I want to ask you questions that you’re not going to want to answer. I miss the parts of you that you’re hiding away. There’s a guy that is rocking back and forth to our left and you show me him with your eyes; I want to trust you more than anything in this world.
Do you think of her? Do you miss her? Have you spoke? I’m scared I don’t believe you.
I drink wine now, I loathe this day. My skin is itchy and I miss the way your cheek feels against mine, you’ve never felt this far and one time I slept away from you for a full month-
Is this right? Is this real?
I miss your skin. I miss feeling connected with you, I miss being able to feel secure. I miss when I saw your hands move and didn’t wonder about her, I miss the purity, the simple,
I never was supposed to like the taste of wine. The guy is rocking. The guy is rocking.

I look up to your ceiling and look at the banisters
if you count the ones on the edge there’s 7
I look to my left and my right
and imagine being anywhere else
feeling any other thing
my back is hurting so I sit up straight
there’s smoke in the air from the ****
you’re smoking out of the **** I got you
my best friend told me I should
take that back from you out of spite
I’m excited to see her this weekend
but I am sure you’ll be in the back of my mind
I accidentally gave my dealer a 50 instead
of a 20 and I gave you the majority of the drugs
the flowers I got you months ago are swaying
from the ceiling and I speak a lot of words
for someone who doesn’t really say much
I got through a bad day and
I just want to tell you all about it
I miss you, I miss you
come kiss me on the lips
I want to exist as somebody
who only feels what’s necessary
what do you think happens after we die?
do you think it just goes black?
I want to kiss you on the lips and fall asleep in your arms

Is it possible to love in silence?

1
I read in a poem that there is no sound more ****** than the clink of a belt being undone but you only wear worn out t-shirts and a frown on your face. I think of the sound of tires driving slowly over the asphalt and how I could get turned on easier by a look than a touch.  Your bed and you both taste like sweat but I am not going to complain because I'd rather be overheating than alone. I consider switching on your swamp cooler but it's loud and I want to be able to hear your moans in order to remind myself that you want me too. Do you?

2
I was doing my poetry homework when I had to stop in order to write poetry.

3
I dont know if I can handle the fact that you have made playlists for other people and that is so 2018 of me. Did you make that playlist for her?

4
[redacted]

5
If panic attacks actually helped anything I wouldn't mind the hyperventilating but instead I still feel like a sink has sunk inside my chest even after I've calmed down. Wouldn't it be nice if you could cry it, release it, scream to the skies and then be okay afterwards? I'm not sure who made me believe the symptoms of my mental illness should be like a shower; I don't feel cleansed. I don't feel new. I only feel raw, exhausted. It feels more like that same dull knife is tearing me open each skin layer at a time until I figure out how to grab the hand that holds it or I'm left open on the table, whichever comes first.

6
I'm writing in order to breathe. If I can't get oxygen to my brain my fingers won't be able to move.

7
I'm so scared I'm going to lose you. I don't want you in any other way. I want to love you, hold you.

8
I hear a baby crying outside of your window and I realize I need to get up to go home and get my work clothes. I find these simple things excruciating. Writing to you is a diary but I never should have learned to open my mouth and speak.

9
I started this poem four months ago and titled it a seven day long poem but I guess now it’s more than that. You always made me feel the things I’m currently feeling, I've never given up control this much in my life. I like to be in control, the one ignoring, the one who needs the time. I wish I didn’t love you like I do (it's just, there you know. It won't go away. It's not too much or too little, it's just stubborn, just like you). I'm so scared I'm going to lose you. I don't want you in any other way. I want to love you, hold you. Did you make that playlist for her too?

