I'm sorry** that I hadn't met you sooner
I'm not sorry that I've met you now

I'm sorry that you feel pain from guilt
I'm not sorry that I pulled you in close

I'm sorry you don't know what happened
I'm not sorry you then kissed me back

I'm sorry that I don't want her to know
I'm not sorry that she doesn't know, now

I'm sorry you have a girlfriend
I'm not sorry for kissing you goodnight

I'm sorry you aren't single now
I'm not sorry I'll see you again, one night

last week's episode:
I look into the mirror, pink staining my hands and face
a pale shade of red inflicted by the incorrigible monster
(makes the pink tints of the world incredibly exhausting)

this week:
racked with fits, I plead

"
how many times
will I cry before I decide

you're too mean

to be all mine.

"

*******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******.
*******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******. *******.

next week:**
I blow a smoke ring into another young man's face
before I incinerate his two closest relationships with women (sister and girlfriend)
by wrapping my legs around him, corrupting his senses and integrity

"You should've said 'no, I have a girlfriend'.
Instead you said nothing, which shows she isn't anything"

"I don't want realism I want magic"

                     lapping up liquor like a cat

and the man who loves me won't talk to me back
and the man who doesn't is the one I love

and he tells me of the girls he's dreaming of

the caked on makeup melts of my facade
as I spend all my money I saved for abroad

you're not clean enough for me
you're not mean enough to me

cold and heavy with illness and spite
there is no rest for the wicked this night

all I can thin k about is touching my index finger to my thumb
to make a circle

the three left extended

where
where
where did the appeal of everything go

?swept down the river of fermented potatoes and unanswered text messages

and the time differences between me and your arms.

You couldn't say sorry enough.
You couldn't say sorry enough.
to make you remember not to do it again.

I'm over the concept of a tumultuous relationship. I'm winded. Spine wounded around my bed.

Grasping for air.

You couldn't say sorry.
Enough.
I'll be kissing somebody's else's freckled shoulders when you call next.

I wonder
I wonder
I wonder

I.

If I tried to kiss you
when we are both drunk
if you'd kiss me back again

II.

If I showed up to a show
and you saw me from the stage
if it'd startle you enough

to realize I'd come back

I want to come back
and get you.

III.

If I stopped answering
you'd say what I've wanted you to.

IV.

If I kissed you in a way
that felt like more than a regular

If any of you boys would be worth it.
Would it be worth it?

cheap whiskey and cheap sheets are made for the sad business of liars and thieves

you can't grow a beard
you can't grow a sorry

I can't grow a spine
I can't grow sincerity

because I stop hurting if you keep hitting hard enough

and

you hit
you hit hard
you hit constant

and we love each other

but

but we don't want to be together
but we don't want to be apart

                                      so now I am sitting with cheap whiskey and sheets

and you are off

and only God knows where

Feet on a sunlit dashboard with the wind ruffling my hair.

We're sleeping under the starlit sky, waking up with the birds at dawn
Sleepy eyes struggle, illuminated by the glow of sunrise as long brown lashes press against a translucent cheek.

I made you breakfast.
I kissed your neck when you weren't looking.

You slid your hand into mine and then we ran away
on the dollars of our fathers and the kindness of employers.

Where are you now and when will you come?
Who are you and why are you seemingly far away?

new order
dancing alone
blacklights blazing

using my mother
as an excuse
for getting drunk

while thirsty for love
and holding an umbrella
while all around it's raining

stunningly bored and powerfully dumb

I bide I bide I bide my time for success
I lazily rove eyes over ****** photographs
and crappier stills from my memory

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vivid photographs may line my walls
but day-to-day it does not feel vivid, not at all

cradle your head in your hands
as every barbed whisper in your head
echoes until it's thunder wreaks havoc

you are a jarring lance against the wall
while the buzzing breath of the world rolls

you are not here
you were never here

you can only pray,
only only only
wish you weren't

but you cannot just will yourself to die
with the fierce passivity that comes with nirvana

because you know that
while you can still convince yourself
there's something better in the future
barely
but barely is something still

even though presently

you are on a slab and you were Romeo
who believed he died alone, on the top

you are on a table dissected
metaphorically flayed and made raw

by the seeming death of passion, a lack of someone in your bed tonight,
and the slipped hand that pulled off your skin and made the feelings of the feelings that wound.

