that coffee gave me a headache and I don't have any sunglasses or ****. this isn't a poem. I should go back inside.

Today just isn't that day.

it hurts more to not
it has to

I’ve sat with this screen open at least a dozen times in the last few days (like I used to) but the only thing I’ve managed to get out is the words I miss you written over and over again

he reaches one arm stretched underneath
my neck and the other he drapes loosely around my shoulder, meeting his hands in the middle and effectively holding me
his chin digs into the curve of my spine and his breathing is shallow, as in if I turn to grab something I will wake him up so

I don’t move. I hold my breath, I listen to his dog whine, I gather all of the questions I have that I’ll forget by the morning,
I should be writing a lot about the first man I’ve ever loved but all I can think to say is
this is not me
I do not write happy poetry

I love to write about people that can’t be bothered to pick up my phone calls

but I’m alive
important distinction
that sometimes I can’t make out
I tried to reach out to my ex in an attempt
to analyze my previous relationship patterns
but they ignored my call
so I guess that told me what I needed it to

I’m very jealous of you, for so many different reasons
maybe that’ll be the next poem I write

this is something I do - any time someone I have some kind of respect for asks for one of my books, I have to re digest it through their eyes. Immediately I go home and read it as if I am them instead of me and now I like my words differently depending on who it is I’m reading as. It shows me- I am not afraid of touching things filled with memories. You can be. I am, however, too terrified of freezing in this place if I stay unable to figure out how to move. 
this is something I do - when I was a child, every night as I would try to fall asleep my mind would come up with the most terrible things. Intrusive thoughts that I would call bees in my brain, I couldn’t help it nor did I understand it, I’d try for hours to distract myself but still each night I’d dream of burning alive, and I believed I had myself to blame. I’m telling you this now because in adulthood I have gotten very good at ignoring the bees, too good, I’ve decided. I can barely hear myself think so how can I possibly create?
this is something I do- crave, in all regards. Food and love are the same and I am only asking for a bite. A relic from my eating disorder, I’m used to surviving on little bits and I know there is a part of me that prefers it. Restrict now, binge later, the problem is there is no longer anything left that isn’t filled with memories and sometimes it is too much for my body to understand. I will ask for permission before I am affectionate. I will still eat in a calorie deficit today.

I forgot I existed before waking up on your front
porch at 6 am. We walked to your bedroom as the
morning light waved goodbye, the first and last time

I will ever sleep in jeans. We kissed like we were mad at
each other: urgently, my hand clenching your thigh
for dear life, pursing our lips because that makes it

slower which somehow means it's more intentional.
I’m ready to wake up for the day and immediately
move my body. I wonder if that’s only something I’m

able to do if I’m not telling anyone about it. Still- it
did always feel so time sensitive, I would be rushing
without any idea where I needed to go except that I

wanted it to be with you. I was hesitant at first, until
I was able to remember what your perfume smelled
like: clean, no matter how drunk I was, no matter how

tired. I’m afraid it might be lingering, but I finally learned
that it isn't beautiful to be so tragic, not even in November.
Now pity feels nowhere near as good as intimacy

does, and intimacy only feels as good as the last time.
I struggle to find a point where I wasn’t naked in every
possible way, but that’s because people usually fall in

love with me if they’re having *** with me. This
time I was too busy remembering how to be on display,
how to play the right amount of pretend and the right

amount of dead. In the dark it’d be impossible to tell
the difference between the way you saw me and
the way I saw you, but I can still feel the sinking.

there will be another tattoo shop
with artists that have no bank account
who ask me to cash their checks for them and another downtown with a whiskey donut bar
or one that was once a mortuary
that I’ll get too drunk at and puke outside of
maybe I'll have *** in the pews at this one, too
there will be another set of grid like streets
that go one way or the other way, east to west
and I still look at the signs even after 24 years
and there will be another historic avenue
that will knock down the local watering holes
in order to create high rise buildings
for ******* boys and girls that
already have credit cards and BMW’s
and other guys in folded beanies
that sell my friends *******
but this time it'll be cold out and ketamine
there will be another set of people that are ugly
but i hope this time they are ******* honest

I’ve always imagined I would end up with someone named Sam. I think it started somewhere around age 13, when I sat earnestly inside of the closet and somehow felt even more painstakingly alone than I do now. I would shower for hours and think of her, I told nobody the depths of our relationship, not even myself. Inside my head she had short hair but pretty eyes and was my height, sometimes shorter, and she drove me to places I had never gone but always dreamed of trying out. She walked firmly and with purpose. I named her Sam because I could still say her name out loud.