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

if you walked a thousand miles in my shoes you still
would not have any room judge me
where'd that idea come from, anyway?
that because you see what I see and walk where
I walk you have the power and knowledge to
write a book of every mistake I've ever made
and set it right outside of the gates of heaven
so that when my time comes I know it was your
words that left me dead?
people are not god's
you grew up reading mythology, watching the half-human
Hercules build a wall on top of his shoulders and carrying
it even throughout his most human times
I grew up reading poetry, memorizing the beauty of
metaphors to the point where I decided that when I grew up
I would become one and everything I do would be one
no wonder we have such different outlooks on life.
if someone put a knife through your back, you would die
you are not immortal because people are not gods
so why allow them to do what they do?
I told myself you would never make me sick again, ever
let me have a 105 degree fever and a pain in my shoulder
before I ever get nauseous remembering what happened
what was said or what we both did, but when I went to
the doctor and begged him to cure me he just filled his
syringe up with a photographic memory and inserted it
directly into my veins whispering
people are not god's
people are not god's
if you want to became the hands on a clock learn to
add and subtract and memorize when the sun rises and sets
if you are dead set on becoming something no one can
touch without crumbling to a pile of dust
breathe deep and walk tall
move as if your spine is made of words
that were said in such a fragile time that if you distribute
your weight improperly the tightrope will break
act as if it is never a fragile time
even though it is 99% of the time, but say it's not
say it's all just fine until your mind is snickering because
it has convinced the rest of your body it's able to keep running
people are not gods, people are not gods
people are just people and that's all they'll ever be
a mere five and a half feet, unless you allow them to
put on stilts and start walking around in your head

It’s been sunny for what feels like years and my skin is begging for moisture. I only want to talk in hyperbole but I’m afraid of not making sense, I miss the times I spent alone. I miss myself, I miss knowing who I am. I’m afraid of time with my mind, I’m afraid of what I would have to face. It once rained for weeks and I felt the most confident then.

I’m not sure I have anything to say but it’s been weeks since I’ve written and I really need to ground myself into something other than this. I’d rather scream out into the void, talk in third persons or pretend there’s someone else listening than be so afraid. You think I’m weak but I’m not. I hate that you think you know me when you couldn't be further away -/

I want to feel whole but I only
feel like my skin isn't on properly
is there a way to tighten it?
take it off and alter the way it hugs my bones?
it's all a mask and I'm only
trying to figure out how to rip it off.

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 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?

if it's the middle of the night and I'm laying in my best friends bed while she sleeps to my right, and I'm kind of reading poetry and kind of pretending  I'm knee deep in traffic lights and 80 miles an hour to nowhere, and the room is dark and her fan creaks every three seconds on cue, and her washing machine is going because I spilled on the white shirt she was going to wear tomorrow, then maybe I can exhale five times fast let things be as simple as they really want to be.
maybe I'll write a letter to your father and tell him he ******* you up and simultaneously made you the best person to walk around in tucson arizona, and he'll probably smirk condescendingly cause I correctly pronoun you and he thinks there's something wrong with you but he'll be pleased that someone is proud of what he created so he'd let it roll off his back while behind every word I'm only wishing you'd roll off my tongue, like you used too. your maroon sheets were the soundtrack to my summer and I mean that because the noises that were made while I was wrapped in those managed to open my eyes and make my heart beat and system overdrive with all of my other senses like when you stand too close to the amp when your guitars plugged in, like there was this mountain I once saw in place of your head and when I saw that I had to climb it I thought hey atleast at the end I'll be sitting on his face, right, get some head outta this whole ordeal am I right, but instead when I got to the top I was sitting on your shoulders like I was your daughter and we were at a parade and you saying "that's some hard stuff, kiddo" was on repeat in my head like kiddo? kiddo? that is definitely not ***** talk and in actuality I'm a good 4 inches taller than you.
here we go, I plan to have a photoshoot at a laundromat and I get my camera's ready and clear a memory card and my best friend gets all ready to be my model and we laugh and she poses and we pretend not to notice when people eye us suspiciously and then we climb some mountains and I turn and you're nowhere to be found and that ***** why would I climb the mountain that IS  you when I can't even find you and I think that might be a metaphor because you're literally nowhere to be found we haven't talked all day but maybe there's no hidden message and this is all just one really bad long run on sentence about mountains and the head that I'm not getting but I totally should be getting and doing laundry because I spill on everything and write in the middle of the night when my best friends asleep and you're short and I'm tall and I love you and you say you love me but really who the **** knows. who the **** knows what you really mean by any of this at all
maybe I'll write a letter to your baby sister and tell her you slept with someone that was a year younger than her and I'll watch you get all red because you're embarrassed and angry when she calls and questions you and you'll say something like "yeah, her...yeah, the one you've met...yeah, she did stay at my house that night, no what the **** I don't know if we had ***, what the **** stop you're making me uncomfortable, I am not going to go to jail" and you'll be eyeing me angrily and when you get off the phone you'll scold me and I'll laugh all the way to the top of your mountain and when I'm at the top I probably still won't get any head. angry ***, that's a thing, I'll write the same letter and send it to your girlfriend and when you yell at me I'll say something sweet and innocent and put my hair in pigtails and lick a lollipop and say nothings even happening here so why are you yelling and then I'll skip away from you and look so cute you'll call me and ask if we can camp on the mountain tonight like we were supposed to the night before I moved but your girlfriend flipped so we got coffee instead and you pressed ignore until no one could ignore it any longer so you answered and I left.
then I came back.
but I dunno, have you even realized that? like, I'm here..... I'm back now....where's your head at? but more importantly, where's mine.

