otters are so cute
i like to watch otter videos on my facebook
otters make me happy
i want to hug all the otters
and live with them
i wish i was an otter

somewhere out there -
i found myself

swimming with sin
with the flowerbeds
with all my friends -
with no one

somewhere out there -
i found myself

between the lines
you speak,
there is little sympathy
and i just
tell myself
i will not let
this life define
me

i started driving with my
left leg perched up on the driver's seat
again. sometimes i will sing if i feel like
it and if not, i still think about how i could crash
into anything if i really wanted, if i actually
cared to, but why bother if the song is good enough?

most of the time, the song is fine.

i'm vaguely in tune with how
my dominate foot controls the machine
now. and how i am really in control now. and how
i will no longer be the passenger in the seat,
and i will no longer allow myself to live at the
mercy of someone else’s demands now.
i think i feel okay now.

and most of the time,
the song is fine.

i keep swimming
around the tiny puddle of you
in the backroads of my mind
my elbows barely fit and
you refuse to let that stop me,
i am submerged, heart-first
you are there
you are there
you are there and you make sure of it
you are not a lake,
you are not vast, you are not deep,
you do not even have a tide
but you are there
and my elbows fit (barely)

today i felt like ****
so i drank a bunch
of antioxidants
i went home to
take a bath for an hour
couldn't stand up
in the shower

i'm dead meat

mascara, bubble gum,
and hallucinogens
i take my birth control
like i take my
vitamins

(i always forget)

i'm trying to be
a good girl this time
i wake up every morning,
and stay alive
i know i'm pretty ******
but at least your mine

i'm broken glass

please
say the words you know
i want to say.
please
never change,
let me meet the skeletons in your closet,
let me hear your silent screams,
and define the word "forever" for me.
please
capture every moment
like a little piece of infinity,
so satisfactory that we savor it.
please
be my music,
play me like your guitar.
please**
melt in my mouth like molasses,
and breathe me into oblivion.

live a life like a little black disc
and rotate. warmly and popping.
i think a memory of this;

i know something eclipses your lips.

it wont ever sound as good as
a fist
being thrown against your
chest and so
that's how i know
the vibrational touch is just
static.

can you tell me
if we should
keep waiting for the system to
stay on the automatic
replay of the public
domain?

and
if so, this would include,
but not be limited to:
the never ending burden
of wiring between a disconnect;
laughing at some kind of understated
joke; or slight reference of culture.

i think of a memory of the impending.

it's sweet and bubbly, sticky and stupid; and
secretly selfish.
i think we would taste like pink icing.

but when we listen to the
lyrical content and dance around the
constructive ideology of a sunrise
within a glowing rectangle,
plugged into a wall, it’s
spewing syrupy sewage
through bluetooth airwaves, and
you stall.

that’s how i know you
won’t even tell me that, with
words, fragmented phrases;
or some unreliable catchy melody.

and
if so, i'll just have to tell
you it wasn't meant to end well.

you have to walk down the hallway
like it's an abandoned runway

(only if you want to feel better about yourself)

smile at people who
don't want to be smiled at

you have keep it together
make the bed and kiss him goodbye

you will say you're sorry even if you're not
say you mean it even if you don't

you'll pick up the clothes from the floor
put them in the washing machine
dry them fold them and stuff them
down your throat

the waves roar,
toes cuddle the sand
and the shoreline invites legs
with licks of salty breaths.
in and out,
the tide sighs
while tiny tourists glide
on sail boats in the distance.
and ice cold coke,
and you.

the sea purrs,
the sun begins to set
along the dusty horizon.
laughter becomes muffled
and the sand now naked,
stripped of umbrellas,
leaving behind
only foot prints.
a half-melted strawberry sundae,
and you.

