i used to drink your *******
until i realized
i got the same effect
by chugging whiskey

I haven't
figured out
how my
heart
is still
beating
after this
time. And
I'm not okay
but I'm able to
breathe a little
bit easier this
week and
god that
must
count
for
something.

I became accustomed to the simple life. To the way that boys liked it when I ran my fingers through their hair and toyed with their belts. The way that coffee tasted dull without sugar, and the way that the newspaper was always delivered at three minutes past seven. Doorbells all had the same melody and I was required to tip the waiter seventeen percent of the bill.
       And that's why you scared me. Because complexity followed you like the smoky tail of a cigarette, always near and entirely ungraspable. I couldn't see you as simple, and I was frightened yet intrigued by the way that you reminded me of the ocean; swallowing both the moon and the sun in the same day.

Maybe I am a crybaby. Maybe I am the person that feels twice as hard because she has a father that doesn't feel anything and maybe I love too much because I watched 2 parents that didn't know how to do it but they pretended because l talked to myself since I was too young to understand why the sky is blue and maybe the things I said scared them. Maybe I made up friends, not for the sake of having some, but for the sake of knowing that at least they understand and at least they won't judge me because I scratched my legs until I bled and they don't know that I'm making up all these happy stories of vacations I've never been on so I don't feel so sad in school while everyone talks about what they did over the summer because all mom and dad ever did was scream at each other run from their problems while I drew in my room. Maybe I grew out of my imaginary friends because I'm not even worth their imaginary time and their imaginary presence the imaginary way they pretended to care. Maybe I called my dad even though I know what he did because I still loved him because he's still my ******* dad and he loved his son and he wouldn't tell him that it's wrong to break baby birds' necks and it's wrong to sneak into your sister's room and hurt her. Maybe he hasn't picked up on the fact that life is a big cycle, but you can't let your child hurt because your father let you hurt and his father let him hurt. Maybe I left long voicemails talking about one day being able to see him without a supervisor because I hated the way she wrote everything I said down, including the time I cried because he wouldn't stop prying me about if my mother would let us go out of state together. Maybe I don't need razors and cigarettes because my body isn't even worth the pain at this point. Or, maybe I'm just a coward who can't face death or who doesn't want to hurt more than she already does. Maybe I love too many sick people. Maybe I love too many normal people. Maybe everyone's sick and I just don't realize it yet. Maybe I self-loathe too often, maybe I shouldn't have said those things to people I thought gave a ****,; maybe it's a dream and I'll wake up and be five again. Maybe I don't want to be five again because being five was more hell than being alive. Maybe we wish some people we love were dead because it's too painful to know that they are somewhere loving some stranger when they couldn't ******* call their own child back. But I don't know. I don't know a thing. Not a **** thing. Maybe my ghosts sing because they've got nothing ******* better to do, because their fists just slide through every wall they try to punch. Maybe the dead don't rise because there's something about this life that makes Hades look like paradise I don't know. I don't know a **** thing. Maybe the wolf is howling at what the moon took from him. Maybe the stars are self-conscious and don't like to be stared at. Maybe we're always alone. Maybe we're always ******* alone. But I don't know. I do not know a **** thing.

I have let
my lustful mind forget
to administer the worries
that drip from my lips
and onto my hands,
where they seep
through my fingertips
and onto the ground,
which is where
all my vexing words
belonged all along.

And I have let
my little mouth
blabber for hours,
ranting about unrelated subjects
on unfamiliar ground.
These words are equitable in my mind,
but as they rest on my tongue,
I have realized
that they lack the only flavor
that society would be willing
to taste.

I have let
unrelenting consequence 
find me here,
for I am unable to control
what chaos
gushes from my mouth,
and onto my lips,
from which they just
drip.

I have let
myself repeat the most
engrossing words.
So forgive me in advance,
for I have let,
and I will forever let
my mind roam
without a leash.

But then again,
why restrain
what most crave for;
a mind with the ability
to review itself.
Well, no need to crave.
All you need to do is let,

and I have let.