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

BASED ON A TRUE STORY
[the true part]

you got there and I was already breathless. I'd been waiting all day for some sort of release, let's say, and when you arrived it felt like that was good enough already, as if there was some sort of ****** in your eyes. you came through the gate, went into my room, and at first we struggled through trying to figure out how to speak to each other after being inside of one another so soon, you spoke slow.

we smoked in my bedroom and the fumes [re: our fumes] went inside my ceiling and out of the fan, maybe just into the walls as if they were lead rooting, sticking, planting itself inside of the dry paint, coming out to make me sick one of these nights that you're somewhere else. the light turned off, the clothes came off, but I still saw an orange hue. I stopped and turned, we were both high and you were kissing on my neck, we didn't understand how to allow our bodies to just do what they wanted to and you didn't quite understand my hesitation. Infatuation tastes like gasoline and I looked at you in my dark room but swore I saw a light, a spark of some sort, I imagined the room on fire, ignored it, searched for your lips through the darkness but quickly opened my eyes to red and orange in my peripheral vision. I failed chemistry but here we are, I'm searching for cigarette ash in my bed hours after you've left because I swear to god, I swear to god we turned orange.

I sat there thinking about how I was going to write about my come to Jesus moment. could emotional, mental and completely internalized connection manifest into a physical light? Is there such a power in skin on skin, mouth on mouth, your tongue on my teeth all the way to my ******* knees?

An hour or so later we were sharing water [a spiritual post-*** experience] and you were chain smoking outside while I rested peacefully in my bed, naked, staring at the way you inhale. We were talking about something [my music taste vs yours? the story of my sisters ex-boyfriends suicide or maybe my dads drug addiction? your pattern with girls that wanna make you their boyfriend and each time you got suspended from grade school up until they outed you to your mom?] and I turned- the light was back, it was coming from inside of your mouth, it was coming from the way you breathe.

Maybe we were talking about ******* in your studio because you now have a key or the possibility of going as Rose McGowan and Marilyn Manson for Halloween. It wouldn't really matter because the orange shows up when you're there.

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.

Touch me, I am fragile but I know I will not break. If you look at me long enough your eyes will start to water based on the saltiness of my skin because of the sea's I've swam to get to the place I'm in now. Open, closed, I've ran back and forth a hundred times, I am the weakest link and the leader of the group. If you sawed me in half you'd see three things: my barely pumping heart, a toxic amount of love, and a will to survive.