you've got a lot to say
when you sigh
and you don't say anything
like:
you don't know what it's like everyday
and:
you're too young to understand why
you
tell me that it's not so simple
that
life isn't always the way it seems
and
seven hundred other cliches
about the time you almost jumped
and
how you're tired of just settling
how you're
being a fog that's settled at dawn
you're
fighting the urge to lay down and yawn
you
like to sleep,
to escape
i like to sleep
so i can dream
dreams of eyes that say everything,
like a glance
that radiates what your thoughts sing,
a moment
where all things feel invincible
a time
where i don't feel so invisible
where it all comes into place
laced in between your fingers
and then you kiss my face
but,
you don't say anything at all

how long does it take to drown?
tumultuous and predictable
does it hurt?
i don’t know where she begins and ends.
you’re good with kids,
but i think you’re being impulsive.
you should think about staying here.
think about the beauty,
amex black cards,
and impeding lateness.
you would think about
becoming something else.
i bet you’re going to be homeless,
or a dream that never existed,
just like a sick scam,
and then die.

which then,
means your little darling
will dissolve.

i wish that you'd wear your seatbelt
because i want you and no one else
i wish we were both sedated
because then there would be no reason
to say we couldnt make it
and the car is empty now,
and i can't seem to figure it out -
because now my heart is in my throat
because i don't remember a word
that you spoke
because the music skimmed the air
and i hang on to every note -
now the melody is diguised
in those little lies
while the love we shared slowly died...
so,
i wish that i didn't wear my seatbelt
because now i want to be anyone
but myself

i'm using the light to cast shadows upon your  body
shadows that tell us a story
of when i was 3 years old and my father left
of when i was 13 years old had an empty hole inside my chest
of when i was 16 years old and just ******* dramatic
of when i am 19 years old and just ******* sarcastic
i'm using the light to cast shadows upon your body
i'm trying to tell you that i am more than sorry -
i'm a sad case of sore eyes
wrapped in these cast shadows
hoping that this isn't something you will realize
and that all i ever wanted was a happy ending to my shadow stories

turtles are my favorite animal
because they have a shell
which is mostly convenient
because sometimes earth
can feel more like hell

you are my favorite criminal
because you make me smile
you are guilty
and you are gentle
but it's okay
you seem to make it
all worthwhile  

i am my favorite artist
because i hate everything that i do
and i try to stay inside this shell
but all these words and ideas
keep leading me back to you

**** me in the sistine chapel
with your lips against my neck
and your breath still hot and lingering
"at least she died happy," they'll say
"or least, 'happy' for being...her"

when i take my last breath,
it is't michelangelo's masterpieces
on the ceiling i'll be focused on
*it's you i want to see before i go

I wanted to tell you
that I'm sorry I almost crashed your car
I guess that's just what happens when you're
sixteen and dumb

I wanted to tell you
that I'm sorry I drank all your *****,
and didn't call you back
I guess that's what happens when you're
sixteen and numb

I wanted to tell you
that I'm sorry I can't remember
the words you said to me before you left
I guess that's what happens with you're
sixteen and young

your eyes are melting
like the polar ice caps
and I am swimming in your sea
there is nowhere I'd rather be
than watching television
while you sleep

I'm tracing the lines
of your smile
I'm watching your
chest fall and rise
for a little while

but I'm hardly
holding a grudge
and I'm not trying to be
something that you'll
just get tired of

it's just that
I love you so much
and sometimes
I don't think that it's
enough

i am made of venom and sea foam and false hope -

i am a series of "connect the dots" that never really seemed to make the full picture........

i am momentarily momentous -
a monster of my craft.

i am the seconds before
you take the lid off of a shaken up
bottle of coke, or some other similar generic soft drink.

i am unescapable, and
i am going to be a big deal from now on.

i am not sorry.

i am everywhere, gliding into senses, talking the way i want to, barely living, but
i am living.
i am freaking out in my very own stupid gutter.

i am never going to be the same.

i am everywhere,
everything,
and nowhere.

