dense as fog.

she couldn't
look past
him
but she could
walk
straight through
him.

every day.

in the hallway
as if she
was the one
that no hands
        no ropes
        no hearts
could ever fully grasp,
could every fully keep,
could every fully convince to stay.

she walked
                    past
                    through
     ­               away
from him
as he
continued on to
his new girl
      new **** buddy
      new toy to distract from how he could never stop himself from killing
      everything
         he loved.

it's silly to read into drunk texts
as if they are coded messages
with all the hidden meanings
you've been longing for
it's masochistic
that silly boy
with silly hair
and not so silly fingers
(wink, wink)
doesn't love you
and you don't love him
you love the way he makes you feel
the way his drunken slurs make you feel
you love that he makes you feel anything
in the first place
his drunk texts aren't your open door
they can never be your salvation
silly you

that phone of yours
that mind of yours
is playing you again

when was the last time i woke up and didn't feel as if the day was already over?  i know the sun is out but it might as well be the moon.  both are the brightest when i'm trying to fall asleep.  and when was the last time i cut myself and didn't question if it would really stick this time?  sometimes the blades don't hurt as much as they should. they never scar dark enough to remind me later. and when was the last time that i looked up and didn't wish it was the floor beneath me?  i've always wanted something dense enough to fall through.  i'm so sick of standing.

she died in the garden that they built together and raised with separate lives He called her home through the glare of the sun and the evergreens They left the maple tree in her place

self care isn't
yoga and
pink baths
it's confrontation
you v you
until there's nothing
left
to argue about

not thrivin
but survivin
and *****
sometimes that’s all I can really ask for

every time my candle flickers,
i think to myself,
                             maybe this is God, maybe this is God telling me that he    
                               is real and i am not alone
                                                          ­             but then
                                                                ­       the flame stills
                                                                ­        i go back to work
                                                            ­            and i think to myself,
                              *i knew it was too good to be true

empty cups
curtained windows
and a bible that hasn't been opened since they told you there's a chance.
clusters of papers-
                             rejected-
                                          coupled with
that old journal you vowed to never open again.
the orange bottles need to be
                                                refilled.
unma­de bed
beat up tissue box.
                                                            ­                  no one gets it.

this is sanctuary.
                            this is how you start to live again.
                                                          ­                             no one knows about
                                                           ­                                            the used to be.
the full cup
the bolted windows
the brainwashing
the attempted letters
and the pages decorated with a different kind of ink.

they don't know about
the thoughts before the pills
the never-empty bed
the fits of anger.
                                                          ­                       this is how you start to live                        
                                                                ­                                                    again.

she walks in
says
        "i have a splitting headache"
and then retreats
to her room,
too long sweatpants
dragging
on the floor.
and i wonder
if it's the same kind of
headache i get
when i can't stop
thinking
about the
                past
                present
                future
until all i know is that
i don't want to be breathing
                              living
                  ­           correctly pumping blood
                             from my heart
                             to the rest of
                             my body.
i wonder
if she gets those
kind of headaches
that the
over-the-counter
stuff can never
                         soothe.

i used to think i was "that girl"
who was destined to
live a life
that only amounted to **** buddies and
loves that i drove away
because who the hell wants to get close to a person
                                                          ­             a human
                                                           ­                            born imperfect
                                                       ­                                                         and therefore unable to promise to never leave you or never hurt you or never let you get too far into something that they know will never be capable of lasting as long as you need it to.

but here i am
                       ****** up
                       anxious
                       irritable
                       downright depressed
but ready and prepared and on the way to not being such a ******* idiot who thinks another person
                    another boy
                    another mouth is going to make me happy.

I'm already there.

everyone tells me
"people write what they know"
sure
okay
whatever.

******.

i guess that means i
know heartache-
though i don't recall
ever
meeting him
personally.

interesting.

i guess i know more
than i think
if i have
so much to
say.

dangerous
territory
i'm trekking here.

it's 9:25 p.m. and i
can't help but think
that i haven't stayed up
this late since before
i started taking
melatonin to offset the
insomnia
my medications cause.
                                      i haven't stayed up this late
                                      since we stopped talking
                                                         ­           and kissing
                                                         ­            and getting caught by the police,
parked behind the grocery store with all the windows of your truck curtained by fog
                       the steam from our efforts to forget in the only way we knew
                       how to at the time.


it's 9:25 p.m. and i am ******* tired of
going to bed earlier than usual
to prevent the dreams
                          the nightmares that come with heavy eyes and tired minds
of you coming back
just so you can leave again,
just so you can cause a little more damage
                           make a little more noise
                           lie a little more to yourself
                                                                ­       so you can stop crying yourself to sleep because you don't know how to be close to anyone important to you.

they said Bukowski was not a poet
and that if he was
he was a ******* awful one.
but there's something
to be said about a man
who can **** ******
and come out of it
with more respect for them
than for the rest of the
human population.
there's honor to be given
to a man who could
drink all day and
be more than what
all the medical books
said he could be.
and there is credit to be given
to the man who could
unite the displaced
with who he was
as a human being and nothing more.

