I don't love you, not one bit.
But I do love it.

It.
The feeling of you creeping up my side
I'll dismiss you no matter how hard you try
To convince me that you've got nothing to hide.
That feeling of worthiness that only you can provide.
I need it.

Touch me. I dare you.
I love it.

I didn't buy this perfume for you.
But smelling me is the least you could do.
Smell me. All over. You know you want to.
It will make them so jealous; because they all want you.
They want it too.

I know I'm selfish, and I'm so sorry.
I think I'm addicted to you.

They all tell me wonderful things.

You're too beautiful.
You're too intimidating.
You're too smart.
You're too good for them.

It's not that I don't believe them,
   it's just that:

I'm too ******* lonely.

You all complain.
But as my days in this house are numbered,
as the oaks begin to catch sunlight as if it were just for me,
I see now, more than ever before, that this is the most beautiful place.

I know by now you must be bored, but you don't see what I see.
I see the green and the green and the green again.
That bright green that only the god I half-heatedly believe in could have created.

I feel the sun that I've longed for in the rain that we so desperately need.
It's here now. It's here to tempt my inevitable return once I leave.
It's these trees I want. These oaks are the only ones that can please me.

I hear the crow of my boy, he's challenging me.
But I don't have the heart to tell him that our days are numbered.
My days in this house are numbered. And it's killing me.

I love this Valley. It's the only place I need.
It's here to tempt my inevitable return once I leave.

There are so many. So many boys.

I like to hear the smart ones.
Who can cut a pi in half and use proper diction.
That's ****.

I like to see the handsome ones.
Who have impeccable shoulder blades and those sultry eyes.
That's ****.

I like to talk to the funny ones.
Who are fountains of wit yet still laugh at my jokes.
That's ****

They all like to see, hear, and talk to me.
They just don't know it yet.
I'm ****.

There are so many. So many boys.

why did you go
little fourpaws?
you forgot to shut
your big eyes.

where did you go?
like little kittens
are all the leaves
which open in the rain.

little kittens who
are called spring,
is what we stroke
maybe asleep?

do you know?or maybe did
something go away
ever so quietly
when we weren’t looking.

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
huddling over a stranger's phone in the streetlamp glare
your skeletal fingers slow and stained with nicotine
pupils shrunken
deer in the headlights
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
plucking pills from carpet fibers
scraping your hands through the couch cushions
snatching my allowance from beneath my mattress
prince of thieves
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
smiling for the kodak
cooing sonatas against her cold pretty ear
nervous fingers tying the corsage
casanova
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
peeking out behind worn fort walls
sketching monsters over saturday morning cartoons
fishing pole in hand
sweet thing
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can see you
rewind the tape
first tottering steps
gummy smile
child of love
what do you need

the telephone rings at eleven on a weeknight
and i can hear you
hello
yes
what do you need

With all its movement
the ocean roaring and white
is always resting

Pines under the moon
wind felling silver needles
the birds are asleep

I want to cut off the parts
of me
that remind me of you
I want a breath of
something
besides the cold hard truth
a drink of anything
to forget these bruises

your not so distant
memory
is so much more
than I bargained for

tell me how our story goes
(or went)
I'll keep pretending
that I could ever
forget

I stay clear of words that
sound too soon
questions that
will hurt too much to ask
I can **** down
a lifetime of
lies or *****
but I can't move on
while leaning on the past