He isn't going to come, isn't he?

He's drunk, with his friends.
Nonplussed about a girl who said she cared.
Said she was sad and who asked him to come.

He told me
He told me he was depressed. He asked to come in the first place.

He said he would.

I told him.
I told him I couldn't say yes or no to him seeing me, but I'd say yes if he came.
If he knocked on my door.

I don't need a knight, but I require someone with a heart. I thought that wasn't too much.

I told him later I was scared he wouldn't come.
It's been two hours. I don't think he's coming.

I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.

I thought he was coming.

sinking into the sourceless fog
sinking into the view from across
sinking into the detached crowds
sinking into the hot, flushed shame
sinking into the worrisome slouch
sinking into the city streets
sinking into the bleak thoughts
sinking into the humid nightmares
sinking into the silence at dawn

while I sink with a slump towards the bottom of a down
where is the fight against the deep and dark drown

it wasn't all about
the proverbial lighting of the post-****** cigarette
the white sheets wrapped around inseparable sweaty bodies

holding hands, tangled legs

staring
at the ceiling

these sheets all tucked around my *******, his waist

it was the mediocre
it was the scurry across cold plastic floors
to go ***, quickly,

so I wouldn't start ******* blood 20 or so hours later

and forcing myself to ***
and splashing water to stop dripping *** across the floors

while I looked in the mirror
nonplussed
but
hair mussed

sticky with sweat
dripping with goo

thinking

man,
that felt really good
and reveling in that brief, delightful feeling

of a man's weight
on your chest

breathing heavily after ******* inside you

cut your nose off to save your face

a girl I know got the tip of her nose bitten off by a dog
a girl I know got the tip of her nose bitten off by a dog
a girl I know got the tip of her nose bitten off by a dog
a girl I know got the tip of her nose bitten off by a dog

and I drink out of a broken crystal goblet
over a man who made me feel feelings for a month

dark paint           your  l e g s

"The upper lid typically has about 90 to 150 lashes on it, while the bottom has between 70 and 80 lashes. Most eyelashes grow to be about 10 mm long."

Your eyelashes are p e r f e c t l y  straight and dark.
They really look beautiful resting against your cheek.

Hawaiian Electric Industries (HE) -0.25 (-1.05%)

he He HE

looks even better in my bed when he is made up in my head
but he's sleeping at his home and I don't think he misses me.

doctor words
doctor words

tiny white pills, the size of an iris
washed down after a hearty, final glass of brown burn

HOWL HOWL HOWL by Allen Ginsberg
                                          by Allen Ginsberg

A yearning for the hot press that comes with sleep deprivation and heartbreak, got my wish.

Cross my heart. Cross over my chest.
I pray to G-d my soul may keep, and (that all nights) I won't ***** and die in my sleep.
I'm not that ambitious or tortured enough to **** myself.

But I'm just lazy and heartless enough,
to spit acid at what I love, or let it rust.

I dream dreams of living in a skyscraper and having a shark tank
and then the whole building is turned upside down,

and out dumps gallons and gallons of water and then comes a crowd of

biting
flopping
ravenous

monstrous fish.

Then I wake up.

wake up

desensitized, oversanitized

want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied­
want
unsatisfied

Dab all over with aches, pains, and itches.

Struggle with gauche and forced interactions, coworkers and family. Friends?

No God.

                                                           ­   POSITIVE THOUGHTS
                                                        ­       POSITIVE THINKING

cloying, choking fear.

fear
Fear
FEAR
F E A R

Rub your face in the mirror.

Think deep thoughts that you believe are unique.
They are not. You are very uninteresting, probably.

want
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied
want­
unsatisfied
want
unsatisfied*

drink until you sleep,
if not use the pills.

Use both.
Your room is warm.
You will have nightmares.

wrestling with metaphorical hard-ons

for money for money for money


and it
                    as a mean to be mean

I am ****** in the long run
for wanting the in-between

I find my self stressing and scatting,
foaming

and spent

for a non-existent God
I cannot repent
I cannot repent

for selling my soul
                                   to Satan (the great)

at eight years old

I want to steal

the things

I want

like money
like knowledge
like talents

too hard
too hard

8 AM

light

8 PM

dark

repeat
onononononono

I squint down into the empty bottle of wine

"Is a relief from embarrassment here?"