Touch me, but be gentle, because although I learnt to withstand even the deadliest of summer heat your cold heart isn't something my body is used too. Close your eyes, count to ten, am I on your mind? No. Throw me into the ocean. I'm no use to you then. It's cloudy but it doesn't rain, mid 70's but no humidity, my heart is sore, but I'm breathing. Oh god, I don't know how, but I will continue.

Touch me, be rough, *****, make it a melody and prove to me all I'm missing out on by not being enough for you. Afterward, I want a list of ten things I can change so that I will be enough for you. Make it a hundred if you have too, I just want to be enough for you. Staple it to my forehead, toss me in the ocean. I'm not here for your approval, only my own, and I don't think I'll be content in who I am until I'm something you think is worthwhile. Push me on the ground and kick me as hard as you can, make this pale skin your canvas, I want bruises and blood, six broken bones and a concussion to match. Make me hate you. Babe, all I've got is love.

Touch me, one last time, but don't let go until the end of this lifetime. This love became a competition long ago, and boy do I love to win. Tonight the universe spoke to me and it told me here is where I need to be, and I think it wants me to fight. Put on your armor, give me some weapons, I'm here for the long haul and I'm taking every prisoner I can. Touch me because I am weak and I need to learn to be strong so I can withstand this, 'cause baby this love feels like seeing a doctor coming towards you with a needle the size of your head, "oh don't worry sweetie this will only hurt a tad", *******. I still felt it a week after. But this one, ****. I'll be lucky if it doesn't still sting in a year...

Touch me, please. I'm begging you. I need to feel alive, but you've been suffocating me and my heavy heart. How am I supposed to survive when loving you feels like death?

I am as strong as I want to be, because right now I care more about leaning out and taking in as few calories as possible. Losing the pounds in order to gain 'em back, you know? There's very few questions that truly have a right or a wrong answer, and I believe that with 98% of me. Sometimes a right answer simply means it is socially acceptable and a wrong answer is the truth, so in that situation you'd want to throw away your moral compass, clench your jaw, and hope that the lies that come out just result in pearly, shiny teeth.

you take a sip of something and it tastes like, ummm.. bad. it tastes like deceit, but that isn't totally possible (OBVIOUSLY), so in a literal sense it just tastes like the Coca Cola syrup that didn't have any carbonated water mixed with it. It's sweet, flavorful, but kind of tastes like it could erode my car engine in a matter of seconds, you know?

I feel the sip deep inside of my body, I can feel it trailing down my esophagus (is that what it is?) or maybe just my throat, a tube to my stomach and then to parts of me I better just not try to name out of fear of sounding stupid. fear of sounding stupid drives the majority of things I do, but that's okay, because at least I don't sound stupid.

the sip gets caught in the pit of my gut and I start to feel uneasy. I probably should have looked at the bottle before sipping it, huh? I probably should have asked for a detailed list of ingredients like the responsible wanna-be-vegan I should be? I call myself a wannabe most things. its just the person I am.

I take a seat because I don't feel good. this is going to hurt, this is going to land me in the hospital probably and might take a whole while to get over. this is turning too literal and I'm trying to beat around the bush, so ill just tell you about the time I took a sip of a coke can and a bee was inside and it flew around in my mouth for a solid 5 seconds before I managed to open, spit, and scream. that could be poetic if you really hunt, like I waited 5 whole seconds to get the monstrous bee out of my ******* mouth, I just sat with a confused look on my face for 5 whole seconds!!! thats a whole giant metaphor! I still swallowed the Coca Cola and it tastes like ***.

IMAGINE THAT people- poison only takes like poison once you've swallowed it.

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.