Drug addiction, usage, dependency is funny because its infectious, like the trouble behind liking the burn or the laugh of the newest airborne virus finding the immunocompromised, there’s no right way to use. We say controlled, harm reduction, but I'm not really sure there's a wrong way to do it either. They say moderation, cold turkey, some vices are worse than others, but are they? It all depends on what happens afterwards, the consequences, the aftermath. Freebasing is harder than it looks and apparently so is stopping.

Sam wasn't necessarily an imaginary friend, more a person I knew I would one day meet. The first few girls I kissed I compared to her, knowing they wouldn't be able to last because she was waiting for me. I remember when I started a new job and my sweet anxiety stricken coworker, who was an inch taller than me, sheepishly introduced herself as Sam. She had a boyfriend and now she has another.

I thought maybe running a red light would cheer you up. Fairly sadistic if you ask me, but that's no longer a bad thing, it's just authentic. I did it twice for good measure, and each time you cracked a smile. Later I could hear you talking through the wall. I wasn't sure if you knew we could hear you so I moved away to be safe, being safe has become increasingly harder these days, to the point where my vision hasn't focused since I got back to town and I've started to tighten my jaw in order to try to ******' ***. It gets harder every single day.

Drugs smell like ****, all of them, every single one. They taste like dehydration and gasoline and a painful lack of sleep, they taste ******* disgusting. I've never met anybody other than myself that was able to put them down when prompted but I've also never met anybody that genuinely preferred having none. Why are we numbing, dulling, minimizing these feelings? Who decided that was somehow more freeing?

I want to write a poem about being
malleable,
so I buy clay. I try to make a sculpture
of what it is that I’m feeling and it looks like
absolute ****, it isn’t my fault
my hands are just too weak to
carry the weight of the mixture I tried to make.
that you once were.
I try again.
I lift and I punch and I mold
and I kneed and
I grab the clay like I’m
grabbing the back of your head,
your hair in my fist so now it’s grey between my fingers once again
and I hit and I switch and I try so hard to make something sturdy  

it needs to be cooked to stand up straight.
maybe you’re just not there yet.

my body is so hot that it’ll heat up the entire
room if we’re too lazy to turn the fan on,
I think you find it endearing and luckily
I’m pretty much used to all the sweating

you switch the light bulbs in my two lamps
because the ambience or mood or maybe
we just don’t need anymore warmth in here
and I lay, strategically covering
the parts of me that I don’t want you to see

it’s mid february and we’re both in blazers,
holding hands with new haircuts and some
of the healthiest appetites I’ve seen from two
people that are pretty comfortable
with the ache of starvation

it's the beginning of may and we're both
five lbs heavier, yours went straight to your ***
and mine went to my emotional baggage
we try not to speak, we try to just listen
but nothing feels as filling as just being heard

I got a migraine on the drive
so I had to turn around
my visions been half gone
for four half hours and
the whole time the whole
world has had a heartbeat
is it this pulsating in the
gunk behind my eye, the
space you'd hit if you took
a spoon to my socket
and scooped, that's causing
the entirety of my brain to stop
working, at least in the way it once did?
I've managed to survive enough
of my own cycles
to start to be able to estimate
what will come next-

I really want my life to be more
than wasting time,
walking instead of driving and
drinking instead of not,
if you tell somebody, who is
important to you,
that they are in fact,
important to you, and they
don't say it back or really say
anything about it at all,
is it safe to assume you are not
important to them?
is it then therefore safe to assume that you
aren't important to anybody at all?

im not sure if I can do this

I didn't feel the need to look at a clock a single time today but I ate two full meals and smiled every time that I wanted too, maybe if I had ever managed to get a passport so I could leave this country or even if I worked for the census and spent everyday counting people I could explain to you the unfortunate size of this world that refuses to die off better but instead I'll say that there's a rag in your pocket just in case because you spill a lot and while you're at it you're catching my crumbs, I'm singing along to the universe for reminding me to unclench my jaw and relax my shoulders and let out the breath I've been holding in and loosen my ****** grip there's bruises all over your body, I think today I realized I will always prefer to be this filled with love and dread.

each movement is carefree
this has been what's coming for me

I wake up in your twin sized bed-
I know I have been dreaming.
there's puddles in the bed, on the kitchen floor,
in the palm of my hands, you look at me with eyes
I'm not sure I recognize.
we've barely met but I slide my fingers in anyway,
and this time I see your eyes where I've seen them before:
rolled into the back of your head.

