To the boy who slings beer near the capitol of Virginia:
I can't drink what you're selling, but
I do wish I could climb into your mind for a day.
I'd watch the colors pass by as you switch lenses,
as you understand the misunderstood,
as you explain all of that ignorance
that rents the space under the rug.
You made me dream with my eyes wide open.
These are the words I never said to you
and the words you needed to hear in the dark.
I missed the boat with you on it,
but I often wonder
if you ever care to go for a swim.

How to give a ****?
******* plays no part in it.
It begins with love.

See, you lit my wick.
I melt to drip. I change form.
No looking back now.

I have this feeling
that even if human beings
came with a tag of instructions
on how to care for one another
sewn on some conspicuous part of our person,
most of us would just ignore it.

We all just
machine wash jerkface,
tumble dry to broken pieces.
Tumble dry into
thousands
of little
broken
pieces.

And you can see it, you know?
On us.
Where someone didn't read
those directions carefully
or at all.
Where the colors ran—
reds to whites to pinks.
Where the holes are worn bare,
and the fibers shriveled and shrank.

So we live with those stains,
those noticeable imperfections.
We’re so conscious of it at first,
afraid that everyone will notice
that our instructions weren't followed.
We hesitate to let
someone else try their hand
at doing it right
this next time around.

But we gotta, 'cause
much like ***** laundry,
human yearning is
a ruthless, never-ending cycle.
Fighting it only really makes you
the smelly kid in class.

Just mind your delicates,
pay attention, take your time,
and hand wash that **** worth keeping.

Don't tell me
to get used to disappointment—
that my hopes should always
stay close to the ground.
Because defeat
doesn't complement my complexion.
But if you insist upon saying it,
pass me my lipstick.
Just like Ms. Molly Ringwald,
I'll apply that **** with no hands—
a wet, slick shade of red that reads
with confidence and promise.
And just before I slow kiss
the half-empties from your lips,
I'll slip something half full
into your pocket.
Neatly folded, on lined paper,
it will read:

*You see, hope is like having a ****.
What’s the point in even having it
if you can't manage to get it up once in awhile?

Funny thing about the cold,
it’s always sure to make us aware of when
our hands are empty.
Leaves us searching for
a warmth that doesn't want us back.

It gets to know us best when we’re undressed.
It tracks our naked bodies between
idle bed space and the holes in our sweaters.

We’re left no choice but to
pencil in the details
between the real and imaginary,
as it nips our ears with frigid whispers—
plants its frostbitten doubts
in the warmest corners of our minds.

The only traces it leaves behind
are a lonely shiver, a ghostly breath,
and the notion that we can never
solely keep ourselves warm.

I’m not religious,
but you've got a tongue that can
make me see Jesus.

I don’t much care how “ridiculous” it sounds.
The Oreo Cookie is the perfect metaphor for life.
We’re born alone—cookie.
We die alone—cookie.
But no one can argue
that the sweet in-between
is the most cherished part
of this confection’s anatomy.

It’s your responsibility
to enjoy it while you can,
and lick
that ****
clean.

I’m going to live life until it bursts—
softly place it between my teeth
and bite down until it pops
so its juices flood and trickle
out the corners of my mouth.

I’ll revel in my sweet, sticky mess—
stained cheeks, glazed chin—
leaving my mark on everything I touch.
Others will insist I clean up,
keep my hands to myself,
act
act like
act like a
act like a lady.

But as long as
there is life to taste,
I refuse to chew
with my mouth closed.

Some live for pleasure.
Others? They've missed the **** boat.
I've earned my sea legs.

I read a tidbit somewhere
that the average American will spend
a combined six months of their life
waiting at red lights.

After I processed this,
I consciously took a breath,
thanked my debatably lucky stars
that I turned out
nowhere near average,

*and gunned it.

Eyes fall on him, and I just know
the boy's soul sounds like an intricate piano crescendo.
Chords carrying complimenting rhythms
slicing through the thick, humid air of some summer night
in a hidden park overgrown with ivy vines.

I listen, without strain, to his overlapping notes,
as I grab at my chest, aching with empathy
but lulled by a contentment deep-rooted in recognizing
that there is someone else who shares my song.