she gave me letters
i always thought they were real
i knew they were, until
the burning came

she gave me necklaces,
if these turn rusty, i'll leave
until now, i have never worn them
i never wanted them to be rusty.

she gave me stuffed toys,
this one will sleep on the right side of your bed,
because you always wake up on that side
so that you'll think of me first thing in the morning

she spoke words
and numbers
and screamed to me
whispers of a loud night

i gave back more;
necklaces, bracelets
kisses and tight hugs
movies and strong hands
stuffed toys and letters, too

above all, i gave her songs to sleep with,
poems to live by
and promises to look forward to

she told me
*you shouldnt have,
we both knew we were never enough for each other,
right?

in a fit of peak,
we decided, yes.

the soap in is the
bathroom, ann

as is the amputee
swimming doll
free.

my gifts are still unpacked,
i did, then packed them
back again, to enjoy
today.

the garden is in my mind,
as are al the other delights
we saw, ann.

me must go
back again.

thank you, ann.



sbm.

illumined in the sun
    of a weaving winding
road,
      gravelly,
grinding feet, so worn,
             souls tough from
a step at the time, on,
                 as it goes on winding.
The ditch,
      filled with bones, dead seeds,
call to the wind, blowing down
this weaving,
                    winding road.
I see the
dead end growing.

We're deadly, you know?
We're a bunch of suicidal kids,
Falling in love with other suicidal kids,
Killing ourselves over the thought of losing each other.

Beneath the cities phantoms
lie the beating heart of good people;
reaching outwards from shadow.

In the dying moonlight
an out of tune piano plays its last note;
warped by water over time.

In the close darkness
faces fade emitting anguish;
I wish I could find the missing piece.

That one remaining jigsaw
the puzzle would be complete;
and in it, I would be whole.

One last time.

I haven't lived a day in my life
Just been existing
Trapped in this bubble
like these words I write
The ink nestled
between blue lines
wishing to be whispers
traveling free
through the air
like the breeze i feel on cold benches

I'd rather be the shattered mess of glass
strewn across the floor
of every hallway in your house
than be the frame
that once held this mirror together

because now that I'm free from the grasp
of this "pride" you so cherished
you can't leave the lonely cave
in your black hole of a heart
without the remnants of me
splitting your flesh
     to
          the
               bone.