No.

Shame.

Swirling what's left,
I drink to poor memories.
I drink to forget.
I drink to soothe.

In a brutish manner
I raise a glass to Billy Collins
my lips stained purple,

from

seven ninety-nine ($)
dark Chilean wine

that is infused with strawberries, cherries,
and do I detect the taste of…alcohol?

My packaged delights, basics from Safeway.
Green, red, white vegetables with origins unknown
had clattered, frozen, out of a bag, not fifteen minutes ago

I snap the bag with a satisfying thwack,
the chicken is ready from a microwaved attack.

But the noodles, oh, so sweet.
Plump little bags of cheese and oh--brie!
Sweet no matter what sauce, I drown and I savor

Wrapping the package with greens and with flavor.

I curl up in repose, stuffed to the brim
swirling my glass, getting seconds again.

Unwish readings, rapists, unrepairable rips,

I wish to undo
the space between
me(                                          )you

and where I once wrapped my thighs around your hips
and the whistling trill of my sleeping breath once felt a home in the



cavernous space




between your head and your breast

and I
and I

found shelter in your curls,
pulling until they escaped from me, undone.

Mussed love, entombed in the perfumed past of white rooms by untouched oceans
and unsullied books, too occupied by the wonder found in each other, each others' bodies

and I lie awake with the ghosts
in haunting of my own accord and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window
                                                      and I watch at the window, waiting

I wonder
I wonder

could you need me, still,

now?

Her blue eyes--used to shake
those roars turned into a hot, low chuff

Now it's her head that shakes
Now it's her hands that shake

Cracked, peeling palms
she picks with worry,

no        No          no

-----don't do that-----

Wiping away tears like she used to, her voice crackling on the phone. She hides.

I'm am too young to help her.
I have an empty head and empty pockets,
shrugging with pleading eyes, I'm sorry.

So sorry.

Her mother
Her sister

**Her

It is so foolish and too dangerous
to care for much these days.

"Is it a boy?"

the cab driver hands me the receipt,
"You're too young and pretty to be so sad".

I agree that I'm too young to be this miserable.
I burst into tears as I scrawl a signature on the piece of paper.

But this boy I cry over. He hides behind a white doorway while my head is in my hands,
and I am crying, I am drunk, but I am not drunk enough to be excused from calling him a coward.

He doesn't understand,
my coping mechanism--catalyst--and the curtain that pulls the facade down is the *****.

Not that un-understandable, in my opinion, really.

And he thinks it'll be better for me to talk about it sober tomorrow
And I thought it would be better for it to not have happened.

And I think he's not going to get much better,
         and it's too bad because he think I'll turn back into my desensitized self,
    which is better
                          for him

but there is light that cannot be turned out now
without burning out, blazing, in this way
and all he needed to do was to hold me tonight,
and everything could've been better, would've been best

woulda-coulda-didn't

and now my bed is made, I'll alone rest.

Everything is too soaked in wine
for me to comprehend why

why
why

they'd be so cruel
in misunderstanding

wish I could say

wish you were here
wish you were near
wish you could stay

wish I could say

wish I wouldn't go
wish I didn't know
wish for no pain

wish I could say**

wish I'd see you again
wish it wasn't so
wish you'd come by
wish you didn't say no

sometimes i am
the dumb moth
that puts itself
in the little lamp

that everyone says to
no no you can get out
the window is there

go go go go go go go

be free

but i just go
      where where
and beat grey soft wings
against the glass

until
i say

**** it

and try
and try

to **** or fight or or or or
or throw myself
        onto the blazing light

he has hair like
an anime character

and

perfectly straight
eyelashes

and

I like it when he's sweet to me
but not so much when he's mean
-----------
but I deserve it, the littlest bit

we're both very mean

I'm sorry I'm so mean.

I think I tried to sell my soul to Satan for the inability to feel painful emotions when I was younger.
If there is a God I hope Satan didn't listen to the wishes of a little girl.

