come on grey girl
let's go for a drive
we'll light up some cigarettes
shoot me up with your lies

come on green eyes
I know all you see is blue
I look at the night sky though
all I see is you

The air was thick with a reminiscent July sort of heat that crashed around us like ocean waves as we barreled through it. All that the world was, was laid there before my eyes, a pervade of red and green smeared through the corners of my eyes as I flew through it's tunnels of fresh pavement. I wasn't good at skating, neither was T, but she pretended to be. Each turn was a whole hearted attempt not to be taken victim by the tar I was trying to own. My head was half made up of the passed summer and half resisting my own momentum.

A Wonder Years song was repeating in my head and so I hummed along. I don't think T cared about anything, summer or falling, playing chance on the yellow line, her caramel hair violently dancing in the sunshine. She was a made up of collection of high school parties, anger never spoken, and a suspended drivers license tied together in a pair of ripped shorts and a purple tank top. Summer was compiled of nights spent in her truck looking for a place to be, weekends after school started felt like attempts just to relive past nights.

Slants of light cutting through the spaces between the leaves burned into the back of my tired irises, I hadn't slept in probably days, but I felt good in my caffeine induced euphoria. Minutes felt like hours in those moments that demanded nothing but sheer focus. Days that felt like they could never end, vivid in the corners of my mind.

Dear, you are my sweetest forbidden day dream
Blue eyes starring up at me from pant seams
Just enough to pull my heart strings
You are the quick gazes stolen through guitar screams
Chills, you are simply seated next to me

and nobody gets those people who don't give a **** about anyone or anything. those people who burn others down without a second thought. chinaski, the man in all of bukowski's poems. it is those people who cared the most because all we want to be loved, so badly that sometimes we sustain from love itself. we need to be loved so badly. so badly that the fear of not being loved is greater than the need to be loved. to care is a disease that corrodes your bones if you use it too much. sometimes i burn other people just so i dont have to feel the sting first, i confess, but thats who youre turning me into, but who gives a ****, one day ill change my name and write a book.
whatever. i used to be belligerent, but then all of my friends died. now im a fire build in the pervade of a never ending rainstorm. its my depression, but everyone calls me killer because i pass them cigarettes even though their boyfriends hate the smell.
i don't need you and you don't need me. you dont care about books, or poetry, or silence, or experience, or art. ive known that since the moment i met you, but i thought you wanted to know. ukulele girl and the basketball star. BUT thats just why youll never know me, youll never know my brain, youll never be able to think my thoughts.
IT IS SO ******* EASY TO LOVE ME
EVERYONE IS TOO LAZY TO LOVE ME
STEAL LIKE AN ARTIST, NICK, if you want to know someone you have to learn at least three of their muses for they make up most of the person you want to get to knowing. then if you really want to know them, better than they know themselves, learn three of their three muse's muses. thats why i gave you love is a dog from hell and grapes of wrath. bukowski loved hemingway.
thats why i go to all your stupid basketball games alone just to sit in the desolate student section because i want to take the time to understand the love of someone i love. people arent the same as me. they look at the world, and its too big to fit the whole picture in front of their faces, so they cant fathom it. but to me it seems easy. but thats just why love ever lasts.
no one wants to know their lovers three muses three muses. as if it is so hard to read a god ****** book. everyone is so greedy they want to gobble up the soul of the first thing they think is beautiful. they dont want to keep them like a cactus in their bedroom, they just snip them at the stem and put them on a shelf just to watch them as they rot.
because everyone thinks that to love is to own.
but when i read poetry i feel intoxicated. i will sit there and read a poem until its meaning is exhausted because, to me, it is so rich to experience a feeling so vividly. my heart quiets to a slow beat in my chest, just to hear the words quiet in my head. thats how love should always feel. it should be reading everyone of your lovers metaphorical books  just so you can know them better. because knowing them makes you feel whole.
but if you want to leave then why dont you just go

you are eighteen and you're in love
with a boy who hates his birthday.
you don't know it yet,
but the world gets so much bigger than the back of his car.
you think he needs you to be happy and so does he
but both of you are wrong.
it'll take you almost a year to stop crying.
and then you don't talk for another three
and when you finally do,
he thinks he still knows you,
but your heart is heavier than it was then.
and you **** him because you're lonely
but it isn't the same.
neither of you can fake love.
at least he still makes you laugh.
you'll pretend it's enough
because at least he's a body.
at least you're not by yourself.
at least you're alive
and you're good at *******.
because bodies are distractions
from the things we hide inside them.
you have him inside you
and he wants to gut you of your ugly, your sad.
he scrambles for an excuse not to stay the night
and you laugh.
you know what this is and how it goes
and you both love someone else.
you swear you won't **** him again
but you do anyway because you're still lonely
and you like the way his hands fit around your neck.
you **** him because it's good for your art
and you get bored of your own hands on your body
and you're fine with letting him feel useful.
and you think about when you were sixteen
and how *** was supposed to be special
and it makes you cry
because you're not who you wanted to be.
it makes you cry, because the world got so much bigger
after you left the backseat of his car.
the world is so big and you don't know
how it ended up on your shoulders.
you would have died for him.
you have been ready to die for every person you have ever loved.
you have dreams where he dies
and you can't save him.
you have dreams where people die
and you can't save them
and you're the one who tied your hands.
your mangled heart and all its bleeding.
nobody asked you to die.
what good is all the love in your chest
if you don't leave any for yourself?

- m.f.