Nobody respects a liar.

I just want to know if they chose, or just learned to cool down quicker than me.

Im not learning anything about

the riddles I gave myself years ago.

Cardboard sleeves and my truth explodes

When I fall like the last leaf.

What is one thing I have always been?

I have always been an apologist.

What else?

because everyone, you already know that.

I hate female vocalists. unless they sound like they cant stand themselves.

Unless they sound as disinterested in their own voice as I am in mine, I cant stand them.

I only respect female singers who play their own **** instruments.

And I will never have the guts to ask if you're wearing your heart on your sleeve

Or if it's just me and my wearing my heart as my sleeve.

Sometime ago I asked myself if I could see ahead, and I laughed, and hit my ****.

Ive suffered,

and Ive sang it off.

Even when I couldnt sing a note to save my pathetic life.

No one respects a liar.

im not a liar.

Im not different at all.

In fact, im exactly what I've been grown around.

Im half alive and I'm nothing but sacrifice and I feel worthy when my worth is measured in something else.


There is not one thing I can stand less than people who do not underdstand their own language.

for gods sake, it's they're, not there. it's here. not heir. it's i BEFORE e.

but im a hypocrite,

because half the time...most the time i dont capitalize any I's that i'm using to explain about myself.


i think it's because it's not worth the stretch to hit the shift bar.

for myself I'm lazy.

I have an eleven key hand span on the piano, and i cannot even type properly.

thats an octave and a half almost.

I was born to be a woman that pays her taxes and has a checking account.

And a four door sedan with two carseats.

And a ring around my finger, a two bedroom house and bedtime stories all over the bookshelves.

I want to teach my partner how to play the ukulele,

i want to show my children that faith is real,

even if god isnt.

I want a family that will have me for the rest of their lives,

through good or bad.

Through tradgedy, illness,

thinness, gain, loss, stress, sobriety,

through debt and through retirement.

I was made to give,

and I feel selfish for writing this.

Because its all about me.

I want to give myself to something.

I want to be the best fiance I can be.

I want to be the best student I can be.

The best daughter.

The best owner to my pets.

The best aunt, neice, cousin.

I want to the best wife

and mother I can be.







I'm not lying.

flick, inhale, bubble, exhale.
clean my ******* carpet, i've let this go on long enough.
might as well clean the whole place, no one else will.
able bodied, but the joke's on them. the dirts on me, last week is in the ashtray.
flick, inhale. ******* clogged.
i got hasty again; i hate it when i do that ****. go through pages in books i read like i didn't write.
******* **** i write like someone's ever going to read.
the cup's half full of a whole year of nothing. the cup's dry.
i'm dry, high and dry. and to what extent?
flick, inhale, choke.
go back in.
there's black **** all over my keyboard.
that smell is back all over me, on the ends of my jacket sleeves.
i learned in anatomy what exactly it is.
i can't help but realize that i'm  a ******* specimen, taking articulate notes on intricacies i cannot even fathom about myself. i've never felt so blunderously powerful.
flick, bubble, inhale.  

i touch your hips to make sure you still exist. and to what extent? every extent, every branch, swing. left or right, you're right. stung just once, not me.
i drift away like it's an allergy, like it's some type of disease.
choke.
i never did clean my sheets. not since her, but after her, i lit it up like wildfire.
i repeat history, but i keep it clean. it's no one's fault these kinds of things are inherited.
like father, like daughter.
no, you cannot expect the morphine to help, if you don't want it to help.
**** it. flick, inhale, exhale.
**** it, if no body is looking. because you can't feel it if somebody's waiting, you wait to please.
**** it, twelve steps ahead is only twelve steps farther from the very place you want to be back at.
**** it. nothing will ever stay clean in this **** house, the dirt will always come back.
the proof is in the way he walks, that he is your son.
there is nothing to do but be patient.
fli-flick, inhale,




exhale.

then i dyed my hair six different shades
all in one sitting
to make sure.
the thick, black sand engulfing from the nape of my neck,
all my scalp; the battlefield that ate the edges of my
cheekbones lightened
until it was a sunset
and my ****** structure was unrecognisable.
that was an accident.
i wanted there to be a fight,
an endless war against the silliest things:
water condensating on the lid of my piano
stray hairs that will never tuck properly
how difficult the blue pills are to crack in half.
but i shifted myself six seats to the left
lifted the middle arm rest and fit my old guitar
on my lap and started to sing
i wanted there to be something in me that had never been seen
the black sands were rooted beyond the bleached skin
and into the burnt letters, torn tendons, the names i'll never be called
the grains often fall
into this unfamiliar home territory
the sunset glaring out the possibility of having an advantage.
transformation
the end of the bargain that stays silent
until there's room
inbetween the wood and the moisture
for mistakes.

it's not a problem when there's nothing to sweat,
the humidity between your fingers only exists if you let it.
disconnection from socialization is nothing immoral, more than anything, it's probable.

no eye contact at uncomfortably long red-lights,

don't try to discuss the compartimentalizing in the back of your head.

you are a molecule.
molecules are small,
you are small.

