I have a hard time breathing
When I climb stairs, when I run, when the air is too dry, too wet, too breezy.
When the pollen falls or the weeds grow tall or when you kiss me and tell me I'm pretty.

I have a harder time sleeping
My heart gets to beating and the creaks, they turn into monsters
And my reflection grows fangs and branches hit the panes of the window just about my bed.
My head
fills up with worries, and screams made up stories
I'm dying, I'm dying, I'm dying

But at night next to you
The fear that once grew
Never existed, and still I can't sleep.
One hand on your shoulder, I think "I could hold her"
Why would I sleep? Why would I sleep? Why would I sleep?

I go home to my own bed, the worries fill my head
I lay there and wish I could breathe.

Could you love me,
Weak fingernails and all?
With that deep passionate love
That love that I've never felt
Not even for you.

Could you love me,
Scabby knees and all?
With a changing kind of love
That is the only kind of love
I've ever known

Could you love me,
Blistered tongue and all?
With a painful kind of love
That I know too well
When I'm not myself

And would you love me
When my fingernails break?

Do not leave me here alone and dead
Do not hack me to pieces and put me in a box
Do not cast me in wax and admire my humanity
Do not cover me in rose petals and bless my corpse
Do not kiss my blue lips tenderly and affectionately
Do not roll me into a river
Do not burn me in my grave
Put me in a flower *** and let me grow with broccoli

I'm happy for you
I'm happy for me
I feel at peace
What a relief.
         I was starting to dislike myself.

I need to write
I need to write about
how you carried me when the thorns were slicing my bare feet open
when we hung our heads over the side of a bridge and wondered what it would be like to fall into the sky
your theories that trees were souls
how you would stop and just listen to the world
how you would speak your mind, and it was poetry
How this all ended so fast
And I miss it

Carrying the small coffins silently
They walk among the white monuments
Small boys stuffed into awkward suits
Snot smeared on the insides of their pockets
Little girls kicking dust into their white socks
They walk on and on
Through the bone maze
there is no cross for a boy and his songbird
the world is cluttered with remnants
marble memories not unlike
the marbles the boys have hidden in their trousers for later

The are a million things I want to write about
But I never know the right words
That is the pain of a thinker