The first time I saw him in 2 years all I could manage to choke out was "where do you stay" and "I'll pay you as soon as i can"
I dreamt of him that night. I dreamt of dew covering the ground, chlorine, and dead things. Dreams of sugarplum fairies danced around my head.
You know, they say "relit cigarettes never taste the same and that's all I've got to say about rekindling old flames" but I imagine you would taste like the last time I kissed you- salty.
Because as soon as our lips touched I started to cry. Because I knew it would be the last time. Because we were too young. I sometimes wonder what it would be like to be with you again.
I wish I could roll you into a joint and get high off you. I wish you didn't talk like one of the bad guys, like a gangster.
I wish you never learned what it was like to be without me.

I was fifteen when you were sixteen, I knew you were trouble and that's what I liked about you.
My mother would hate it.. but we always got away with doing bad things.
Sneaking alcohol and stumbling down traintracks.
Tell me why I couldn't know you now? You don't exist in my world anymore.. your cashmere skin and eyes the color of some burnt thing. But yet so alive.
We would ride around in your mother's car, smoking *** like we shouldn't be..
Out after midnight like we shouldn't be...
having ***.. like we shouldn't be.
But we didn't care because as long as it feels right, do it, eh?
And oh did it feel right. I think you'll always be a memory to me.
One of the best memories.
The only memory I need, the only memory I have of you is warm summer thunderstorms and mischief. What did we know?
We were only in tenth grade... but like my mother says,
"you think you have it all figured out".


Maybe we did.

Sometimes before the sun comes up,
I like to disappear.
You won't catch me sleeping peacefully in a bed beside a boy I love,
because I simply can't.
I sink myself into the mountains before the dew even sets on the ground.
As I go higher up, I know I will eventually disappear into the fog.
If you are looking for me, you will not find me
because i am learning the art of

how to disappear c o m p l e t e l y

Loving him was like a warm gust of wind during the summer, blowing your hair back and whispering past your ears.
It was like apple orchards and abandoned shacks,
crisp white sheets stained crimson red by a nose bleed,
the carpet burn on my knees,
the lights, camera, action.
The flash, the flame.
Loving him was like broken glass digging into the soles of your feet,
like clenched fists and bruised bones,
hot breath and dialated eyes.
Loving him was like acid settling into my spine.
Loving him was a breath of fresh air that turned into lung cancer.

If I was to write about her I would write about her skin-- how it was the color and texture of cashmere,
or how her eyes were deep and dark like the universe,
pupils like black holes in the very center.
I could write about her wild personality,
or all those summer nights we stayed up until the sun came up and scolded us for the bags under our eyes.
But this isn't a love poem, you see
when I was sixteen I went crazy.
I fell down the rabbit hole and landed hard against the cold asphalt at the bottom.
I fell in love with a girl but just for a little while, because eventually it became increasingly evident that she and I were two different breeds.
But for that brief moment as I stripped my clothes off for them-- her boyfriend and her--
I came alive under the blue fluorescent lights.
We bonded through three things-- ***, alcohol and drugs.
And now every time I kiss a bottle or hit a ****

I think of her

You can find me under a bridge, with a needle in my arm,
or at the bars where old men slide their hand up my thigh and I am pretending not to like it.
I like to play games like "which one of my boyfriend's brothers can I turn on the most" or "how many girls can I kiss in one night"
Usually the answers are -- all of them and the most I've gotten is 6

Your skin smells like summer camp,
it lingers on me like chlorine from a pool in July.
Your laughter radiates through your bones like electricity.
I used to tell them all about you-- the boy with the bright eyes that seem to smile before a smile can form on his lips.
I am crazy, all in the best ways and all for you.
I identify as what you call me when I am between the sheets with you.
Your little girl, your little ****, your *****.
All for you.
Lightening, lightening, you are bolts of lightening.
And I'm afraid you've struck something in me because I am on fire for you, darling.

I call it my old house-- it stands in the woods with no electricity, and no water.
If you listen carefully enough, you can hear laughter still dancing down the hall
followed by the screaming and fighting.
Every time I go there I see visions of two young girls sledding down the big hill out front, or friends and past friends talking on the front porch illuminated in Christmas lights.
Still I sit in my old room where tapestrys and photographs once lined the walls.
The house where family once lived sits quiet.
And lonely.
The children don't play anymore and my mother doesn't fill the kitchen with scents of dinner and she no longer burns incense.
The flowers don't grow because they are dead.
The windows were left wide open and the beds stripped of their sheets, some of my old things are buried behind my closet door.... like skeletons.

No one will answer the door if you knock because no one is home.

We live in cigarette smoke and shadows and uncontrollable laughter; in music, and in the way the wood floor creaks and shakes the whole house even when you walk lightly on it.
We live in cold basement walls and staircases lined with blue neon lights.
We live in confusion and my fingers pressing into your skin and the way you would wrap all of yourself around me while I ****** you.
We live in the ***** moments followed by the sweet ones where you would kiss my forehead and I could feel your warm body slide up against me in the middle of the night.
The most I remember of those days was bundling up in layers and walking outside through snow up to our knees just to get to Williamson road under the setting sun just so we could get a pack of cigarettes.
The sky was dark blue and it reminded me a lot of your eyes.
I remember waking up to the sound of guitars upstairs and the way you nodded your head and lost yourself in the melody of your own music.
I would watch your fingers-- the way they would pluck the cords and slide over the instrument so effortlessly.

And you look at me from across the room and for a moment, I'm at a loss for words

so I just smile.

You pointed to the bottle as if to cue me to drink it, as we watched cartoons in a daze.
I would take a sip and then pass it to you.
I can remember that kissing that bottle felt a lot like kissing you.
It stung and tasted a lot like poison, but I kept coming back for more.

I could have heard a song one thousand times and think of it differently only when it plays through your speakers.
I watch your lips closely as you speak.

"Play it again, I like that song," you tell me. And so I play it again.
I pay close attention to the way you push me against the wall in your room, where only a sliver of light comes through your half open bedroom door leading to the hallway. Complete silence as you run your hands down my back softly.
I leave my hands on the back of your neck.
"Can we just keep the lights like this for awhile?" I ask as you lead me to your bed.
I watch the silhouette of your strong arms against the wall.
Your veins look like road maps telling me exactly where to go. You ****** hard and then soft, kiss me and then look me dead cold in my eyes.
You are my home.