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.

you make me think that maybe
everything happens for a reason.
you met me at a time where I was
convinced faith was a concept I had no time for
you met me at a time where I thought
everything happens at random and ineffectively
I'll meet you halfway
if it's the last thing I'll do

I close my eyes
the drums are beating loud
one after another
rhythmic
it's bright in here
my eyes fill themselves with water
and decide to glare down the lights
you've got me on a leash
I'm back and I'm forth
the streets are never ending
the sidewalks are all crooked
I am the crack you just stepped on
why do you keep stomping on me?
for a moment I think I can see the intersection
the end.
but I'm wrong, just like always
the buildings are tall, so tall that I can
barely see the sky when I'm not in motion
maybe that's why I never learnt to stand still
the sun never comes up here
but the moon is bright enough for the both of them
It took me a long time to realize that's what you
meant when you said I was your moon
houses are aligned side by side
with only a foot between them
right and then left, I tell myself, right and then left
I'm not here right now, I don't believe it
I get so caught up in this place I forget what
I'm trying to do and that scares me
the sky tells me something but I refuse to believe it
mostly because there are no stars here
the clouds are gathered as far away from me as possible,
almost as if they have a secret but who doesn't nowadays
no one is clean but yet everyone
is yelling at me for being *****
I am screaming but everyone just
continues to march in a single file line
they can't hear me in here
I open my eyes

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?

you’re holding a phone to the mirror about a foot away, the camera focused with you directly centered. your best friend talks about something or something or somewhere or someone she’s doing and you can’t help but feel like you’re behind. you ARE behind. ****** catch up.

you snap a phew photos and zoom in a bit so the photo looks more grainy. you go to work and cuff your jeans and walk without picking up your boots. you tell the girl who wants to be your friend that you can’t get a beer after work because you’re feeling like you want to get out of this space and that’s .... okay. you put your phone in your back pocket and you open up the door. you go outside.

you remember walking down a steep set of stairs in another state you haven’t visited since 2014. you remember the god awful shirt he was wearing, you remember his room smelling like **** and your body feeling so out of place. you kept your cool for twenty or so minutes. when you retell the story you like to make it seem like you ran out in a hurry but in actuality you waited a bit wondering why he didn’t kiss you. you really, really didn’t want him to, but he didn’t try.

your phone ends up back in your hand and you’re scrolling thru life sized images at an alarmingly fast rate. it beeps it buzzes. you plug it in because it’s dying. so are you. so am I

I sit on top of my rooftop
eating honey and smelling flowers
wishing on the stars and the
cracks in the pavement
for a chance to become a bee
if you want to give up, go ahead
I'll try to pick up the
pieces as best I can
but just know I'll
always put myself first
besides of course
when I put you before everything else
which will happen fairly often
if not always
but other than that
it's about me
I know you are sick of my
indecisiveness and irritability
and I know nobody thinks that I
notice when I start to spin out
but I really can feel the difference
in the same way
I can tell what color a rose
is by the way it smells
and the gender of the
bee by the way it stings
on my pessimistic days
I can tell if a rose is dead
by how bad the thorns
make my fingers bleed
there are talents behind
this shaking knee
and inability to sleep
ones you will never see
If you are having a bad day
I can try to help it turn around
but just know once I start
I'll never stop
x

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

you tasted like ******* and I tasted
like blue raspberry jolly ranchers
you tasted like what am I doing
and I'm sure I did too
you smiled and leaned in and
I put my fingers on your dimples
you pulled me on top and I forgot to think
I forgot that drugs that taste like
gasoline when they're "the real ****"
aren't flavors I'm supposed to enjoy
you kissed my nose and said it was
weird because you are so closed off
but I make you want to open up
I shook my head and pretended that
wasn't the millionth time I've heard that one
oh I make you want to throw away your past
and get close to someone again?
cool, write us a happy ending too
I woke up this morning exhausted
with matted hair and smudged makeup
I kissed your neck, kissed your neck,
kissed your neck....
your roommate said she liked me
and I kissed your neck again.
you are movement
you are time
you are start middle finish
you are finish line, winning by a second
you said you don't want to open up
then tell me why you're here?
tell me why you're looking at me like that
and kissing me like that
and holding me like that
tell me why you're touching me like that
your insides are ripping and
you're dying to crawl out
I can see it in your stare
you were not expected
frankly you weren't really wanted
but I put my fingers in your
dimples and I forgot to breathe
I always forget to breathe
you tasted like ******* I mean that literally
you tasted like this isn't a good idea
but I want it so bad and I mean that literally
you looked at me and said
"no like, if I'm doing this it's because I mean it"
I wanted to tell you same thing
but looking back I don't think
I would have meant it

