in still moments
i realize i feel
nothing for you
and my chest falls softly
and my eyelids flutter
into an unparalleled sleep,
where your fingertips
are washed away
by the gentle tears of rain
and i sleep
just sleep

we are impossible beings
with meat scrap hearts
rope burned tongues.
life drones on in this weary sort of
sonata
beautifully sad,
a whining violin with empty chords.
bedrooms frighten me
because
its just do this
and then hands are scraping around in my pants.
this type of thing becomes normalcy
and the thunder roars and i can hear your
******* throat screeching
at me from darkened rooms with
broken ceiling fans.

when a boy wants your body
kick him in the mouth
make him bleed a torrent of red
and watch the fear flow out of you
into him
then leave, button up your shirt,
tell yourself you cannot be burned,
and light that ******'s
house on fire.

it won't always be this way
a bath of ice
and cold
fingertips
blue lips.
there's gotta be a fire burning within us
some
where

I always said you felt like home
not like the home i grew up in of course

not like the one where after school i found my dad
half asleep
half sober
half alive
on the couch, hating himself

i always said your eyes looked like the stars
and it was a little cliche
but the stars made me feel safe
because of the night my dad hit my mom
for the first time
And i sat on the roof and cried to them

I always said you were like my bedroom
the one i would lock myself in when i was scared
maybe thats why i locked myself in you
I wish you didnt lose the key

eyes like acid drops
i want to float in an ethereal
light where
colors meld together like melting metal
and this cold blue inside me
could be white hot and burning
instead of empty and confusing
an ice age of yearning.
what is this thing where
we are supposed to become somebody,
18 and no heart to beat,
how do you know what bills to pay
and **** i'm going to college where i have to do coin laundry
but my fingers aren't even working.

gray and blue and black
make up the angles and cheekbones
of you.
you're a painting with a film of dust
and i'm an attic that welcomes rust
broken windows, ripped screens
nests that house the emptiness of centuries,
and dolls that no longer have the mechanics to blink.
i guess you could form the conclusion
that i am a heap of broken things
floating inside a dead room
and you are a picture in a frame
that lives in shadows
etched in the silver starlight
of regrettable shame.

a ****** is quick
a heartbreak is a slow
death
that leaves your blood trailing
upon the walls in every room
and ghosts dance around your eyes
memories that haunt every corner
where our hands touched
and we laughed
a sound like pure crystal
that was lost in the echos
when our hearts
turned cold.

the clouds they hung
tightly against my heart
a rainstorm of goodbyes