I wake up in your bed again and immediately
I know I have been dreaming.
I'm covered in sweat and *** (how many times have I written that)
it smells like B/O and cigarettes (this time in a good way)
we can't find the pipe and a nug of **** ended up in my water.
I look around for things to write about later
and notice refrigerator magnets.
I spell my name and leave.

the other day I was laughing and I thought:
what if this is as good as it gets?
it's all in the perspective, the way you look at it,
because I didn't mean it in a bad way but
we both would have taken it as such.
the other day I was crying and I thought:
I want a cigarette.
I don't smoke, they make me sick,
but I bought a pack and smoked one
and a half before calling anyone back.
I want to smile without feeling like a shark,
my nails are as sharp as their teeth but most
of the time I feel like my voice is really a bark,
the other day I was sitting quiet and I thought:
I never want to dilute ever again.

is saving an antonym or a synonym for binge?
I want to believe I'm saving the best for last
but I'm only focused on how many bites I have left.
I consume faster than you can even think so
I like foods that require me to eat slowly,
the hardness of over toasted bread that *****
up your mouth when you bite into it, sour candies,
charcuterie boards that let me play with my food,
concentration on something other than the **** chewing.
the punchline is I've been dieting on and off for
three years but didn't start to lose weight until I stopped
I once kissed a girl who told me sometimes it
seemed like I was devouring her, I was
embarrassed at first until I realized
I'm just in a constant state of overindulgence -
tongue in my mouth
snacks in my sheets
I'm gnawing on you, gnawing on me,
still ******* starving
I have all the strain of being full but with none of the satisfaction.

if I can put what I'm feeling into words
I can get rid of it, I think, I'm going to
try that instead of what I've been doing
I want to live a hundred different lives
starting over every time I feel complacent
give reincarnation a jump start and
decide to feel new instead of numb
I'm not happy so I start searching with
such intensity it scares me off instead
is there clarity in another place? I think
there's an inherent problem with searching
looking through piles of clothes and stacks
of paper and boxes of ******* you should
have thrown away, I would have, I live in
a twelve by twelve room with ten belongings
my best friends neighbor is a hoarder, I
wonder if he can't think through a thought
without having to stop to catch his breath too

you’re the only one who has ever made it seem less daunting

she tells me not to leave but
I’m miserable.
there’s no cold water in this
entire city and my throat has
been sore for centuries. I’m not
me if I’m not thirsty, calculating
the difference between our
languages and the chance well
ever find a way to communicate,
my mouth is like the Sahara and
there’s really nothing that I can do.
I’m not me if I’m not yearning,
looking for subliminal messages
inside of afternoon delights that
only mean we both drank beer
on our one hour lunch break,
I’m not sure I’ll ever be able
to breathe in this place the
same way again. at least not
without a planned escape route
in every building, every street,
every ******* bar, and it’s been
a terrible way to live thus far

I can want to call you but not dial it now, which is progress, but it helps when I remember how much I ******* hate you!
I told somebody recently that I always look back on times of growth with a fondness, with a spotlight, even though during them I can only feel the sting.
I want everybody to know to not take anything I say seriously because I don't trust anything I create and that even includes sentences, but whenever I grow up I will demand to be treated as such. I'm not used to how it feels to have an impulse that I don't act on-
I do the same thing each weekend, some of my friends find that to be depressing but I like to think its means we're in a sitcom. It's our own certain patterns and routines and I'm easily able to romanticize it, I think it's sweet, others think it's stationary.
I ran into my ex tonight, the one who I believe has a very low IQ.
I could cry if I wanted to, but I'm not sad. I want to mourn each version of myself that I've left somewhere else (including the one who was with that ex) and I'm absolutely terrified of the ones that I still have to deal with, I see glimpses of them each time I get a new tattoo.
I nearly cried because a song came on that made me think I wanted you back, this happens every so often and I have yet to figure out yet if it's real. Sometimes I think the fact that I get back there (or here, more or less, because I did start to cry) has to mean something, that maybe I did actually love you in a way I haven't ever before or maybe might not ever again, but other times I blame it on my mental health or menstrual cycle or the fact that I'm 22 or maybe even sleep deprivation or my own self destruction patterns or possibly personal insecurities or A literal human need to connect in a way that I'm also simultaneously avoiding.
I like her. I do like her. I just like ME more (and you, but thats only because you match my level of cynical and I find that pleasing because everybody is either morbid or positive these days), and that's new, because I still barely like myself! I usually forget to look at myself in the mirror for days in a row. I've seen my reflection so many times in the past week. I might be getting taller.
I use too many commas and not enough periods or maybe even too many of both but I want to write without worrying who is reading! I want to write in the way that I believe I could, never ending sentences that mean something and hit people in the chest the way I want to be ******* slapped, ******* beat down to my core, you know? I saw my ex who threw me down stairs tonight, it's that one, the really really stupid one, not sure if you remember. She's gained weight since the last time I saw her and I asked if she was sober within 60 seconds of speaking to her, I've gained inches and gotten like 25 tattoos,
I can't wait to be happy.
I only hate you because you don't love me too.

