the other day
I filled up my tank
and got the cost to a clean dollar amount
right on the dot.
seeing that .00,
I thought it would feel great.
it really wasn't all that exciting.
I just figured it was all too expensive anyway
and so I just left.

somebody once told me,
"we fell in love with each other's words,
not each other's hearts."
well, I don't get it.
don't words come from your heart?
you're lucky you even got them.
I mean, we are what we say, right?
like, what would we be
if we had the sweetest hearts
but said the meanest things?
would we be liars?
who's to say?
if you were showered in flower petals of sweet nothing's,
then that person's heart must at least believe
what the mouth is spilling,
right?
I don't know.
maybe I'm just confused.

but ignoring somebody.
when ignoring happens,
the heart doesn't "think" about anything at all.
and it probably hasn't for a while.
so, thanks.

"See, the thing about life is,
You're quite lucky, really, until you're not.
That's how it is with everything.
There's really no grey area; everything's just windin' down to when you're **** outta luck,
And when you're there, it's quite sobering, isn't it?
Take Skipper, for example.
You know, you fill 'er up,
And you think to yourself
'Man. I am so ******* lucky.
How did I get so ******* lucky?'
Because you can go wherever the hell you want to on that 300-or-so miles of gas.
Because you, my friend, are the perpetual white, privileged, American girl who has liquid gold pumped into her lousy little heart every fifteen days or so.
Because you can.
And you feel good. Really good.
But then, you forget about it.
The thing is, you are 'so-*******-lucky' for like two weeks or so; you just don't notice, see.
'Cause nobody notices.
You just drive because that's what you do.
And you've got other things to think about; where you're going, who you're seeing, how you're getting there.
And you're 'so-*******-lucky' until you hear that sickening little beep that tells you you're on reserve.
And everybody does the same thing.
Everybody asks a lot of stupid questions.
Your almost-empty tank consumes your mind.
How can I pay for the next one?
Man, I should really get a better job.
Let's see, when did the reserve light go on?
How much is left in there?
Can I get home?
Can I even get to the next gas station?
What if I just left this godforsaken town and let my car just break down somewhere and I would finally be free?
Will my parents be angry that I'm filling up after half a week?
Will they question where I've been?
Do I even have my license with me?
Maybe I shouldn't have driven around so much.
Oh god, maybe I shouldn't sneak around as much as I do.
Why am I driving at night just for the sake of driving when there are starving kids in Africa?
Ugh, I disgust myself.
The gas tank owns you.
Emptiness owns you.
And such is life, you know?
Because we don't even understand things unless they're full or empty.
As humans, we just don't.
We're always waiting for the reserve light to turn and the questions to be answered and that ache in our hearts to go away.
You know, we always sneak around 'trying to get home' on fumes.
We go slower, thinking that'll help, and we turn off the ignition faster, not bothering to finish up that last good song as your car wastes fuel in the driveway.
We're consumed by the thought of when our engines are just going to die.
Because you're just ******* empty at that point, my friend.
And then you're not so ******* lucky anymore."

The bread crumbled in your fists
'But, I made that for you.'
Your grimace made me wince
You threw it on the ground
And you spit on it
You spit on the bread I had baked
For you
2 years ago
And you called me pathetic
Because I had baked you bread
And I cried, because,
You made me feel pathetic
Later that night,
You gave me a ring on the phone,
And you apologized
But what you didn't realize,
Was that I had already
Burned my hands
From placing them on the oven
In a sense
I couldn't feel my fingers,
I couldn't feel anything
All I knew was that I would not bake again

He asked me if I believed in god today
And I smiled
And stirred my coffee
And shrugged off the question
And avoided his gaze.

I walked home today
Twisting the ring on my finger
Listening to the music in the distance
Someone's playing a piano on the street
And I sat next to an old man and listened.

He drew on his pant leg with a marker
And looked wistfully at the sky
Holes in his hat and
No shoes on his feet
And I asked him if he believed in god

He looked at me
With a wrinkled face that had seen many lives
And pointed to the ******* the piano
And smiled at me
And said "This is god", and nothing more

So there I sat
With an old man and a little ******* the piano
And my feet were hot
So I gave him my shoes
And bid him adieu

So I walked back home
And looked him in the eyes
And said I met god
And he looked at me
And we went on with our lives

today i will look for
chocolate and flowers
and find a pound of
belgian dark in my
pantry, and wilted
tulips on the counter.
i will hand write a
poem because it's
just so much better
on paper, and i will
serenade my darling
with bright eyes
on a scholastic field
after the last bell rings,
for at last i can stop
musing on possibilities
and begin to dwell
on solidity.

today i will bring you
a rose, for the petals
and lines and worn
down world-weary
ravines contained
in you; i will bring
you sweet darkness
in a plastic wrapping
for all the sugar laced
in with your hair and
irises, and despite your
fire and your heritage,
i will leave out the heat
of sacred mayan ritual
peppers because together
we'll be warm enough.

     finally, i will lean
  down close to you and
    whisper what i have
     not whispered for a
  million seconds or more,
    because i just haven't
     had the opportunity:
  *Ya llegué, mi querida.

when I first met you,
you didn't talk
and I liked that
because I wouldn't shut up.
we were too young
and pumped with too much serotonin
and wasted naps that we could have taken
but didn't think we needed to.
we never felt our hearts
because we had hardly known they were there
before,
a muscle that has never been cramped
(and oh, how we wish now that
we knew the quickest way to assuage
an internal ache we cannot ice)
your nails were black and shiny,
like your eyes,
and you told me you were a wolf
and I believed you
because you left your paw prints everywhere
but not your voice.

over the years,
we found plungers and tried to stick them
all over us,
trying to **** the glowing skin off our bones.
now,
we try and drown the butterflies and knots
with beer and stomach acid
at two in the morning,
playing video games
donned in our lace *******, pearls, and stilettos
and crying.

now that your blackness has been ripped from the walls to reveal a hidden art piece,
you radiate amber.
your laughter drips like honey from your teeth
and it has not yet expired
in my dusty, overcrowded pantry.
I want to cover myself in the smell of your skin,
oranges and forest fires, vanilla flowers and ennui,
like the soft blankets
we so often hide under.
I will never forget how small your hands are,
reminding me that I have been in love before
and I am in love with you now,
in simplicity, purity, and clemency,
and I just pray to god that lasts.
so let's keep sorting pennies into words
and communicating with each other through soup cans
and let's be good enough for each other
because when you really love someone
only their opinion matters.
and who needs anybody else?
because really,
those people that say that all good things must come to an end,
they're ******.
let's keep proving them wrong.
here's to you.

yellow and blue,
yellow and blue,
isn't it nice
when I think about you?

summer crickets
and somersaults,
can I really claim
that this wasn't my fault?

sprinkles of freckles
and sparkling green eyes,
were all of our days
just drawn out goodbyes?

daisy doodles
and bright white smiles
crashing my car
and sprinting for miles

sunshine lemons
and trampolines,
come to think of it,
we were so ******* mean

yellow and blue,
yellow and blue,
when the river's run dry...
what do I do?