smothered in a snowbank
breathing in the absence of sound
I'm caught in the grooves of ice, spinning my wheels
a hand dealt by cars and too little salt

if I hold out my hand, I can't feel my fingers
puffy and frozen
an extended hand, out on a limb

brown and barren

I don't (love) (touch) (be with) you
You are (a terrible person) (boring).

I will heal with (time) (opiates) (*** with others) and it'll be okay, really sir.
I hope (you die) (you go **** yourself) (be well) (think of me) (die in a fire).

You are boring.
G-o-o-d-b-y-e

they want me to be serious, to take it seriously. To look at sunrises calmly and seize coals and watch over red-blooded, man-fueled wars about bravado, integrity, and land. To look at money, a simple representation of labor, and see what it drives other to do, to do for me.

to crush cigarettes and testicles under my boots,
to crawl through mud and barbed wire, smiling

with grit in my grimace
salt rolling, sweaty brows
twisted locks of dark hair
tobacco-brown spit, ground
and filthy, caked in mud
teeth bared like an animal
white eyeteeth crunching

Scorching earth where my feet touch down.
A cigarette put out on a tongue. No more talking.

They want me to see and that, in the dark of the night, in the light of the day, when the sun rises and sets, there is pain, always, elsewhere and everywhere. So I will not tarry or joke or be frivolous with the battered souls of others and to think, to think about applying anything I know, to run along with the vigorous social constructs they ask me to dissect and then revolutionize, because I am young, and I will sprint faster, against accusations, and only briefly.

They want me to look at the world like a runner looks at the red track,
with their toes and sinews coiled as hard as steel, a pinnacle of human
at the height of athleticism and possess the ruthlessness of a rabid dog
drool rushed into foam and mad from dehydrating, my brain swelling

with my hormone driven
red, hazy, athletic rage,
gunning my ambition
for some organization.

No.

I will fight, yes, but I will not fight for a name on a card, shield, or building.
I will fight for the sake of fighting because I am contentious and I am wrong.

I side against hero and villain, because I am the ambiguity,
that languishes, resides in no-man's land, antagonizing both.

Being disliked in purgatory is sometimes more easy than chomping at the bit,
for blood and the power of cracking a black bull whip, so I can avoid this terrible avarice and corrupting beauty that comes with working hard, especially for the greatness
                        that I did not ask
                                       to be ****** upon me, while I wished to remain enigmatic.

I've stopped paying attention to them talk
and their mouth just moves, trite garbage.

FORCING//PROVIDING//WILLING

a dry-mouthed conversation.

I pull down my shades and **** on a cigarette.

GODFORBID
we sit and be silent

for like, one ******* hour.

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?

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.

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.

Baby,
I'll hang out with the Dharma Bums in the Tropic of Cancer for you
if you'll hold your promise to snort coke off my ****,

while Marvin Gaye tells us how to give it up
while you put your **** in my ***

and we shake our tail feathers to Royal Gate
and the symbols of our names clash

as we whisper our names to each other while I'm bent on the bed
and I say yours as I nibble your ear after.

Baby,
you got a girlfriend.
Why do you have a girl when there are girls like me?