I saw the way you looked at me and remembered that I MUST be that small, as small as you see me!

my teeth and your saliva both feel tight in my mouth,
as I see you periodically checking your rear view
mirror to look if my face has changed or if
I'm still playing the quiet game.
I am.
sometimes I talk when really
all I need is a touch
she took her clothes off slowly,
the front of the record said "are you alone?"
in scratch handwriting,
not the time. it's just really not the time.
and I'm trying to learn how to sing but I
can't even begin to talk, it's too hard to
think when you are close to me and
I mean that in a really bad way,
I think of her terrible boston accent
and his ******* ******* kids
and the scars on her legs she never explained
and that crazy look in their eyes
I hangout with guys that carry guns, now
and they try to feel me up when their girlfriends aren't looking
I’d love to sleep for an entire night
I’d love for all my time to just be mine

I cry for you once each night, every night.

Is it possible to love in silence?

I stand in front of my bathroom sink and stare directly into the mirror, it’s 68 degrees and partly cloudy and now there’s nothing staring back at me. Have I ever been able to just - exist? Right now I can’t seem to remember. Has there ever been a time where I was able to formulate words without being terrified of who was reading them? I remember once somebody told me they didn’t like questions in poetry, I see myself through your eyes every time you change your mind and now in each mirror there’s nothing staring back at me. There’s a science to walking through windows and I’ve only ever been able to get to the second floor. Is there a science behind reflections? I can’t see myself as anything other than what you see which means I can barely see myself at all. I guess I’m just trying to say that time moved at the exact pace it should have when you were around and I have absolutely no idea how I’m supposed to continue loving myself when other people stop.

mine tastes sour and sweet, probably because I’ve been sweating nonstop and yours smells like burnt afternoons when we were just friends or I guess you can barely even say that
I pick at mine and you pick at yours and
I like it most when mines against another
I felt it once, before I knew anything at all
and it’s never been quite so soft
now you’re like a statue, but not in a **** way
more meaning you’re made of stone
and I’ve been staring at you for weeks waiting for you to blink or budge but you’ve always been so **** good at standing in one place
if I ever get to feel yours on mine
it’ll feel so good
and if I don’t then I guess
thank god everyone has skin
I’ll do anything to avoid the sound it makes when it starts to break —
even get rid of this layer entirely,
like I’m peeling it all clean off

it’s people and places and shadows and asphalt and none of it looks familiar so maybe I’m just reaching out for warmth of any kind. I didn’t know if it would make it better or worse if you never had known me at all, but now I can’t seem to find my reflection in anything around me and I can say with near confidence that it’s this feeling of obscurity making me want to crawl back inside the last version of myself I allowed believe that I was safe here at all

I think of you for twenty seconds
twenty times each a day
if I breathe slow enough I can
feel it inside my chest, like
the drop of a hat or the
sound of a smoke alarm or
the turn of my car key or the
way you look past so vacantly
when I know that you can see me

I'm driving through familiar highways
that manage to take me to a foreign place
as if I'm headed to you
freshly washed feet and ***** sheets
inside of my catalogue apartment
every item inside belongs to someone else
but every part of me once did too
I'm sorry that I wholeheartedly believe
there’s something to say about being
old and new at the same time

I walk up to the scene of the crime
and there’s a shaking figure with a knife
and a body that will end up in a bag
and there’s a gun in my hand
and there’s blood all over the ground
I say to stop, you’re under arrest
I say to put the blade down and
stand up as slowly as you can

I didn’t write for 3 months and
it was the slowest time of my life
I only write about *** when I’m
not the one that’s having it
which is depressing, I know
now you’re standing there and I’m
yelling at you to leave, to walk
back to wherever you came from
and you’re crying as hard as I’ve
ever seen you cry before and your
reaching your hand out to me but I
absolutely refuse to grab it because
I’m angry that you’re here, you aren’t
supposed to be and you say you’re
drunk as if it makes it any better
but I really just want you to leave
but you want my hand so I give it to
you and end up letting you sleep
in my bed because
I feel guilty that
I don’t feel guilty
I feel guilty that
I don’t feel guilty at all

so I’m standing there with the blade
in my hand, to his neck
and I just kind of let it hangout
push it a little closer, make him sweat
and I move my wrist slightly to break
just the first layer of skin
then down to say, the fifth, not near
close enough to draw any blood
in my defense I didn’t think
anyone was nearby
so I smile
and I take my ******* time
I give him the wink he's wanted
and slowly I shove it in
somebody walks up and is yelling
to drop it, to stand up as slowly as I can
whatever
I give him a big kiss
and I shove it in again

