i smoke hundreds
and let the ash build up
and pretend i’m a french movie star.
i like the way the smoke feels;
rough, grating, and heavy.
sam says it’s because i like to hurt myself.
sam’s right about most things.
she says i’m more like my dad then i realize
which is a scary thought
but i’ve noticed more similarities
and i just hope i’m not as angry
unless it’s useful
but i know i am.
i snap and spark and set fire
to everything that slightly annoys me
if i’m in a mood.
i’m always in some kind of mood
because if it’s not one thing
it’s another. if it’s not
drugs then it’s food
and if it’s not food then it’s cutting
and if it’s not cutting - well
i think that should suffice.
but i know my dad
and he smokes a lot
but i think i smoke more.
i’m never sober.
he only partakes at night.
i know my dad
but i don’t know myself
so sam may be right
but i’m deaf unless you’re complimenting me.

my clothes smell like
****, cigarettes,
cheap perfume.
my breath smells like
smoke, beer,
boredom.

i want to spray paint
a list of everything I hate
on the side of a Walmart.
i want to tattoo
a list of everything i love
on the palm of my hand.

i want to stop rolling joints
on my Springsteen 45
but I also want
someone to ask me about it.

i want to keep sitting
on the ***** behind the bridge
smoking out of plastic bottles,
inhaling the desire
to stay young like this forever.

i want my hands to tell stories.
scars, tattoos, glitter, pen ink.
i want someone to turn
those into a poem,
a far better one than i could ever write.

i want to be lethal
but i’m coughing up my lungs
and the chemicals in my blood
will keep me alive just long enough
to let me watch myself fall apart.

he tasted like
res and sweet coffee.
i cherished the sticky tar
and noticeable sugar.

later i came back into the room
and he was just wearing jeans,
smoking a menthol.
he watched me get dressed
and commented on the clothes
he hadn’t paid attention to
when he helped me take them off.

i sat beside him and felt
that familiar itch in my wrist
and came to the nagging thought that
everything is just a distraction
from a life not worth living.

i gave him a piece of glass
i could have killed myself with.
he was happy to take it away,
didn’t get mad that the thought
of slitting my wrists in a fatal fashion
crossed my mind a time or two together.

i watched him drive off
and missed him as soon as
he left our embrace on the porch.
i’m more sure than i’ve ever been
that he won’t leave me.
that means that i
cannot down bleach
when i feel hopeless.

a shot glass slammed onto
marble countertops,
shuddering and yet not
breaking.
breaking like your voice
when you tell him how badly
you wanted to die last night,
how you almost did it
with a beer can you
mangled until you could
slice through skin with
aluminium's sharp edge
but it didn’t work.
another drink is poured
and another shot is slammed
and your confession is hanging
by a noose wrapped around
the kitchen ceiling light.
red scratches, cuts, attempts -
whatever you want to call them -
protrude angrily and yet
he says nothing.
you feel like nothing,
like an empty cloud floating
through a sky you just
don’t feel attached to.
a sky you could drop from
happily at any time.
maybe the aluminum
will work next try.

kisses amid incense smoke
and a haze left over
from the pack we finished
in twenty two hours.
i choke on love
and spit up the burning push
to be more than just
an unpublished poet
among billions of
self proclaimed,
unpublished poets.
i’d write him a collection
of anything he would like to read
even if it’s just my blood
smeared from page to page.
oh god i am a poet,
and oh god i am scared.
i swear one day i’ll be
good for him, after my wrists
stop singing songs
i’m sure he’ll be thrilled
to never have to hear again.

i carve memories from my arm
as though i am uprooting
plants who got the rot.
blood trickles through the word,
the calligraphy ink we  ‘borrowed’
while still in our sober days.
i wish it didn’t have to end with
glass and tears and flickering vital signs.
but he pulled life from me even when
i wasn’t holding a blade to my wrist.
he made me feel as if i was always
secondary in every way possible.
oh god how i scratch open healing wounds
and pretend that his friendship didn’t once
keep me from jumping out of my window.

god traced her fingers down my spine
and said, “my child, you don’t believe
in much of anything these days,
why are you putting your faith
in empty bottles and 2 miligram bars?”

i scratched my nails down my arm
and said, “god, you are just another
voice i hear. how do i know
you’re not the one that tries to **** me?
how do i know that you’re not the one
who whispers about how terrible i am?”

god ran her hands through my hair
and said, “sweetie, i’m god. you have
to trust me, you have to believe
that i love you and can save you.”

i balled my hands into fists
and said, “god, i have stopped
putting my faith in forces
i hear in my ears. i can’t believe
in something that will only
let me wallow in my sickness
because it’s a trial.
my life has been a trial
and i’m going to make it end
if i hear one more *******
voice.”

god vanished and laughed herself to sleep.