I threw a little funeral for us.
Gathered our things.
Photographs and poems.
Your bra and tinfoil and straws.
All tucked tightly in a little oak box
lined with all my hopes and dreams.
And I buried them in the backyard.

I'm tired of giving away
Pieces of myself like
Free samples.

She doesn't read poetry.
Everything pretty I've ever
wrote for her has remained
unread like junk mail.

The English language falls
terribly short of giving me
the ability to describe how
I feel on a day to day basis.

You changed your clothes
right there in front of me.
The dust no longer clinging to your skin
like little specks of angel dust
Smiles fading into harsh words and tears
whether there's an audience or not.
A love stained like the sleeves of my shirt,
mascara-streaked and frayed along the seams.
I still can't handle real life.
Those inbetween moments where you're in his bed.
Where you're writing love letters on Valentine's Day
even though you hate it.
Your broken boy is still in pieces at the bottom
of your toy chest. Voice warbled from dead batteries.

If you use me
as an anchor,
toss me off
the side of the ship
like little plastic rings
that ****** dolphins,
I'll sink into that cold,
that dark. Bubbles rising
to the surface, with each and every
pop you'll hear my last thoughts
as the pressure chokes the life from my lungs.

I'm spitting teeth onto the pavement.
Cracked grin cracked across my mouth
like your fist as it splits my lip again.
And again.
And again.
Ribs splitting from the laugh
that is echoing across the bricks
laid psuedo-symetrically like our
best-made plans.

In this corner weighing in at 115 pounds
we have the hopeless romantic.
All featherweight and bones.
All martyrish and faithful.