what does it say about me
that i think hunger
is what angels sound like?
lineless and with great aching.
and what does it say about me
that i feel like i could
just pull my pelvis bone
from my hip
and watch it
crumble in my hands?
i couldn't sleep so i
traced my bones,
i couldn't sleep so i
felt my gums,
(my skins got a great story that
no onell ever read
fitting, i guess -
i've yet to be anything but
wasted potential.)
but,
despite everything,
there is something comforting
about the lie of a body.
something human in me yet.
what do i want the answer to be
when i feel my chest
and wonder where
my ribs came from?
it was an early lesson that
one must give up ribs
to be worthy of love.

"you're kind of a a *****", he says, kicking a rock with his shoe.

"big talk coming from you," i respond, my shoe scuffling in the dirt, "at least i don't wear stupid t-shirts."

it's all i got. i don't have much in my arsenal toward this kid, no matter how much i want to hate him. he walks a little bit ahead of me on the path. he talks a little bit too loud. the messy brown curls falling down his back need to be brushed.
"you should brush your hair more," i tell him, and he laughs, but it quickly falls into an overly-exaggerated annoyed groan.

"you're gonna hate hearing this," he laughs again, quieter this time, "but you sound exactly like my mom. our mom."

"you should be nicer to her, too," i say.

"you should be nicer to her, actually," he says, rolling his eyes, "because i can already tell you're not much better."

i laugh at that. i wasn't expecting him to be so sassy.

he turns to look at me. my face, a young, chubby face, awkward with buck teeth and pale skin.

"why do i laugh less?" he asks, "in the future, i mean." he's stopped walking, to look fully at me, awaiting an answer, expectant.

"i don't know," i genuinely don't, "you just get sadder. not like, sadder in a bad way, because you know you're not as sad as you used to be, and you know that you're doing great and it's all there and you should just be happy but you can see all the way you have left to go, but you already walked the whole way here, and you're... tired. you're just a lot more tired."

"oh," he says, before frowning and turning back around, "alright."

we emerge from the forest and walk toward the gas station.

the young girl buys a can of arizona tea and walks back to church, where his youth group is.

the young girl pays for his gas and goes back to his car.

sometimes i'm afraid people don't like me.
it's my whole problem actually,
that i so desperately want to be liked by people.
i take myself and i scream at it,
i throw plates and vases at myself,
i tell myself to go hide under the bed and stay there,
and all im left with is the rest of me.
i try to pick those bits up,
sew them together
recycle and refurbish, blow the dust off a little,
and i create something that is totally inhuman.
a creature that moves on inorganic beats,
that stumbles and falls right down the
slippery ***** of uncanny valley,
that talks too much,
smiles too much,
apologizes too much.
it's not fake,
it's me,
just, not any of the parts i like.
it's more palatable, i guess,
but it never goes any deeper.
that's really all i try to be.
palatable.
a real people pleaser.
i take all the jagged edges of my person,
and iron them out until it's more
appealing than the next
hottest number one billboard single,
but the critics hark it all the same,
because generic niceties only
really get you so far.
so you either have to push a little,
give the universe a little shove,
remind it you still exist,
or let yourself get folded up
as you cave and cave
and cave again,
never asserting,
always acceding,
because of that
deep-seeded hatred you
harbor, towards the one person
you could never forgive for as long
as tried, towards your oldest friend:
yourself,
the pathetic ******* that looks back at you from every mirror, from every picture, every poem.
so you cant be them,
because no matter how much you try to make amends, befriend
yourself
you always end up
disappointed.
so you burn the bridges
you tried to build
and create a monster,
an amalgamation of every
polite smile and fake laugh
you've seen, gathered,
like youre playing
customer service
your entire life,
and you scare off everyone anyways,
because there's not a script,
there's no rehearsal,
nobody's running their lines,
they're living their lives,
and you parrot back all the
lessons you've learned from the
acting school of social osmosis
and it comes out wrong and ill-timed,
and while they don't hate you
you just don't vibe,
and you repeat this process
for the rest of your life.
and why do you do this?
no really,
why do you do this?
i wish i could be softer,
not ironed around the edges,
all cauterized and raw,
but more blurry,
a gentler sort of person,
fuzzy and less uptight.
it's a me i think i could be,
if i just were able to take a walk with
me,
let him explain himself,
learn to value him
more than i value
people's perceptions of who i am.
he'd tell me to relax, stop being such a
control freak.
but at this point i would uncomfortable
and i'd say
well, you're such a hypocrite
oh look at mister high and mighty,
calling me a freak
listen, i may be miserable
but at least i'm not you.
my pride gets in the way,
(everyone always says i'm stubborn)
and i cant accept
that one pill i won't swallow:
"be less afraid."

you have a tattoo on your left arm
that i have never seen before.
and now i know that i will never
get to ask about it.
two teenagers found dead
shot to death in a car.
you followed me on instagram
a few years ago.
and i, knowing we haven’t
talked in years, thought i should reach out.
nothing would be different if i had,
but
i’m still thinking about it.
we probably would’ve talked for
a day, maybe two,
small talk, i would've learned how you’ve
changed.
but i never said hello
because you were so different,
and i didn't know what to say
and i thought i would always
be able to ask.
when we were kids
we used to sit outside in your garage and play dolls.
we prank-called my brother’s friends on his old phone.
your birthday party is still the only time i’ve ever been to six flags.
you told me that when the sun is out and it starts raining
they say it's the devil beating his wife.
and now i’m grieving in a way that’s more
nostalgic than sad,
because 18 is far too young to die
and i just wish i would’ve asked you how you’ve been.

I-20's sparkling something special as
summer glares through my windshield.
my white knuckled grip is off season
but it's wrapped around my only stability:
the jerky steering wheel of a car that
needs its tires aligned.
the air smells like ripening southern summer and humidity drips like fruit juice down my brow. the sun pours into green eyes, sets them pale against the sclera.
i can't see what's directly in front of me,
but what's new.
windows down, eighty miles an hour
out of atlanta. i'm alone but even i'm pretending these tears are sweat.
i don't know where i'm going, i never have.
i just drive forward on the hot asphalt
and hope my tires will melt
and the clouds will part
and someone will make sense of it all.
summer was always her favorite season
but i guess that's just another reason
to want it over.