She likes fashion and interviews. I like getting lost.
Sometimes she grabs my bulge,
as she drinks from an aluminum flask.
She told me to rhyme something with 'flask'.
I said, "Fine. In your life, you've been wearing a mask.
But I can see. And you can see. They can't see.
That you are a detached, blond doll
and your back is against the wall,
as I kiss your neck until you're dead."
She said to rhyme something with 'dead'.
I said, "Fine. You ******* in my head.
And it's quarrelsome
that they don't see that you're numb.
I'd pull on your lip, with my teeth.
Dig my hand between your legs.
Just to make you feel. Just to make you feel.
And I study your hairbrush
to see that there are too much
strands of memories from melodies
that lay dormant in ballrooms
and scented kisses
that drip of the misses
in your life and mine."
She said **** me with your words.
I refused because I'd rather watch her bloom
in my dreams than the seams of
a fiber noose that rings loose
the bell in your neck
that sounds until birds fly
and we die-
You look at me,
"Home."

There is a boy walking, maybe ten or eleven,
a skateboard under one arm,
his shirt branded with
THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.
And I wonder, what did she say?
Did she say she liked his tricks
or his ratty sweatshirt?
Did he blush,
swishing his hair in response,
exuding confidence and cockiness, in the mean time remembering his mother,
calling out to him before he left the house.
Did she say “Son,
don’t forget your helmet!”
Even though he was already gone—
Or was she really a he,
who sat him down a few months ago and said
he’d be gone for awhile
that he’d see him soon—
it’s been six months—
and maybe, when the boy heard this, he ran out.
And maybe when he gets older maybe he will run out more often,
to hang out with those who are deemed to be
“the wrong crowd”
and he will be drunk and high,
stumbling under the streets,
above the lights,
hearing-but-not-hearing everything that she is telling him.
She is telling him the secrets of the universe.

I don't think I'm going to be uploading anymore poetry for a while, a long while, possibly forever..
it just seems like whenever I try and write a poem now, I always seem to keep in mind weather the people who read it will like it, or if it will make sense to others, and though those things are important for when I'm older and trying to publish a book of poems, right now I just feel like writing poetry for anyone other than myself. To me, poetry is a way of understanding how I see things, how I feel about things, and how I'm going to deal with things, its very personal, and lately, i haven't been writing with myself in mind, so I just want to take time away and write for myself only. yeah.. not that I think i'll be missed or anything, but you can still message me or whatever, bc I'll still be on the site reading all of your poetry c: okay toodles.

Words like "It's okay" and "I'll understand for you"are flooding from your heart to my gut but keep getting lodged in my throat.
Like words that sound similar to "I love you" resonate like "I'm sorry"

Blessed are the eyes of the poets
who see a deeper truth.