dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.

read from bottom to top*


down
   us
     bring
            to
               try
           they
when
        smoke
   like
     rise
We'll

i never intended to start smoking
i promised
but when you kissed me with smoke on your lips
i needed a way
to make that last forever

And while I’m staring up at the ceiling
or staring into the bottom of a glass
or staring straight through the smile on my mirror
I just sometimes get so tired

Tired like my skeletal system is tired of being a skeletal system and being the one thing that keeps this mess of soft tissues and sharp edges in its upright and locked position
Tired like my mind is an old slide reel projector that’s been playing for days if not weeks and the film is starting to corrode
Tired like if I were just to empty my lungs, and my body were to forget to remind me to refill them, I might just let it
Tired like I’m sure the soles of my shoes must have carved canyons into the concrete by now, because erosion is a two-way street
Tired like if universal entropy is really how this planet is going to go, then I’m content to sleep until I become nothing but a soupy mass of atoms spinning through absolutely nothing
Tired like I’m sitting up in bed, avoiding checking the time, watching the blades of my fan spin and thinking about sine waves, the face of the clock is blinking but I can’t catch a wink, and every two minutes my mind shakes me awake and takes me on a field trip
and I have to let it

It’s been awhile since I’ve slept
But I’m sleepwalking everyday
They say this city never sleeps
Been empty since you walked away

Mama, find me a wishing well
They say time travel isn’t real
And I’m all grown, live on my own
Got nothing but time, but these wounds won’t heal

Momma find me a mockingbird
They say the universe still expands
Time is relative, so I’ve heard
But how did you slip through my hands?

It’s dark at night, still, even here
I think I’m only cold when I’m alone
They say adults shouldn’t have these fears
But I’m not an adult, I’m just big-*****

Even these textbooks read like fiction
Watching all these people's lives
Rub my hands to generate friction
Making sure I’m still alive

So close your eyes and stop your protesting
Absorb what little oxygen your lungs still take
Pretend you’re perfectly, peacefully resting
Maybe your body will forget that it’s fake

The grave of my teenage daughter
is a restaurant she was born at 16.
I was told she began smoking long reds for long breaks – they lasted 15 minutes at most – and she had her first sip of alcohol there. Coffee liqueur from a straw in booth 14 from a customer who later became her lover.

The next lover was the second to slap her, and following that was the first kiss she ever received from someone she admired – even though he didn’t admire her back.
It was near the gumball machine, right between the hanging claw and the golfing game. Neither had worked in years. But the lights still flickered, and she always used to talk about how the neon chants radiated across his grimace when he asked her for a kiss.

Even he knew it was only for her.
Even she knew it was never for him.
But she agreed anyway.

The waiter told me that she smoked an entire pack of Menthols after, as if to brush her teeth, but it didn’t cleanse a mint memory. It only burned it away, etched it into the cement curb where we last saw her – drinking one last time as the yellowing sky stretched over the horizon and left her smoke as ash against the morning mist.