sometimes when i'm driving,
sometimes when it's a little past midnight,
i play that song on my radio
and i turn it up loud
in hopes that you'll be able to hear it
and it's not that i do it
to wallow in my self-pity
i do it because it
feels like a blow to my face
everytime i hear the songs spew out of my speakers
and to be honest,
that feels better than nothing
sometimes i leave little things behind,
sometimes i leave little pieces of my heart
in old songs
with old memories

there is better weather
somewhere else

put the flowers on the shelf

tell me you're sorry
and love no one else

tell me you're sorry
and love no one else

touch my neck
and i start to melt
but you don't ever
tell me how you really felt

you are so much more convincing
when you are just being
yourself

i don't even want to be a human anymore;
i want to be a song, a melody
so catchy
you can't get me out of your head -
for an eternity

inspiration is
a ******* waste
i just liked the way
your tounge tasted,
you called me "baby"
and carried my limbs when
my ligaments felt achy

In 1948 I was twelve years old and I thought I wanted to be  
alone.

In 1948 I was sick.
At least that is what my mother told me.
She said I saw things that weren’t there.  
Like the sun in the bathroom  
at midnight. She said my little friends
in the feathered grass weren’t real.

In 1948, I think I was infected.
Sometimes I dreamed about things
I know I shouldn’t. I’m not allowed  
to talk about it. If I could, I would run away
out West. There are cornfields there. And nothing.
I think I want a whole lot of  
nothing. And corn.

In 1948 I spent the summer
In Maine with my mom
and stepfather.
I was alone most of the time
in the field. My house in the distance
spun in circles, and I dreamed  
about not being in Maine with my mom  
and stepfather.

In 1948 I was right.
Everything is real. I still have to keep my eyes open  
when I fall asleep because I know the bookshelf
Talks to me at night, the stairs  
always spiral in and out of view,  
and my friends in the grass were real.
They still speak to me  
inside my head.  

In 1948, I was twelve.  
All I wanted was to be alone.

roots stick out
of the ground,
like i don't
stick out in
a crowd.

dogs are picking
up sticks,
i watch them
do their tricks
they get a good treat,
i'm alone at the park.

now i'm listening to
forensic files
in my basement.
i'm talking to walls
but they never listen.
sometimes
nothing ever makes
sense.
maybe i'm just a stick.

i'm still bitter,
i watched it set fire in the
summer
and crumble in the
winter

i'm still sorry
i felt it softly spoken
from your bedroom
it rolled off your tounge
and then suddenly it turned
soggy

i'm still lost
i searched for you
in the night time
the morning light
couldn't save me
and you just couldn't
seem to get
your ******* point
across

i miss my blonde summer
hair
i miss the way you were
there
and how when we talked about nothing
and it always turned into
something
i miss the hazy days
together
and the way they went on
forever
sometimes though,
i felt
alone
and sometimes though,
you were
home
(whenever i was with you)
but most times though,
you
weren't
and that
hurt
and now i know i was
wrong
for believing you when
you sang your stupid, stupid
songs
quivering lips softly
bitten
while the end was starting to be
written
i really did
care....
guess it's too good to be true
when he makes you feel like you're dancing on air

what does it mean to be in love?

is it:
a synchronized system of sighs
?
is it:

an everlasting eternity of evolution
?
is it:

like placing hot coals on your heart?

tell me -
how every freckle formed on your face
,
and how 
you got that scar that runs through 
your nose like a river

tell me -

who is it that you want to be 
when you look in the mirror 
every morning,
what stops you from jumping off the roof
,
and how many times have you actually prayed to god
?
tell me -
what is a synchronized system of sighs?
what does it mean to be in love?

your seat was empty at the table today.

if you could feel
the way I feel
you probably
wouldn't be here
right now

i keep telling myself:
stop romanticizing everyone who ****** up your life
**they ****** up your life

it feels good -
now that you've erased me



don't come back

there is nothing poetic
about the way you smash your drums in
like you smash memories

there is nothing poetic about the way you recite words
that mean everything to you

but do not live by

there is nothing poetic about how you look to the left
because the right way is never your way 

there is nothing poetic deep under your ‘skin’
there is nothing poetic about finding a better place to ‘fit in’
there is nothing poetic about the way you percieve the world or what kind of music you listen to or the way you dress or the way you feel when you are alone and looking at the stars

there is nothing poetic about the smell of camp fire or peter pan or metallica
because we’re off to neverland 

