I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I take a break
to read a book no one appreciates,
then clock back in
just to hate again,
and hate, and hate, and hate.
The things you love.
What you think is great.
Those are all of the things I hate.
I hate, and hate, and hate.
I hate myself for hating it.
I hate the way it makes me feel.
Like everything is meaningless.
Like nothing is even real.
I hate you so much for making me hate the way that I am.
I hate every situation that I find myself in.
I hate that I love you in spite of it.
I hate.
I hate.
I hate you for it.

I wish I had a time machine to go back and kick my own ***.
Or at least try to talk some sense into myself.
"Listen kid, this **** doesn't bode well. You're burning alive and headed for hell."
Maybe writing is its own kind of time travel.
Billy Pilgrim knows what I'm talking about.
"Chin up child. Stop playing wild. I know you're trying to make your own style,
but you'll lose more than you'll gain."
But before I step in and turn the dial, my future self comes back to slap my hand.
"Let it be," I'll say to me.
One day you'll understand.

i chew words like “i’m good” until they taste of
bright mercury, i eat pills and see purple flashes
morph into your tongue, when i'm in the supermarket
i watch pale boys buy watermelon and detergent,
the sky cracks like eggs on a sunday morning and
heaven is crying with tears that smells of perfume
i watch girls with beautiful palms and salmon pink
lipstick whispering a name that will burn of acid rain,

i used to write novels about your prominent veins,
the sun is getting weak, and my hands are shaking,
my eyes are screaming, my tongue
feels tough, my skin is crying on naked bones in
the dead body of mine, i am covered in scars carved
into my soul, i swim in the lake until i feel the
salt  searing against my liver, i have green
lungs, grey bones, pastel eyes, blue wrists, no heart;

i find queens in the shadow of a beautiful man and
i never read the magazines but i look at the photos
i know that god is  somewhere between my shoulder blades
but i can't turn my head enough  to look into his eyes

Thinking hard about you
I got on the bus
and paid 30 cents car fare
and asked the driver for two transfers
before discovering
that I was
alone.

These cigarettes remind me of you.
But I'll smoke them in hopes of killing all of the hope you left inside of me.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
They burn my skin when I least expect it.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
They are slowly killing me from the inside out.
These cigarettes remind me of you.
But I'll smoke them anyways because this is the only way that I'll taste your lips again.

Sweep the house clean,
hang fresh curtains
in the windows
put on a new dress
and come with me!
The elm is scattering
its little loaves
of sweet smells
from a white sky!
Who shall hear of us
in the time to come?
Let him say there was
a burst of fragrance
from black branches.