Bukowski may be
one *******
horrible poet
but he sure
as hell
knew more than we will ever be able to comprehend.

something about the way i can
feel more confident
with less clothes and
something about
the way i have an
easier time looking in the mirror
when i know you'd
be staring at me like
you hadn't touched another body
in ten thousand years.

there's something wrong about the way i can only feel
                                                            ­                                hot
                             ­                                                                 ­    worthy
                                                      ­                                                        accomplis­hed
                      when i know you're looking at me with more emotion than you've ever known to be possible because
                                                         ­            you can't see me without thinking about the fact that my body will never be under yours again.

                                                         ­                                                 there's something wrong about the way people can walk ten galaxies away but never leave us.

how many times will i write variations of us
that never get a
happy ending?
sometimes i think i am destined to forever
remember you
and that summer
with that one kiss
and the promise i made with no intentions of
keeping it
because i don't know how to love with two hands
                                                           ­       one heart
                                                           ­                        fully
                                                           ­                        unafraid.
                                                       ­                             everything i write is about you and the
different people
i could see
when i looked you in the eyes
and let myself think
                         embrace
                         appreciate
                         and enjoy
every part of you without any sense of anxiety.
and i wonder
what we could be now
that i have a way to cope
                              and live without questioning everything except the ugly.

i wonder if one day i will be able to give our characters
an ending where
we can both by happy
                           not broken
                           or longing
                           or forever regretful
and every stack of cards doesn't mean more than it should.

i only wash my hair every four days
and i never shave my legs unless i'm going somewhere that requires a dress-
         or no clothes at all.
                            and i never remember to put on deodorant in the morning.

i only ever brushed my hair after practice
and reapplied makeup
and made sure to douse myself in the perfume you like so much so
                  you could run your fingers through something more than steam,
                                              you could let your eyes roam without hesitation,
                  you could call me at two in the morning and tell me your clothes  
                                                       ­                                             still
              ­                                                                 ­                          smelt                   
                                        ­                                                                 ­         like                                      
             ­                                                                 ­                                           me.

i only ever did anything
                                       for you.

tight top
             no bra
short skirt
                 long socks
messy hair and smudged lipstick from
                                                        *******
                                                                ­    licking
                                                     ­                          swirling
that cherry red
lollipop-
done so perfectly that
it's sent the healthiest hearts to urgent care rooms-
and eyes so innocent
they bring blind men to their knees.

you've always said
                               "i want to be someones' hero
                                                            ­            villian
                                             ­                            confirmation that they're more than what they've been labeled.  i want to be someone that can hold fragile things without fear."

here's your girl.

i'm not his beauty queen
i'm not even his fantasy
he loves me too much
to see me as
anything other than
his beloved human being

my english teacher scolded me,
told me,
               "'sad' is a dead word.  use something else instead."
                                                                                                     i laughed,
said to myself,
                          "she doesn't know the half of it."
                                                                                    i replaced it with 'dismal',
                                                                                             turned in my paper,
                                                                      and went home for lunch because
                                                                                                      i forgot to take
                                                                                                                 my pills
                                                                                          before i left for school.

his **** is
nothing spectacular
but it's hard-
for me-
and it's smooth
             and soft
             and ready to be held
                                         tempted
                                         shown how to stargaze while the sun is still out.
but he
grabs my hand,
pulls me up,
                up and away
from the
only part of him
that will ever beat for me and my blistered hands and chapped lips.

"i don't love you"

and i know.

he lowers down
and kisses my chest
and *****
         licks
         bites
         my ****
and rubs my ****
and that
is all i want from him.

fifteen fountains
one man to do the job
gibberish, this is
but i don't want to stop
my hands become much too dangerous
when i stop
i could have been like him
locked up
fallen in
thank god, that didn't rhyme
i'd have to **** myself for that
i'm always afraid of killing myself
always always always afriad
scaredy cat
scaredy scaredy scaredy cat
taunting me?
ha
a new low every day
forever something new
fresh dark
fresh *****
fresh new to discover
about the innards of ME
careful!
it has sharp teeth
no petting zoo today

where do i go
where can i go
fifteen fountains deep
with this thing i lug
inside me

i like my new journal
because
the cover is of
soft leather that
i like to rub
my hands over and
pretend
it's you
that i am touching.

i must say,
i really did
love
your little friend
down
         there.

he
was always wanting
to jump
    skip
    hop
          into my hands
                         my mouth.

and you
were always so willing
                           and wanting
so very much
to give me a
play-by-play
                    a reenactment
of all the shooting stars you saw on the inside of your eyelids.

your lips
were never quite firm enough
but it felt all the more
better that way
when you would lick down and around
                                                          ­        and then further down-
kisses of a feather.

and it made
                    the *******
feel that much
stronger,
              that much more ******.
it was the only release from so much anticipation that you could truly
                                                           ­                                                      give me.

our nights
                 in the back seat
of your truck
were
        well-spent:
                          full of **** and *****
                          and steamy windows
                          from showering in each other
                          and two whole people
                                                          ­     free from expectations.
                                                   ­                                                   a real rarity.

we both
found
something close to safety
in the pores of each other's
                                            skin.
       ­                   
                                             ­        i wonder
                                                          ­          if it all feels the same
                                                            ­                                            when
                ­                                     you're with
                                                            ­her.

