in broad daylight
i wonder if you see
Miranda and wish
I had her heart and
this body or her body
and my heart probably
just         her  

altogether and  none  of                                         me

if i could go back
one day and be the
person I am now, I
would choose that
day on the beach
at the end when
you told me
don't you
see that there
is still something
between us?
that hour echos
in this town where
there is no place to
echo---you are the
most resilient memory
I have.

shhh
I wish
I could
line my
heel up
with yours
one more
Time.

i hope you walk
back into my life
and find all the dog
eared pages in that
book full of bukowski
poems, I only bought
it because I could imagine
it on your shelf.  I have to
remind myself that most
of what I liked, I liked way
before you but your water
brought it to the surface and I
realize I am so much more
like a snake than I think,
shedding skins that
belonged to you.

thank you for
listening even
when on easter
I said I hated
you more than
twelve times

you're
still so
beautiful

I find myself watching
movies for the purpose
of having something I
can relate to you about
the composition in
American ****** is
amazing Or asking
what video game you
think I should buy, I
remember your punctuation
and you use none in your
replies, I'm beyond being
in love with you, so i don't
understand why i'm still
trying to be your
perfect
girl.

(today)he talked a whole
lot and i only listened
till i realized that stupid
satillo blanket was over
my knees and you tacked
that little 3x5 dia de los
muertos card beneath
my corkboard and
wrapped me up
(14 months ago.)

if you're still out
there and if you
still read these and
if you still remember
the password to my
private blog, if you
still have my diary
entry and that painting
that flask, that TV that
shirt, those jeans, if you
still remember me, my
skin, my hips, the way
i smile, if you haven't
erased me off your
elbows, brushed me
off your chest, wiped
me against your pockets
find my chapstick in an
old jacket and call me



hey, chris. call me.

you know that way that cars are cold
and the bite of 18 degrees gets under your skin
the way your chest dimples in, and the pores
around your ******* forget to breathe, your body
shrinks in the morning breeze

the way the fog turns red above Florence's lights
and the next town over looks like it's on fire, the
mountains hide in a thick of snow and you can
feel their chill in your very bones?

I will always sleep with my windows open, in the
heart of winter and the palms of summer. I like
the way I feel small in the winter, i like the way
I feel small in the winter.

you didn't deserve my mother's
kindness, much less a grain of
salt, were she to bother with
you ever again.

I used to like when he hugged me outside my car for
four minutes, how he wouldn't let me leave even if it
was cold outside and i was only wearing flip-flips, always
after our lips were red and chafed and my hair was a god-awful
mess on my head,

I used to like it when he listened to odd future, when he complained
about how ugly he was when I knew he was beautiful, how he was
worried that I would care that his skin was rough, that his skin was rough
that his skin was rough, but I loved his textures, his angles, his curves, never
smooth, never flat skin.

I used to like his baby cheeks and defined jawlines, how nothing ever mixed
with him, but he was milk and paint and oil. Baked potatoes with broccoli and
thyme, rosemary cloves.

I can't point out where all these things ended.

When I started to complain when he held me for too long in front of the door because
I told him he couldn't hold me in front of the car anymore. It was too cold.
When did my lips starting staying pink instead of red, when did
my hair start staying perfect, when was the last time I had held his hand
without being afraid of some boring, ridiculous reason, when was the last
time I laid in bed with him when was the last time I thought that he was the
best thing to ever happen to me, where do these thoughts go?

Overthinked, thanked, thunked? Did I wear beyond use, does my love have
an expiration date?

I use to hope that you'd keep that
photo of me tacked by your bedside
but you took it down, (vengefully)
I know this because you tore out the portraits
of me from your sketchbook the first time around

so I hope you find bobby pins still within your clothes
catch whiffs of my old perfume on the streets and feel your
spine cinch softly, I hope a single earring rolls forward in the
desk drawer, but I really cannot hope these things anymore.

so i hope the earring stays lodged in the crack, that all stray bobby
pins find their way back and that my perfume is never worn, never worn
never worn. I hope that my perfume is never worn
around
you.

he once blurred out a photo
of a diary entry, but I have
read through many things
and beneath the gaussian
he had wrote

*I'd rather be alone