I'm so happy-
I've masturbated until I can't feel
and that's okay.
My hair is brittle;
the water's iron and so are you-
your love's a mess.
God is angry
because he doesn't have to exist
to be real.

Hipsters ruined liking Wes Anderson-
Bill Hicks was brilliant
and everyone is an intellectual.
Your ideas aren't yours-
your words are mine
and mine are yours.
Writing to be antidepressed,
because singing is for the shore,
for your shore.

Let's pick each other's psychology,
like we're removing clothes
or missing ads,
and get lost in each other's darkness,
because, "I love you,
I suppose.
I suppose."

The tree of life grows in a graveyard-
With my hands around the air,
I imagine you over there-
Sitting under the branches,
inhaling abuse
and
exhaling cursive.

In a dark and distant galaxy-
Upon a new world I seek-
You're healthy and smiling-
because, because, because, because
there is nothing as romantic
as dying on your kitchen floor-
There is nothing romantic
about waiting for you
to come home
from war.

Daughter, daughter
on the wall-
Why'd you let your picture fall?
Killing yourself for instant
pseudo-safety-
Killing yourself for nothing, maybe-
But the gun is still pretend enough
to put into your mouth and bluff
And say that no one can
save you now-
because, because, because, because:

You are your own lover
and you are your own daughter.
And you're left in hot water
but you stay in to try to forget
that you're cold inside.
And you drown yourself
so you can hide.

There are pleas
that disguise themselves
in trees
that whisper in the dark-
Like a crinkle in a kiss,
or the words that you'll miss;
too late for meds,
too late for sleep
this time.

We ride on the beaches
with cool kids and leeches.
We **** blow off the ground
because there are times you feel,
and some you fake
when everyone is around.
The bodies in red
that you leave in your head.

The trees tesellate
into nooses and goodbyes.
And I swear this isn't the first time
that you've loved me
like it's the last time;
when I've been something to lose.
The love you have
is the love you refuse.

Your cries are milk-
I wish your cancer was mine.
To be a mistake.
To be left behind.