only, you’re off to nowhere 

there is nothing poetic about you

there is nothing poetic about you

it smells like limes,
like salt and not pepper,
and like the ocean and like
everything that i have ever
thought was comforting.
like my father's kisses at
2am because he is going
to work his second job
and it will not be enough.
it smells like fighting. it
doesn't ever smell strong
enough for it to end. And it
never ends. It won't stop anyone
from yawing loudly in public.
It won't stop you from taking
advantage of her. It won't keep
you from being the person you
are. I think sometimes it smells
like the expressions we never
have enough courage to say
but i think that sounds cliche, too.
it smells like limes, it smells like the
illness that haunts the people in their
beds. It smells like limes. It smells like
life.

i'm taking it more gracefully this time,
i'm learning to love
in ways that make you mine

i'm taking it more softly this time,
i'm leaving all of my
hard parts behind

i'm taking it more graciously this time,
i'm finding ways to thank you
for all of your time

i used to write about being sad -
the things i know:
how my fingers constantly grasped for
metacarpals the never really
fit with in mine
and how only the fire
that i poured down my throat
made me utter the words,
"i love you".
now i struggle upon embracing
how the drowsy-eyed glances
turned into sacharine stares,
the whispers of "you could love me",
places on top of mountains,
and freckles that i can count;
every single one of them.
if they say,
"write about what you know",
then where do i even start
about all of the things i don't?

i do a little dance
with guilt
during the day,
and then i
let anger **** me at night.

everything i've wanted to tell you
i will tell you tomorrow
and the wait of it all doesn't even give you sorrow
these dilapidated sentence structures suffocate us,
they drown out our intricacy, our noisy illustrations
and i don't even want you to resuscitate me

go ahead,
have another breakdown in the office bathroom and then
pretend like you’re having the time of
your life on the internet. think about how
it could be happening to some other girl
if not you, how “cool” you must be
to be able to keep it together.
(which really means stupid)

they'll all think, "wow he must
really be something special to have someone like her" or something shallow like that, something along those lines. something to make it feel just a bit worthwhile.

go ahead,
lose track of when those lines of performability blurred and the sustainability of it all started.

someone might ask me if i want another drink and i will no thank you, because he tells me it “runs in your family.”
but he’ll pour himself a night cap or five before bed or he’ll convince me after a set of repeated no’s to wash down a heavy handed cocktail or two that he made because he says he’s the best at home bartender we know and we are always at home.

i don’t touch the stuff anymore, i used to when i was brave. i used to be brave.

he said, “you should write more,
you should let me use your words.”
but my words can’t hold any meaning
other than the utter embarrassment of
who i was and how it’s consumed who i
used to be at the hands of someone who
i allowed to selfishly grasp me when i thought i couldn’t hold myself. i watched myself fall through his fingers, like empty promises and then get thrown against the wall just like all our
various household items i’ve seen him smash in the same way.

so he thinks i just have writer’s block. or at
least that’s just what i tell him. and
i try not to, but i can still hear his stupid distorted guitar tone humming, calling me a dumb **** from the other room.

you and me -
we were like a train wreck waiting to happen
like watching animal planet by yourself late at night
about a lion stalking young gazelle in the sahara
and trying to turn your head
when he goes in for the ****
but you can't
you always told me,
"hey, love is pain"
but this kind of pain hurt so bad
it felt good
i liked it when you ripped my heart out
so swiftly and remorselessly
i was your conquest,
and you,
my conquerer
the lines you  told me
the last day we spoke
i now have so religiously memorized
and i play on repeat
over,
and over,
and over again
and ever since
i haven't wanted to wait for another train wreck to happen again

something tells me that the sky doesn't just let those clouds move so fast like that for any good reason
i want the wind to ******* into next week, too
next month - maybe
next year
next life?
something tells me the birds don't just sing for the hell of it
there's gotta be someone out there listening for something they just can't hear
something tells me she's leaving town for good this time

can we just slow down for one minute?

there isn't much left to be grateful for
i think that the sun sets just to leave
i'm sorry she has to wake up again