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

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

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.

on my good days I am floating, there's background noise and the faint smell of desire, but I move like a needle pushing through skin; deliberate, with purpose. whether I'm the vaccine trying to prevent the disease or the cure hoping to alleviate some of your pain, I don't know. I think I might be a weird mixture of both, but the story is only in its rough draft, so there's no telling on if I work or if I'm just a waste of time.

on my bad days I'm only a silhouette, more background noise, the faint smell of gasoline, the sound of sirens, shady looking men walking down the street in hoodies and smoke in the air from a fire down the street, I am the stray dog, the road ****, the broken down bus and the stars completely covered by smog. if you close your eyes, I'm still there. I think on these days there are people trying to run from me, I know I'm one of them, but we can't get away. red light after red light, 13 miles with a cop on your tail and tags that expired last week, rest assured your shadow always follows you, and so does my silhouette.

on both of these days, I love you. on both of these days I long for you, and on both of these days I am running in an attempt to get ahead of time because it's running out, and I'm not finished yet. I'm not ready to become someone who was, I know that I said I would be okay as long as at some point you remember me as someone who played a part but I am not ready to throw in the cards and become a past tense, not yet, maybe not ever.

I'll be 900 miles away driving away from the smog just so I can look at the moon and know you're standing underneath the same one, I'll be 900 miles away with different background noise then this with my hand in the air wondering how in the hell we're supposed to keep in touch if I can't manage to touch you. you say it's not that far, that I won't fall off the grid, that the months will fly by and I will pick up where I left off.
you say a lot of things.
I whispered that I loved you quiet enough for you not to hear and we hung up.

everything's falling, breaking, the seams are ripping, the hinges are stuck, the car won't ******* start again and I think the locks jammed too with my **** keys inside- and then there's the background noise. it's still all just background noise.

You don't deserve my unconditional love but nobody ever does, any time it happens. Here we are again. I'm too high to write about this right now.

maybe this is the only way I can deal with it

I'M GLAD YOU
think there's more to me than this
I'm glad that when the sun shines
it shines right onto your back
I'm glad it darkens your skin
and brightens your mood
I'm glad we are complete opposites
you smile at me and I smile back
you'll never be as neat as me
I'M GLAD YOU
say you love me
I'm glad that you love me
I'm glad you think you do
I'm glad that I'm not sure if I love you
it's easier this way
we stay, ok, we don't, cool
nothing really matters to me
I'd rather be halfway than
completely hindered
I'd rather be halfway than
completely hindered
I'd rather be halfway than
completely hindered

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 too much and i don’t sleep enough i don’t want this to be organized i don’t want there to be correct punctuation i want to stop editing for a few minutes or maybe a few months so i can write what i’m actually thinking everything i say is masked by something else i can never get what i’m really feeling down i cannot always grasp how empty i feel into words and i cannot always force chills to take over your body by talking about her sometimes the only thing that’s going to come from my mouth is the muffled sounds of my crying and sometimes the only thing that my hands will be able to make is the sound of the door slamming i don’t think anyone realizes how hard these things hit me i don’t think you get the extremities of my words this doesn’t feel ok and neither does you saying i'm good with my words in that tone of voice as if i am manipulating you by simply speaking but it isn’t necessarily rewarding that someone is clapping as my heart is breaking on these pages it isn’t exactly fair that one day people will dance along the highway to every insecurity I feel
sometimes I want this to break your heart i’m incapable of slowly stuttering out my feelings i scream them at you i force these words out of me with no problem at all and i'm sick of it because now you know way too much

