Trace figure eights along my body
and stop apologizing.
Lets find out
if the damage
can be undone.

is that what poetry has become?
your eyes are like clouds
her heart hurts
roses and thorns-
stop punishing me with your incompetence,
with your ignorance,
feel something and give it to me
in more than one language.
if i don't feel every syllable
coursing through my body
in all the wrong ways
(you're a thunder storm, baby,
you're a forest fire under a full moon)
then it isn't worth my spit.
give me something filthy.
have a couple drinks and tell me how
raw you feel then.
peel back each layer
of your broken soul
and show me what you got.
it's not about love,
it's not about lust,
it's about how deep you can dig
when you know you're about to hit rock bottom.
give me something filthy
and write your name all over it.
write my name, too.

babe lets crack open
a bottle of wine.
get so drunk i trace my body with my hands
and pretend they're yours.
i feel like dying tonight.
the stars are screaming
your name
shooting through me
like bullets.

oh yes honey,
i miss your voice.
like hands around my neck.
like a crying
child.

I am a question,
not because of my punctuation,
but because of my need
to be answered.

There's a pirate,
who's shipwrecked in my gut.
And I'm not sure if I'm the princess
or the ship.
But I'd let him crash against me
any way he wanted.
Cause at the end of the day I'm the wheel,
and his hands against me are
stormy seas.

Yes,
I have been drinking,
and none of that will make me forget
my legs around his waist.
were there hands on my ***?
I can't remember,
his hair's so long,
so soft,
when I pulled it and pushed him
against my body.
Oh, happy new year.
I can feel my eyes glow again
when I think about yours
No smile
No smirk
Just lips, against mine,
missing in intoxication.

Oh, the absolut lullaby.
Singing me to sleep.
You made my lip swell, honey.
I expect a goodnight kiss for that.




*"Tonight was fun and we still had our clothes on, so that's a lot on it's own."

Lets start with L,
who I've been through before.
Oh young love and how sweet it was.
I was watching Buffy when he first dropped
that L bomb.
Big word for such little kids.
But now he's a man,
constantly hiding behind his ego or insecurities,
And I'm not sure which to believe.

Musing on other things than M,
awkward and skinny,
whose voice I've never heard
and face I've only gotten in pictures.
But he's kind.
Which has to count for something,
even if he's doomed to the
friend zone. (DUNDUNDUNNNN)

Back up to B,
and, oh, all the characters I wrote for him
about him
a deceleration of suppression.
He did love me, I think,
but not the right way,
and he still doesn't.
She can have him.
And I hope he doesn't lose a good thing again.

Jump to J,
who only wants me for the V, T and A
(if you know what I mean).
Which is great, I guess,
but I need love
in my heart
and in my bones.
I only have enough for one person,
who isn't me.

And then A.
And god I love him.
And god I miss him.
He'll win every time.

I'm awake at 3am.
Dreaming about you.
Blossoming like a bulb
that has just seen springs
first light.

So this is how the song goes?
Take the long way,
so I can see his light's off
so it hurts a little more.
Does this help, baby?
Does this help or does it just make it hurt more?
Flip a coin,
Every second I'm falling further
underwater
But there's a part of your body
That fills up every time.
It's not hope, okay?
Don't say that,
Don't even let me think it,
cause that part of me is my heart
And I can't hope anymore
This is how the song goes, baby.
This is how the song goes, Hannah
Don't say my name like that
Don't say it like I'm the
face you see in the mirror
If he's the sun
It doesn't matter what he is,
The sun and the stars,
or the same compounds anyone else is made of,
Then just answer me one question, baby,
Tell me if it helps
Nothing ever does.


*You'll bleed
to feed
the demon
in me

I want you.
I want you to smile when you look at me,
and ask me out for coffee,
I wanted you all night long.
You filled my dreams up with ghosts of your body,
Beautiful and striking and I would cross
thousands of dream lands
Just to find the ghost of you I can
hold.