I wake up on a thursday and it’s raining, in a good way
It’s not too hot and my jeans are fitting loose. I walk through
the aisles of a dollar store to purchase new bowls and
cookie sheets and pots and pans because I got
overwhelmed and threw out all my ***** dishes again
sometimes it’s just so much easier to start new
I’m trying to teach myself how to enjoy simplicity
there’s a peace in complete neutrality
I wake up on the day I’m supposed to at the time I’m
supposed to and I feel proud of myself for the first time
I still will worry that I’m not completely capable

It’s been raining for days and I can’t figure out how to make it stop
sometimes I want to be loved in the worst ways, is that okay?
my skin cracks like bones and you can pour alcohol into my
open wounds as long as when I crave toxicity you’re there for me
my one and only shining example of human connection
we go to sleep without saying goodnight, I grip my own body
so hard for a second I forgot I was in this house alone
I need to wash my hair, stop feeling so scared
I grip this plastic rosary that I stole from hot topic
so tight that I forget I couldn’t hate god more if I tried

we were both kicking and screaming
me out of love, you out of rage
I reach my hand out and search for something
realizing I have no proof that you exist at all
the sun is setting behind your head and I wonder
what it’d take to start brand new, which is a line from
another poem I’ve written at another time, or was it this one?
the street is dark, this isn’t more than letters on a page
each of my memories sits in the back of my head
categorized alphabetically like a spiral of index cards
I work on writing in cursive
I work on singing on key
I work on saying it differently, meaning it more, thinking first
I remember everything, but my hand only moves when I tell it to
I tire of my words and set out on experiencing something new
I cut my hair, order different flavors, try out a few different people
I take a deep breath ******* in as hard as these hips can
I consider removing myself from this situation entirely
but it’s a fleeting thought because I’d be so bored
I feel the past tugging at my knees and
it makes it hard to stand for long
all I want is for this world to infect my body

her hair is longer than I realized and it smells familiar
my stomach feels off as I stare at the posters on the walls
because I’m not sure where to look (she’s so naked as am I)
I decide the top of her head is fine then I decide to let my heart
murmur which I've been avoiding since they diagnosed me at 7
but I'm exhausted and orgasming really takes so much out of me
I decide I’ll only do it three more times then I decide just this once

I do it all again the next night because I’m trying to live my life
that doesn’t fully explain my reasoning but it’s all I have to offer
there’s dozens and dozens of different versions of her and I
want to put it into writing that I only ever liked a few of them
I’ve never before liked each and every part of a person
I've also never even been close to admitting that
so I think this is part progress poem and
part backpedaling

she’s playing with a kid and I know it’s supposed
to turn me on but it’s just making me feel physically ill
I wear my bathing suit bottoms as underwear
she texts me that she’s not even ******* wearing any
I’ll sleep in her bed if I want to only because
there’s not really a point to sleeping in mine
it'd be nice if I wanted to, but I don't, so I go home

she chain smoked her entire pack of american spirits
lying completely naked on her ***** nylon carpet
I realized about halfway in that I didn't want to touch her
I turned to my left to a shrine of Joan Jett and then
I choked on her **** piercing for the very last time
she got upset and tried to question what went wrong
for the first time in my life I just shut the **** up
because blaming it on her star sign felt too insensitive

I pick splinters out from my skin
with just the tips of two of my fingers
you're supposed to be careful with that
you can accidentally push it inside of you
and then what happens?
well, you scoop your skin around it
you dig until you make yourself bleed
which means I feel pain when you feel pain
and then I call it solidarity

I'm only good at this because I have perfect vision
and a nearly flawless photographic memory
and things to do, I have a lot of things to do now
each piece is only a fragment of a larger object
I promise I barely squeezed when it splintered
I'm no longer too sad to distract myself from it
and I think that might be the same as being happy