I feel your absence like the sound machine in my therapists office. It sounds like static, white noise, I know it’s only there to distract me from what the person inside her room is discussing.
An elderly woman walks out and folds the blanket she has wrapped around her body and places it gently on the ground. She is laughing to herself lightly. I wonder why she sees my therapist.
I clutch the tissues in my hand and look at the floor. I don’t want her to look at me. I smell like patchouli because of this stress relief spray I found sitting in the waiting room that I decided to spray all over my skin. I want to open up the bottle and drink it. At this point, I want relief almost more than I want you.
I hear her typing on her computer and wonder how long it’ll take for her to open the door and tell me to lay on her couch. I haven’t seen her in a few months and I wonder if it’ll be awkward, but my senses are on overdrive so I’m sure I’ll just end up crying.
There’s a circular table with six different teas, coffees, Emergen-C’s and a jar of honey sitting directly in front of me and a box of affirmations to my left. I shake my foot because I can’t sit still. I shake my foot because the sound machine is giving me anxiety. I shake my foot because I’m in a bad spot, again. I don’t know who I am, why I’m here, or who I’ll become. I miss you.
You made me feel grounded and I know you felt the same from me. I loved that feeling, you hated it. I need that feeling, you try your best to push it away.
I don’t feel like I’m panicking, or anxious, I only feel sad. I want your skinny little lips on my neck and I want to feel safe in your bedroom. I imagine what you and her are talking about in those green text messages and my stomach goes into a knot. It’s gotta be something surface level.  Disgustingly surface level, the kind of small talk that makes me puke. Small talk is comfortable to you.
The analog clock ticks loudly and I wonder if she’s doing it on purpose. I want her to open the door fifteen minutes early and allow me to start crying sooner, I feel these tears deep inside my chest and I don’t want to stuff them down. But I’m going to, outside in the real world.
I wonder when we are going to talk again and I have to acknowledge that it isn’t up to me. Most things aren’t. I wish I had more respect for myself so I could hate you for what you’ve done to me but I’ll just call myself overly empathetic and understand your actions instead. That hurts, you know, always trying to find the good in people. It hurts because sometimes there isn’t any good, but I am still here searching. I hope there’s more good because I want to go to the pumpkin patch and make out in the corn field again but you want to do whatever you want, whenever you want it and I’m only an after thought. I wish I was whatever you wanted.
I still have twelve minutes until she opens the door. I want to have a therapy appointment three times a week, I want to have a therapist who tells me what to do. I want the love of my life to not hurt me so bad, I want to be loved gently. Kindly. Carefully.
There’s a difference between want and need and gentleness was never something I put on my to do list. Instead I wrote independent, tough, hard to love, detached. I wrote difficult, stubborn, distant. I wrote down every single bad quality you have and decided to love it more, decided it made you YOU, decided I could walk through the mud as long as I got to lay on the beach the next day.
It’s been a full week since I last slept at your house. We’ve talked everyday but it has felt like the static the noise machine is making. I still have nine minutes until she’ll open the door. I still have days on weeks on months until you’ll consider opening yours up one more time.
You did this, but I’m here hurting. This isn’t what I asked for, I did everything right. I don’t have as many tears left as I thought I did. I’m going to go to the gym and lay in a park and try to push off feeling sorry for myself until I have no other choice. I want to push away all these feelings, maybe it’ll lessen them. Maybe the wound is still open and blistering and I just keep pouring patchouli stress relief spray right inside it. Patchouli is your favorite scent. One time you told me you were only tobacco and patchouli and you bought me a candle with that scent for Christmas. You’re the opposite of stress relief.
I miss you, but I know not speaking to you for a little while is going to help me. I don’t like talking to you when I can’t call you mine. I don’t like the way it feels to kiss your small lips and feel your jaw tighten. You hugged me so tight and I took one more step and leaned in. You said goodbye, and I said that was a mistake, I shouldn’t have done that, and walked hurriedly to my car.

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

Today just isn't that day.