The two could be related, but that's easy game.

I know you have a better time with other girls that are much, much kinkier than I
   but here's the thing,
    
                          your friends are really annoying.
  
         And you can be very boring, I'm sorry. Read more. Write better.


                        I always think in a year it'd be better.

stop
making
liking
me
unnecessarily
problematic.

please.

my bed is an altar, undivided, and
a table, a desk

and seemingly somewhere
   where I cannot rest.

I miss the crickets. I miss the frogs.
I miss the smell of my skin, my perfume in my bed next to wood and hot night air that speaks more to things of mystery than the dark of the night can.
I miss the sky.

No, I really miss the sky.
The crop of trees and the clarity that allows for you to look at galaxies and talk about what it is
and how small it feels to be human.

How mortal it feels to be willed to wants at the tug and pull of every emotion.

I miss them.
I miss them.

I miss their arms, tangled legs, and sweaty curls.

Their smell that differentiated from the nape of their neck to their cheek to their thigh.
The sweetness of their salvia. The unbounded love. The innocence. The fresh, sensitive pain.

I am numb. I yearn for something greater such that my heart aches and I tremble with premature grief every time I close my eyes and breathe. I think of your face. Not a day has gone by.

I love your memory. I pray it lessens in it's hurt, but that it never leaves me.

I miss those California stars.

a boy said he liked me last night and that he's liked me more than any other girl
and this morning he said we need to take some time apart

what the ****

happened
between

POINT A
and
POINT B

?
------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------

I think it might have something to do with the fact that apparently
when he cuddles up to me when I sleep
I alternate between saying:

"No"
             "Stop it"
and
                        "I don't want this."

(Jesus,
psyche could you be more
  revealing/embarrassing?)
He said he feels like he violates my sleeping self with his nearby presence.
-------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

Someone is arguing pointlessly with me about
whether
their ex is a sociopath
and then whether sociopaths feel remorse
and the whole point of sociopaths is that they don't feel remorse so
(and apparently that's a politically incorrect term anyway)

I don't get why that conversation matters to her. I feel like we've had it before.
She just wants to be contentious.
----------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------
-------------------------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------------
----------------------­-----------------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------------------------

And I just want to take a very expensive taxi to work.
And fill my Odwalla up with peach-flavored *****.
And drink the day away.

Because I don't
understand

"people"

right now, let alone my own wants.

In my imagination
I look at your mouth as I sit, glaring darkly
at you over my peach-flavored-***** drink

you sound like one of those screaming goat videos
and I
would li
ke
to kiss your little mouth.

I just want
some body
to think
I am

the

              cat's pajamas

and for me
to think
they are the

                dog's tuxedo

and then we
show off

our all

Waiting on Haight, ******* the gold beading of a thrifted 80s shirt inside my purse,
I listen for the 71.

He tells me, from under a nose cherry-red and with a cantaloupe and a spoon resting in his lap,
of how when he was 25, he holed up with an 18 year-old girl.

One night she leaves for an ex-boyfriend's, saying she felt compelled to him, like there was a magnet between them. And he said he went to the closet, he smelled her sweater and knew what he wanted.

He got some cardboard and fashioned a fake magnet, the classic horseshoe shaped and silver-tipped kind, out of cardboard. He turned it into a necklace and waited for a day with some red roses for her to get back.

She came back and said she couldn't remember the last time someone got her flowers. And then she called her mother, and her mother asked him sternly if he was planning to marry her.
He was bewildered a little, but he said yes (this was the sixties).
And he finished the call to her mother and she was standing with her hands on her hips, "Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you going to ask me to marry you?"
(I laughed at this point)
"Oh..."
                                                  ­                                        . . .
"Will you marry me?"
"Yes!"

I asked what happened and he said they were together for three years. But it was a blissful three years.

He asked me if it was a good idea for a movie.
I said yes. But I probably wouldn't see that movie. I left that second part out.

Angles of pulled, wrinkled eyelids with blood pooling underneath from long nights of looking at computer screens, searching for the next thing thing thing thing done (chimes)

that is he,
and I am me.