I watch as his hands reach over the couch
underneath my arm towards her body
like he’s saran wrapping his left overs
he’s drunk so he trips, falling onto her lap
and resting his head oh so conveniently
she makes a face at me I don’t recognize
and merely allows his eyes to rest on her
she turns to me and shrugs and I feel it
like she feels his stubble on her neck,
his beer breath between her teeth,
his hunger, appetite, desire to devour
I watch as his hands wrap around her
thighs like it’s time for thanksgiving dinner
and rather instinctively I slap them away
because she’s a ******* vegan after all
I watch his eyes burn holes into her skin
I watch him lick his lips and size his prey
I can hear his stomach growling
I don’t want to know you’ve loved men
cause I know the way they touched you
slowly at first then fast and rough
skimming over your edges and dog earring
each page to the point of causing damage
I keep a pen with me so I can scribble in
my books but only ever to remember  
for the sake of nostalgia not ownership
for enjoyment not overconsumption
it smells like cologne everywhere I go
and some days I’m scared we’ll
never be able to escape the gaze

you carry the film camera I bought you
clenched between your teeth where you keep
all the rest of the cavities I gifted to you
falling out from the gap between my legs
underneath the piano painted coffee table
staring directly into the vinyl sunlight until
it starts to burn like its the fourth of July
when I'm there and the temperature is right
I don't want to have to blow it out
I left with the skin still on my teeth
so I'll come back in order to rip it off
are you satan testing me , too?

her hair is longer than I realized
and it smells familiar
my stomach feels off as I
stare at the posters on the walls
because I’m not sure where to look
(she’s so naked as am I)
I decide the top of her head is fine
then I decide to let my heart
murmur which I've been
avoiding since they diagnosed me at 7
but I'm exhausted and orgasming
really takes so much out of me
I decide I’ll only do it three more times
then I decide just this once

I do it all again the next night
because I’m trying to live my life
that doesn’t fully explain my reasoning but it’s all I have to offer
there’s dozens and dozens of
different versions of her and I
want to put it into writing that I
only ever liked two of them
I’ve never before liked each and
every part of a person
I've also never even been
close to admitting that
so I think this is at least one
part progress poem

she’s playing with a kid and I know
it’s supposed to turn me on but it’s
just making me feel physically ill
I wear my bathing suit bottoms
as underwear
she texts me that she’s not
even ******* wearing any
I’ll sleep in her bed if I want
to only because
there’s not really a point to
sleeping in mine
it'd be nice if I wanted to,
but I don't
so I go home

she chain smoked her entire
pack of american spirits
lying completely naked on
her ***** nylon carpet
I realized about halfway in
that I didn't want to touch her
I turned to my left to a shrine
of Joan Jett and then
I choked on her **** piercing
for the very last time
she got upset and tried to
question what went wrong
for the first time in my life
I just shut the **** up
because blaming it on her
star sign felt too insensitive

each time I can’t get you off my mind
I remember you can’t get me off at all
sometimes I want you to know that I
intentionally drove to your house that day
I wanted you to hate me as much as I hate you
and you still take depression naps
and I still take all of the side streets
now I have a new sense of purpose
and you have a car payment

I feel so alone but so held at the same time
as if it’s the moon that’s trying to talk to me
why have I always had pivotal moments
while staring directly at telephone wires?
to this day I’ve lived six different lives
and I have no plans to stop evolving
coins still fall from parts of me wherever I go
it never had anything to do with you at all

if you go at someone else’s pace it shows you care
which is ******* insightful and I learned it from ***
I remember the smell of your mother’s house anytime
I’m clean so I stopped showering and doing dishes
my roommate rolls her eyes each time but I’m
just as ***** as I’ve always wanted to be
I rarely ever miss you and when I do it’s fleeting
I keep having dreams where my hair is to my knees
I know how to stand up straight and
you’re still just as small as I left you

you look at the bartender vacantly and
order a double Jameson shot
because you hate everything about yourself
I know this because I watch
but only to see the glass shatter

the bathroom of this bar smells like our love -
me, dressing in clothes that are easy to get off
tile that is stained with bile, cascade hops
a continuously leaking toilet and bright red walls

having my heart broken feels romantic, inherently, like
mourning, pleading, missing
it’s all just flirtation, ****** frustration
this is foreplay, these nights alone

I smell like **** and *** (same thing) showering
alone I noticed the age in his eyes, in his skin
in the way he scolded me, in the color of his teeth
and how I don’t think I’ve ever heard him say my name

there is nothing more ****** than the dial of a phone
there is nothing more enticing than two truths and a lie
I’m the most I’ll ever be the minutes after I come

