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

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

This is a moment I want to write about for no reason other than me, my almost empty beer and the song playing. I am no one except my own. I'll never love you as much as me.

Today just isn't that day.

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

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.

there’s nothing else to say
I don’t trust you
I want to be a little higher
a little taller
a little stronger
I want to love you
less
I’ll still try and have ***
with you tonight.
I know myself more today
than I did yesterday

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

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

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

I’m so glad you’re too stupid to read my poetry and see all the ways I wish I could rid myself of you, or just this plague of love and what it feels like to love you even when you treat me like a piece of ******* ****. You’re a poison, you know, or maybe it’s just unrequited love. I feel you like you’re stuck between my teeth. A rock in my shoe. The dull of a tattoo needle. I’ve loved you, I’ve tried, but you look at me and see someone I’m not. I’m not all these bad things and I won’t stay as small as you want me to. I want more wine and I want to be in any other bed.

better elsewhere
better off elsewhere
better
better today
better tomorrow
better three Thursday’s from now
pull me closer, please
pull me as close as you can manage
pull me as close as you can and then
I never want to see you again
don’t touch me, don’t look at me
I want nothing to do with you
I think you’re pathetic, to be honest
I think I’m light years above you
get the **** out of my face
get the **** out of my way
I’m better than this
better today
better tomorrow
better three Thursdays from now
I hope one day, too

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.

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