My hearts beating too fast and I'm falling even before
I'm leaning in to meet you
Oh, is this how my life ends?
Carbon steel lips against mine,
And the barrel of your tongue in my mouth
I'm too young to die,
Too young to feel so full and honest.
But this will be the way I am found,
every time,
Brains on the wall
And somewhere in the wreckage
a bullet called
lust.

Take this feeling from my gut, or give me a gun
Carbonated soda in the pit of your stomach
And candy cane lips I wanna **** on
Excuse me for being crass,
but all I want is your hands on my ***
Your nails are gonna dig a thousand stories into my skin
And I've never felt more alive
Singing the absolut lullaby

I have to shower soon, and every breath of wind
that brushes against my ***** skin
reminds me of everything
I hope they don't tell you about this morning.


I smell like sweat and *****,
and all I want is a redo.
I want "may I?" eyes.

Write when you're drunk, edit when you're sober,
Right?

Here is
Unedited.

"Are we playing
Kings rules,
Or ******* a ****?"

Here is
Friday night.

So this is how it goes every time,
right? We've got bodies in the backseat.
We've got luggage stacked tenfold
on the roof.
How can you expect me not
to break, when all I've ever
been carrying is still
not
good enough.

Three cheers for
guilt.
One for the
words
that never
come without a
stutter,
maybe "He can
never
know" or
"I'm only using
you" as he
slides off every dress
you've ever worn
and you
lie
through your
teeth.
One for,
finally,
rough hands and maybe
the thought that
Is this what a
man
feels like?
Sandpaper and strength
in all the wrong places.
And one
last
sad
solid
cheer,
that will ring no place
except in my head
where it may
or may not
echo
echo
echo,
for each night
I spend loaded
and want it to
happen again.



*the splash of your tongue against mine.

The three things I remember;
The splash of my tongue
against his
after those eyes,
those "may I?"
eyes, the splash
of my tongue
against his
melting me like a
candy cane.
A loose glove,
and a lighter heating
it- the latex
shrinking,
clinging
to my hand.
And the feeling in my
gut.
Similar to both memories,
like
jumping off a bridge,
or
hanging upside down.
Or the sound you make
when you try to ask for help
(or ask permission)
and only breath
comes
out.

And on the days
He lacks to shave,
I find it right
to compromise,
The only way
I'll feel his scruff,
is rough against
my thighs.

Have you ever been on a carousel and
forgotten about the spinning?
Same scenery over and over,
but your brain hardly even notices.
You just keep going.
Past the same faces and same places
and all the same feeling.
But you just keep going because it hasn't
stopped yet, you haven't gotten your
twenty-five cents worth of repetition.
And I've been chained to this carousel for so long,
the shackles are starting to look like jewelry.
When the sun sets and when they turn the lights on it is
no longer blinding. I'm used to the beauty.
All I want is to get off. I want to travel deep
into the woods. I see the trees I pass by over and over.
All I want is to get lost in them. I want something new.
But I know,
I know,
I know,
That they may be trees.
But it will be tree after tree after tree.
And I'll just find myself chained to another
carousel.

He’s dreaming again. His tongue is running off with him, and he’s pulling at his sleeves like an awkward schoolboy. When I see him I know him. Better than I have in years. His voice is rougher than the palms of his hands or the blue of his eyes. His lips are still moving but they’re out of sync with his words. I’m on his couch again and I don’t know how I got there, there’s a bloom in my body and every time he looks at me they contract and pulse like an out of time heartbeat. I’m in his basement and it’s dark, there’s a window behind me and if we were to sneak out of it there would be gin in our hands. It would taste like pine. I’m on his hammock and looking at the stars like he promised, like I wrote. On the bench in the park his arms fold me like a paper crane, or maybe a fortune teller, his sandpaper voice whispering me a billet-doux in six different languages, three made up, one in sign. He’s dreaming and it’s about me and I know it, but I can’t say it, so I just dream back. Over and over. My hands folding him like paper, ebbing like an ocean.