on second thought, think more about what i couldn't stand in the world
than what i would change.
consider the opportunity and bottle enthusiasm like it's a commodity.
segregate mind
from
self.
seperate syllables, content, and over-accumilation.
inside, i would never expect you to work your own way out.

and again, i spat out black, fine lined *******.
there was no more than the predetermined depth that they've come to expect from me,
i went no further than to soak my readers, then force them out still wet:
go ahead,
drip-dry from my dignity.


it's like the fire they insisted deserves to be cradled in a cage.
because freedom is threat:
consuming until she bursts into a sheet of liquidated decision.
but there is still room for appreciation:
for the consistency of
light, warmth and relativity.

swallow back a mouthful of something i cannot pronounce.
what does it matter if losing sleep makes you feel ten,
the lie is still that you're twenty-seven.
but what drove through,
down,
enough to come out the other side, is still being ignored.
my loyalty  proved as a stunt in the precious growth you claim i lacked.
just when it became lyrical the reality becomes increasingly evident,
no woman needs poetry about the sun, or the starving lions out back.

so just let me burn in the grass.
because it'd only be wasting my time,
  airing out.

it's your pope's, not my prophecy that doesn't believe
in the gravity you say
forced you to
fall
into
me.


one day you'll laugh.
one day i'll stop getting lost when i drive to new places.
one day the water will stop running from our taps.

i'm sure you realize i sexualized you,
like the young thing i am.
i should apologize,
but i'm also pretty sure you don't mind.
rewind: you'll go to waste like fine wine, and i'll drive you home over the phone.

there is this thought that swarms between my fingers and my door handles. there is this notion that all things connected are intertwined. and these things, as fruitful as they may seem, are false. a figment in my own perception of how i think we should rotate. a perception of integration that, in a few words, can completely derail reality from desire. there is this idea on the sides of my thumbs, calloused from thinking of it too often: an idea that one receives what another wishes to be given. we are loved the way the ones loving us yearn to be loved. the affection we receive is that of a mirror of what they want. this callous hardens with each moment until it becomes a wall. an animation of something staying perfectly still. we speak so clearly in our attempts to tip the scale one way or another. but there is the swarming of these moments where what you give is what you get. one, simple, pure moment of equality. a golden ratio of intent and regurgitation: we place our hands out, opened wide, full of our own bits to the flame and we receive a hand full back. no burns, no blisters, no empty handed response. a simple passing chance that allows us to neither inhale or exhale. you needn’t air in this moment, you needn’t the sense of left, of right, of inside or out. because in this numbing sense of bliss there is a revival of passion. and passion, that is the idea. that is the thought. the hive that replenishes each unit of coming and going, the wall that resettles at any given chance on either side. but also the notion of humility. on the sides of each thumb, the tips of my fingers are walls of dead skin that are devoted to this intent. they are constantly pushing against it, forcing passion to overlook the rest of what’s left.

When I was 15, I got down on my knees like a dog because
He   told    me     to.
Gripping my head like I was some sort of
toy he could do what he wanted with.
‘yeaaaah, that feels good’ he’d tell me as he shoved
himself
d
  e
    e
      p
        e
          r
‘you look so good down there when you do that’
as if the compliments really made up for the
broken ego, and self debilitating hate.
But how was I to know back then
what it meant to
deceive
my body? Always being told to
suppress my appetite in hopes of pleasing
some guy.
As if my body wasn’t beautiful enough.

When I was 15, I sold my body for a
Lously ****-
Because I was told
‘that’s how you prove you love me’

I traded innocence, and dignity for
Surety and cried out
L O V E
Because
that’s all I ever really wanted.

As if love was being humiliated and
Degraded,
Over and o v e r & o v e r
Again by someone who only ever
Treated me like a piece of meat-

Eventually, I got sick of waiting
for you to
l o v e  me
and tell me all the things I
wanted to hear
because subconsciously,
I KNEW that
Was never going to happen.

So when I was 15,
instead of completely giving up,
I found a better way to fill the void of my
discontented, broken heart
with the sound of an empty bottle hitting the floor-
A sound much better than the never ending sobs
And begging
for something more than just a degrading
Pick up line, or half drunk conversation.

And eventually I got sick of that,
Too. And then it occurred to me.
I’m not 15 anymore.

If I ever let myself think that I was
Worthless or disgusting or useless
Because of your inability to see past
The size of my jeans, or depth of my throat,
I was an idiot.

If I ever thought I NEEDED you
Or that the definition of L O V E
Was to give your entire being to a person
for absolutely nothing in return,
I was gravely mistaken.

Because I am better off on my
O W N.
I deserve much more than
Anything you had to offer.

Someone once told me that,
“Everything happens for a reason”
And I believed them,
Until Friday.

You see, I’ve come to know,
Whole-heartedly, that I personally...
I will always be
Left wanting more-

There will inevitably
Always be certain things that
I will just never be able
To grasp, or comprehend.

The problem I’m having-
Is when, as a Country, the day
We can say we understand
Something as heartbreaking-

Inhuman, and wretched
As what took place
At that Elementary school
on Friday morning-

Is the day that we
will finally shed every
last bit of humanity
we’ve been holding onto.

The horrifying part is,
That day isn’t far
From today. I’m afraid
for the future of us all.