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

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

my sister overheard you saying that your car broke down
so now she drives you to and from work
yesterday when I went into work you were
standing and I noticed you got a haircut.

this is what happens when you lose a person
you no longer know about the little things

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

"what does she have that i dont?"
I imagined asking, I imagined calling hours after the fact and letting you hear me squirm out muffled cries,
the grey area between please, please no and thank you for doing this now

"what does she have that I don't?"
I imagined asking, I imagined calling and begging you to give me a better reason why I wasn't enough to show you that you deserve so, so much better, that you deserve to not be a wreck, but I stopped.

"what does she have that I dont?"
I realized, in that inexplicable grey area between want and loss, there is one and only one thing she has that I never will,

you

right between the place of being perfectly okay, stable,
and content and ripping at ever seam, loose at the hinges
you can see that the stitches are coming apart and
the heart doesn't want to beat anymore
I was born here
between the lines of need it I need you and that
wouldn't be good for me and neither are you
the space between total distance and I miss
the word baby so much that I feel achey
I want to yell and I want to scream but
my mouth is shut, I know there are reasons why I'm here
whether it be bad karma or the way the world turns and
if there isn't then **** whatever card I drew out of the deck
once I said
excuse me father for I have sinned
because I didn't know how to pray so I begged for
forgiveness until my ego bled reasons that I needed
to be alone but I'd rather be excused then forgiven
because I'm good at excuses and I'm still waiting
around for the moment where I forgive you

I DON'T WANT TO BE HERE.
WHEN WILL THE SKY STOP FADING
TO SUCH A DARK BLUE THAT I HAVE
TO TURN MY BRIGHTS ON AT 4 PM
WHEN WILL THIS CITY WAKE UP ONE
MORNING WHEN IT'S NOT EXHAUSTED
AND HUNGOVER ON IT'S LACK OF OXYGEN
WHEN WILL THE BIRDS SONG
BECOME OUR WAKE UP CALL
WHEN WILL THE LEASH COME OFF
WHEN WILL THE WORLD SPIN ON IT'S OWN FREE WILL
AND WHEN WILL I  STAND ON MY OWN TWO FEET
I DON'T WANT THIS, I NEVER WANTED THIS
I GOT STUCK INTO BEING SOMEONE
I AM NOT COMFORTABLE WITH
BUT I WANT TO BE
I WANT TO BE SO BAD
IF ONLY YOU KNEW HOW MUCH EFFORT I PUT
IN ASKING THE GRASS TO GROW FOR ME
IT NEVER DOES
IF ONLY YOU FELT HOW MANY TIMES I ASKED
GOD TO TAKE AWAY THE FEELINGS
TAKE AWAY THE KNOWLEDGE
TAKE AWAY WHAT I NOW UNDERSTAND
LEAVE ME BLIND AND IN THE DARK BEFORE
YOU LEAVE ME SOMEONE WHO WILL NOT BE
ACCEPTED BY ANYONE, ESPECIALLY HERSELF
IF ONLY YOU KNEW HOW MANY TIMES I BEGGED
EVERYBODY TO STOP STARING AT ME
I'M IN A ROOM ALONE BUT ALL I CAN FEEL IS EYES
AND I DON'T KNOW HOW TO STOP BEING ME

I pull into my driveway and
my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a
wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with
his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small
and he's owned since 2005.
nearly every part of him is
large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes
from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from
his perpetually messy house
(his door is wide open, all the
cold air is escaping, it smells like
cigarettes and being ******* over it).
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before,
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid god forsaken ******* apartment
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all
standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too

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

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.

it hurts more to not
it has to

it's the middle of the night
and I won't rest until I get
the chance to change everything
and jump into another body
I've got chlorine in my hair
I've got scars on my skin
I'm only trying to keep my
head above all this water
the end means I stop looking back
you know how skies look different
when you're at a ****** gas station?
I think that's kind of the same as how
your love always seemed sweeter
when it was nearly killing me