how many threats does it take to equal a follow-through?

ten shattered plates and
a burnt piece of toast later
and she still can't
do it-
she still can't
make her words
be anything more than hot air.

she'll stay awake every night for the
rest of her life
imagining
a world where
everything goes her way.

she'll never realize she's the problem
                                               solution
                                               point of origin.

if i talk too much
it because i've spent so long
withering
to a single flame
a forgetful spark
and i am only now beginning
to feel the oxygen
to let the air fuel me
and i cannot stop the avalanche
of words
of thoughts
of lost meanings
from collapsing out of me in a
wild flurry of
sore throats and swollen tongues and
savage cries that for once
aren't for help

if i talk too much
it's because i've got so much
that i never had the chance
to say

because
when it came to you
it was always incomplete thoughts
because no one
in their right mind
wants to be logical
when in the presence of a
connection so supernatural
some people don't
believe it even exists.

when it came to us
and keeping promises
and planning forever
nothing was as solid as the doubt.

we were living ghosts-
and loving every second of it-

acting as if hands can keep a  firm grip on love
                                                            ­                  hope
                                          ­                                           mist and
never know longing.

is there anything more lonely than having everyone you love less than a days' drive away?  because they are so close, so easy to find when needed, but far enough away to maintain distance.  is there something worse than that? i can not imagine a more terrible thing than being able to have contact and yet never acting on it out of practicality.  funny, really, how the world makes it so easy to close in on those we love and still so hard to finally touch them. it's as if we are meant to die alone, and so the road hints that to us.

how to steal a soul:

blow three kisses to the mailman
two to the dean of admissions
and one to yourself
because you'll always be queen
of your own heart

three days later
drown yourself in sugar,
the hooves of lovesick pigs,
and the chipped tooths
of the bodies from
one-way-loves past

hug your cats goodbye
remember to turn off the heater
(it's hot enough inside you)
don't forget a brain-melting
smile

and jump

all these people
writing about
and looking for
and craving so whole-heartedly
love
in the form of another person.

they don't know what it is exactly,
just something that
has to do with sharing
labored breaths
and not wearing any underwear to the movies.

these idiots think that love
is what they need
in order to be
happy.

do they not already have love?

the sun shines and the trees grow and grass cuts their bare legs and lets them know that they are still alive.  the earth is continuously apologizing by giving flowers with petals so soft you could mistake it for someone you
once held
in your arms.

love is not the answer-
the aftermath is:
destruction.

the only good
and pure
and completely
true things
in this world
come from the
ashes of the
generations before
them.

we have been born into love
but mistaken
       tricked into thinking that destruction
                                                   utter obliteration of the soul
                                                            ­                         the mind
                                                            ­                         the heart
                                                           ­                                         is not the answer.

love is not found in people
but places
                 and their hills and valleys and flowers and water that refreshes the eyes of every tired man.

love is found in the
people that have been broken down.

only they are then able to look at what has been in front of them since before they were born,
only they are able to see what the content will never know exists.

only the lost will find happiness.

this week i have spent the night in a boy's bed
twice
and both nights
we woke up together and
made my toes curl
and both mornings after
we laid in bed
and we talked
and kissed
and it felt so good
not because i'm in love with him
(because i'm not interested in that)
but because he makes me feel so
normal
he looks at me like i make sense
and that is the most
comforting thing
i've had yet to feel

so here we are.

it's been three days and you already forgot how to keep this thing
              this monster
              this dying tree
                                        alive
              even though I've been doing it for years     on my own.  
                     sometimes people mix up the permanent
with the
air they exhale with every new touch.

                        silly us
                                     trading stories like buddies
but
      hurting like lovers.

the myrmidons never cease
their eager fights
to claim more of
what they are
not owed

but they no longer
carry swords

need and want -
that is where they gain
both their power and
motivation

what alone
is more powerful than
the survival of
my own body
once my limbs
have left me
there is nothing
to call mine

where ever could I go
without the
reassurance of
my own hand
resting
in my other

this is what they
wish to rid
us of

our agony is the
elixir they gorge
themselves on

I am a walking disease. I am angry and hateful and full of sharpened spite and I may never forgive you. I want to hurt you but that means hurting me, too. It just takes longer for me to feel it.  (All good things take time.) I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I was a happier, nicer, more loving person. I wish I wasn't so ****** in denial. I hate myself and I hate you. I am rotting. I am killing my soul. Yes, I have one. YES, god is real. Yes, YEs, YES. SHUT THE **** UP already. Hit me so I can hit you. Feel it so I don't have to. I wish I was different.  I wish I was dead. Don't help me up.

i'll give you a book of one hundred poems
all worse than the one before it
i'll give countless lines about
his fingers in my hair
and my hand in his
and the way his breath would
tickle my neck
cause an earthquake inside of me
and i'll give you all the lovey dovey
all the happily ever after
and all the heartbreak
that always follows
that always gives us something
to hold on to
i'll give you hundreds
i'll give you thousands
and it'll all be a ******* lie

you won't know any better
no one ever knows any better