

and mercy.
that man has had
my heart ever since.

YOU NEEDED THAT COMFORT DIDN'T YOU HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO SLEEP UNDER ALL THESE OVERPASSES WHEN THE CARS DON'T RUN LIKE THAT AROUND HERE TELL ME HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO TAKE EVERYTHING YOU SAY WITH A GRAIN OF SALT WHEN I'M TOO HOPEFUL FOR THAT **** WE BOTH KNOW IT GETS DANGEROUS I HAVEN'T BEEN AROUND FOR HUNDREDS OR THOUSANDS OF YEARS BUT I KNOW A THING OR TWO ABOUT "STORAGE" AND MEMORIES THAT LIVE PACKED AWAY IN THE ATTIC AND ON GOD YOU CAN'T BLOW DUST OFF THIS ONE LIKE THE REST

how many girls do you know
that can dance to "maybe"
and "sometimes"?

boy. boy, who is only missing
you when he is in the mood
for something different.
a change of heart.
i know you're hungry, so
here's a side order of drunk calls and
spilled "i'm busy"s for your
squandered appetite.
enjoy the meal.

i got something you aren't ready
to hear just yet.
it comes in ash and that's the only way
i know how to present it.
my hands stay covered in midnight
and you sleep through dawn.
you sleep and sleep while
              i lose track of time.
has it been four hours now
or eight?
this lost longing. this familiar ache.
                                      selective amnesia? yeah.
yeah, that sounds about right.
don't call it a "game,"
call it
            "waiting patiently until
the roof caves in. until we become
something not you, not even i
                                 can recognize."

i lose my train of thought often.
         something always catches me off-guard &
this time i'm wondering if the walls
                                        of your room are
a peach-tan or an
                i'm-drowning-tonight-and-there's-
nothing-you-can-do-to-stop­-me-navy.
i keep the thought at arm's length so
it doesn't get too close for comfort.
               who knows what it's capable of.

let's talk about curiosity.* let's talk about gas burners and sidewalk cracks and how there are french towns in canada where people who don't know each other greet each other with a kiss on each cheek. this is a collection of all the things you knew would hurt and then did them anyways but made sure i was looking. like all those kisses and trips to petco and looking at me from the drivers side-- don't take your eyes off the road, you'll end up like the rest of them did. let me tell you about how my favorite sounds include the following: crickets, gas burners lighting, coffee brewing, and you on the last train to god knows where but the train is coming soon. i can hear the trembling carts on the railway and i can hear you and your voice sounds like getting drunk off wine and witty jokes, sounds like the mantra of "temptation" but in the most subtle way as if i'd mistake it for something holy just to see if you'd notice, sounds like an epiphany i've waited too long to hear, sounds like every "let's talk about it" and "you look alluring" and "i just couldn't help myself" put into one. but mostly. this is what you're going to have to sit down for, because i won't repeat it. does perpetual comfort exist at your train seat? even when i'm not there? does she sit next to you? or is all the spilled tea pooling at my feet explanation enough?  i won't repeat it. not even to the sidewalk cracks or the broken compasses or the birds or the torn down bus seat behind ours or into your voicemail. i won't. especially not into your voicemail. *because here it is:

dentists envy me;
they'll never have an anesthetic
so aesthetically pleasing.
it feels so good not to feel.

i know all
the numbing products they use.
what did you expect from
someone so insensible?
i know no senses other than
taste, because girls
like me have sharp tongues
and hungry eyes that will
never get enough of anything.

i've been looking for
a thrill lately.
not the roller coaster riding, sneaking out
at two in the morning type of thrill, but
the type of thrill that evokes enough
curiosity to make rebellion
look like nothing.  
i'm talking about
the thrill that makes you want
so much more than what you are given,
so you avidly seek out
the unknown in hopes of
having the taste of adrenaline on your lips.

you are a thief, out to take anything
that will give you temporary happiness.
one day you showed me how to pick
laundry machine locks, then you showed me
how to fall apart.
you are a thief.
a thief of my emotions.
you've robbed me of my love until
you were bored with it,
and now i don't even have enough for myself.
my purity, my time-
you left me with nothing,
not even my innocence.
you take things you know will never
have sentimental value to you, which explains
why you took my heart.

times square envies a girl like you.
i mean, who wouldn't?
you've got it all.
a voice that the wealthy would do
anything to hear echo in theaters
and skin like expensive
museum paintings.

let's run into traffic together so
we can see who makes it out alive.
i want you to show my hands
the speed bumps on your hips
and tangled skyscrapers in your hair.
you know me, i've always been
this reckless, if not more.

we'll chain-smoke all our dreams
into reality, and all our fears
into each other. the city belongs
to people like us.