Authentically contrived. Do I dare say that? Weeks upon minutes of pulling clothes, tucked tags, and waiting, oh the waiting, and I don't know what to say.
I can't believe you like me. I can believe it fully. You bought me. You bought my story.

And it's the truth but I can't say the unspeakable real truth because it's a hollow
crisp lying dead and bloodless in a locker in the basement below the deepest rungs of my head
and I am cloaked in schemes and drama and white lies because I want to tell you of a better me

Because the truth *****.
And I miss him
And I miss him
And I miss them all in different ways, whether it be months, a night, a meal, or a glance shared,
I listened to what I wanted to and now I have learned.

You with your small hands.
You with your lisped words.
You with your pierced lips.
You with your soft, smooth thighs.
You with your stick and poke tattoos.
You with your faded green hair.
You with your German words

And you, with your dark eyebrows that look like a storm. You were made for brooding and I saw.

I miss you. But I don't want to have to ask for anything unless you wish to give.

and sitting in the corner of a blessedly quiet McDonalds that is so old they haven't changed their booths to be uncomfortable to sit in, yet and wearing a black dress suited for vamps,
tarnished serpentine earrings whispering in my ears

not yet not yet not yet

speaking also to the stolen ring in my bag
that I am not yet a bougie eccentric

made to burn money and carry cigarette wands
and travel to tangier and have a little exotic pet

until I become more educated, eloquent, work on
my elocution until I am someone, who's someone

that deserves and has the gall to take, and possess
the world's most most beautiful blue wolf fur coat

spiky hair that I clutch too hard when I'm drunk
and you write twee that makes my heart both sad and leap

with the joy of a pied piper

and you

and you
and you
and you have a cute smile, shy, teeth

"I was in a band for two weeks in college. I wanted to get ******."

and you play the only song you wrote in college for me
nd. you wrote a song
for a girl you met on the internet
and I closed my eyes when you played so you wouldn't get self-concious

and you play Bright Eyes

and I like you
and you like me.

can I

just
    watch

                        quietly
while you

                                                   glow?

I click out of garish pop-up, eyes burnt from the white, and lick my lips.

Cheese. Grease. Onions. Oregano.

as I don't do the dishes and the beer bottles mount an army around my room,
holding their necks in an offended reaction to my distasteful behavior.

I sit here and try my darndest not to spend money because it seems
possession are the only thing that can fill my holes fully while I lie here empty

wishing I had something living in this room

and thinking about how I should take a poll
of how many boys I've been with that wear
old spice.

I am successful, on paper. But.

If attachment is suffering, then why does being desensitized feel so brittle and empty (?) .

Don't answer that question. I don't know how much of it is a lie.

A GOOD WAY TO GET A WOMAN'S ATTENTION IS TO SCREAM AT HER THAT OH MY GOD SHE'S VERY PRETTY OVER THE INTERNET AND OH MY GOD CAN CALIFORNIA EMANCIPATE FROM THE UNION YET WE'D HAVE A SELF-SUSTAINING ECONOMY I THINK ON A MILDY UNRELATED NOTE MAYBE I AM SERIOUS MAYBE NOT

self-reflection churns out an image of a clicking cicada of an aggressively ****** young girl, who due to the pressing weight of a blue silk chord around her throat possesses

a shiny dark, green exoskeleton (refracting light and resistant to moisture)
(SO ******* KAFKAESQUE) (!!!)

who sings as she rubs furry legs together and has decided to spill pain whenever possible onto screens and sheets, throwing up wherever she lands, without true cause in a careless disarray, breeding narcissism (let's throw a party)

biting into shattered satin, like a moth feeding off of human wetness and stains while punctuating words with mispronunciation and self-absorbtion
because she is deathly afraid of being boring and a daily routine, how predictable

(the crowd looks on miserably, fanning their faces with paper plates, sweating profusely)

this poem is predictable;
sorry.

I never have tried to **** myself, it would be silly to think that not killing yourself or killing yourself would have an actual influential impact on most of the world, except in rare cases.

Death is looming, I am grinning, I have not yet seen it so I guess I will live forever and subside off the hearts of men (no, not really, I'm kidding).

nyet
it's Russian for no and my cobbled language of bourgeois slang for not yet

and

I think about you

a lot

too much
for me to be okay with you and other girls