I drive a different way home so
that I don’t have to see your face
I have a zero tolerance policy for
mourning these days and that’s ok
you make the same face when you’re
in pain that you do when you ***
I’ve forgotten what it feels like by now

and okay, so maybe you cheated on me
in this exact bar bathroom once
and okay, maybe I am ****** projecting
because that girl still talks **** about me
and I see myself as she does for a moment
and maybe it never actually has
absolutely anything to do with you! at all!
maybe that means you never mattered!
and maybe it smells like B/O and for
some reason that makes me nostalgic
nostalgic for times where i’d plug my nose
and still be able to find the smell
maybe we just ran out of things to say to each other
and maybe this time I’ll let that be enough

there’s a band playing and I feel happy
I park at Edith’s and walk through a no
outlet that I’ve never noticed before
I know where he takes them on his little dates
and sometimes I end up there too
but I swear it’s always organically
I hope you know I’d spit on the grave of my
boss who fired me without cause
I might ask the three year old to say ****
but I can’t fathom being so unjust

I’m going to figure out how to
pick up my instruments again
and that includes my ability to
open my mouth and speak
I’m going to stop expecting the worst
I might not remember what it feels like
but I do know that my taste buds work

It’s been sitting inside of my chest like TV static
for what feels like a lot longer than seven days
I’m picking at my skin because it keeps my hands busy!
I’m chewing on my cheek because it keeps my mouth busy!
I spend my time missing you because it keeps the rest of me busy!
the dull aches of solitude, of emptiness
have been weighing heavy on my shoulders
in the silence, in 2 pm’s with nothing to do
in menthol cigarettes to try to smoke less ****
in bar culture
and every room
and crevice
and person inside of my mother’s home
my cries used to fill my studio apartment
to the very last inch of its 200th square foot
I’m sorry that I tried to call you
I know you hate that
I don’t think you want to talk to me
It’s been sitting inside of my chest on repeat
ringing for what feels like weeks
I’ve slept with the TV on with nothing
playing for the past seven nights
because it makes me feel less alone

an old man with Alzheimers and a panic button
on his watch walks into the bar slowly
the bartender leans in, drops a napkin, presses the button
and looks the man in the eyes as he orders a diet pepsi
The man’s eyes shift every two seconds-
from the TV, to the bartender
to his watch, to his hands
to the TV, to the door
to his watch, to his hands
for seven minutes, record timing on her part-
an older woman in running shoes and a
visor rushes to his side
and whispers in his ear that he isn’t supposed to leave
she tries to pay, the bartender says no
they leave together hastily
she is ashamed, every time
but he is only confused

If I was a coffee drinker
I’d balance your body like a rosetta
I’d kiss your cheek with my
Colombian coffee breath
the flavor of our love like
your crema on my tongue-
notes of rich chocolate evenings
and salty, very salty
your bitterness like the very first time
notes of my coffee cherry-
no, your coffee cherry
the aftertaste like high acidity
your complexity gets lost on
my caffeine intolerance
but I still feel your finish
each time I swallow
I still find notes of you,
cupping me

I.

My roommates dog licks, it’s just what he does. He lays on my floor and licks his paw until there’s a puddle of saliva and residue dog food on my pink Ikea rug I bought for fifteen dollars. Do details make it worth it? Or what does? It’s April and my roommate doesn’t groom him so his hair is completely covering my new maroon satin sheets I bought at a thrift store for four dollars, all clumped on my bed, just like I am in this exact moment. I have no details to offer about what is going on inside of my head, I only know I want to break my bones over and over again until they are better. Until they can offer more, or less, or just take me from point A to point B without the faint sound of crunching anytime I feel something.

II.

I’m not sure if it’s valid, rational, real or not but I felt it so I’m going to say it out loud anyway. I get here each and every time I don’t take my antidepressants, but I got too drunk and puked for 24 hours so there was no chance I was going to be able to down the one and only thing that makes my bones stick together. I’d say I should drink less but I don’t believe I’m capable of making it into a problem, I’m too busy exaggerating my position in all of these people's lives and breaking my own heart when I realize I stand for so much less. It’s usually my fault, I know that. We interacted for 25 seconds outside of a bar we once ****** at before they retreated off to the better, cooler, stronger-***** people I can only manage to feel contempt towards. It’s exactly how it should have gone, everybody tells me at least, I disagree, but it still made my spine curve. I talk like this because I’m completely out of serotonin.

III.

I write about *** a whole lot because I think it’s one of the few worthwhile things in this stupid ******* world. I’m only on this planet still for human interaction, which is why it’s absolutely terror inducing to be alone, but these days words have gotten me nowhere so I guess I’m content using my body instead. If there are no humans left to connect with, does that mean I’ve hit my expiration date? I worry nobody will make it worth it but that goes back to me putting my happiness into other people and I remember I still have to find a way to make these bones better, more capable and durable. I want an independent skeleton and to wake up without feeling the need to check the time. I’m not sure if there is a single person in this world I feel able to be myself around completely and I know that is my fault, too.

IV.

We can discuss the dynamics of the word “deserve”. I deserve more than this, you deserve peace and quiet and a world unmatched, I deserve an explanation, a cover up, a new start; all of these with such force the word starts to feel empty. Like drinking tap water. I remember reading in a poem somewhere about how many months, years, sacrifices it takes to be able to deserve to own another person's choices. Truthfully, we never actually deserve anything from one another. The only thing I am worthy of is these brittle bones. The only thing I have to offer is a constant worry in my chest that I am unsafe. I look around me and feel terrified of the world outside- the wind, where does it come from? These people, how are they doing it? What person woke up one day and decided life would be worth it, that we could create a civilization and a planet to make home for absolutely no reason or purpose and throw billions of people into it as well? I’ve been saying this life is a job I am not cut out for since I was 14. Even the items on the shelf right in front of my hands are hard to grab sometimes and I feel like I should start doing stretches in this supermarket but I am too exhausted. I am too exhausted spending my time trying to get to know who this person is that I am, this body I inhabit, this mind that is unfortunately the only one I have until I can figure out if reincarnation is real, or just something I tell myself to feel better about the bones I’m stuck with. I deserve new bones, right? I deserve more than this, right?

V.

Maybe it’s clockwork; mine and his and her hair on my bed, the dog panting to my left probably out of boredom because he has absolutely nothing to do, getting drunk and puking in the mens bathroom, not talking to them for three days, my perfume and deodorant and body wash all being rose flavored and the knowledge that this is just who I am inherently and the constant fear that that means I’ll never be able to grow out of it. I hammer my hand to see blood, I look at the bruises down my leg and on my chest, I wonder if I don’t take my antidepressants for seven days if I’ll have the courage to test my theory. Probably not, death is terrifying, but I’ll still try to call you and get ignored and I’ll ponder what I ever did to deserve such treatment. Am I too available? Yes, consistently. Am I too much, too loud, do I take up too much space and say the things nobody really needs to say? Yes, yesterday I called my boss an alcoholic and he laughed but nobody else did. Everybody else gave me those eyes that everyone gives me whenever I open my mouth, the eyes that make me feel like my skin has managed to come unglued and everybody is seeing my weak, frail bones I repeatedly break, I repeatedly try to heal, and gawking at my efforts. I put myself out there too much, too. I say I miss you when it doesn’t need to be said, I feel love when it has no business being felt. I crave my antidepressants that I still haven’t taken.


VI.

You say words for shock value and that makes you no better than any ****** white guy but I exaggerate how many girls I’ve slept with to anybody who cares to ask so I guess that means I’m the same as you.

VII.

MAYBE I AM AFRAID TO WRITE BECAUSE IT
MEANS I HAVE TO PICK A DIAGNOSES TO TREAT
MY SYMPTOMS PLAY TRICKS ON ME SO I MIX UP LIES
BUT I PROMISE YOU I WILL ALWAYS COME CLEAN
I BRAG ABOUT MY IMMUNE SYSTEM LIKE IM NOT
THE DIRTIEST ******* YOU’VE EVER MET
BUT NOW I CARRY HAND SANITIZER EVERYWHERE
I GO THROUGH THE DAY CONCEALED BUT CONTAGIOUS
LIKE MY SISTER GETTING MONO AGAIN SIX YEARS LATER
WHY DO I CARRY A GUN? FOR DISEASES LIKE THIS
MY MOM ALWAYS SAID GOING FROM HOT TO COLD SO
QUICK WOULD GIVE ME A SEIZURE SO NOW THAT I CAN’T
FEEL TWO CONFLICTING FEELINGS AT ONCE ILL BLAME HER
I’D SIT IN A HOT BATH AND LET ICE COLD WATER RAIN
I’D LAY UNDERNEATH MY BED IN THE DARK TO *******
I’D HAVE DONE ANYTHING TO JUST OCCUPY MY OWN SKIN

maybe I loved you like a diary
and maybe this city is only a grid
we walk up and down each of those
streets looking for tent cities and immortality
I lead the way because I can do that now and
you follow only because I’m taller
each house looks the same in a different way
I wonder why these aches feel exactly like
things I haven’t experienced yet

I write very honest poetry and
that is something you just can’t comprehend
what is even the point in living if one day I will die?
he only writes about women, and he writes
like he has nothing but resentment for us
he *****, reeking of cigs, he ****, he drinks and he writes
every last one of us as the main character

I shiver because I’m tired
I trip because I’m sober
I used to say I write confessional poetry
but maybe I was just lazy
maybe I just wanted a diary