i can’t care anymore because if i did i would crack.
exoskeleton.
so i don’t care.
i just endure and keep living.
it’s been a while. i don’t even have stripes anymore.
i think about the last time a lot.
all the time.
i think about that night when it rained
and i went out to the street
and didn’t look both ways before i crossed
on purpose.
and i remember waking up in the hospital
something like a thousand years ago
with a tube in my nose
and an iv in my wrist
and asking them to stop
touching me with their ***** hands
and no i don’t want this saline
can someone switch it to cyanide?
but they left me there without saying a word
and when the doctor came in i told him
just let me dry out
let me lay in street
and soak up the earth.
stop.
what day is it?
tuesday.
what happened?
you fainted.
in the street?
no. what street?
nevermind.
do your parents know about these scratches?
not these ones.
are you going to tell them?
i’m 18.
are you getting help?
i don’t need help.
do you want to talk about anything?
no.
and he looked at me
just looked at me
and took the iv out
and let me go.
i sometimes think he was god
cause he didn’t say anything to them
and he didn’t make me feel a thing.
not bad, not good.
he was as numb as i was.
and that’s the last time i woke up wishing i hadn’t.

i find myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. i used to pull it tight around my wrists and lose it in rosy verticals. it hurt until the pull choked and made it numb, numb until it wasn’t there and if it isn’t there than it isn’t a problem. it’s once in a while, it’s periodical. i snapped back lying on my floor without a pulse, stood up and threw away the rusty blades. sabbatical.

i found myself using this red string as an excuse, a muse, something to abuse. when you choose to bruise cause you have nothing left to lose. the soldier who made it out with everything intact except for what’s in his head, but that blood runs clear so they ignore it instead.

i almost used this red string as a noose. but now i’m playing double-dutch, catching fishing lines and throwing beams of orange and blues. sing me a song, porcelain. you taught me how to swim.

freezing winters, leather jackets
basement floors, in the attic
coca cola, spanish rice
swallow truth, ***** lies.

Was there a scarless time?

Warm night, spring of '94

Maybe it's all the drugs but

I've never seen such beautiful eyes before.

just the way you looked at me that one time by the swing set,
do you remember?
i always go back to that moment
because that’s when we both landed on a page i swore we’d be on forever.
“what?”
“nothing.”
it’s funny how some things change
and others don’t.
after a while i’d be the one looking at you
but you wouldn’t tell. you won’t.
oh tell me, please, i want to know,
let me soak up your pain, let me feel it too.
i can heal you, i can fix you,
you have to know i’d never judge you.
“nothing.”
you looked at me that first time
and i swear you could see my soul
shining like a ball of light in your hands
like this was destined to make you whole.
that’s the first time you ever saw anyone
and the last time it would be
the way it was when i was yours
and you belonged to me.
“what?”
i wouldn’t have drowned you, love
i wouldn’t have extinguished a thing
but instead of what i gave, all i got was
“nothing.”

you were always being practical

you never did anything if it wasn't logical

always using the other bathroom instead of the one closest to the theatre

cause "there's always a line." so i waited for you by that giant cylinder
alone
i swear i would have walked right up to that ****** with you if it meant i didn't have to be
alone.

holding hands constantly cause it was my proof that you loved me
life line. whenever you let go that indigo line beneath my translucent skin would beg to run red.
but i grabbed back on just in time to save myself.
save myself.
from who?

you. you're *****

disgusting
sick

don't touch me

i don't know who else has felt it

you swore, you meant it
you cried
my father still wears sunglasses when he's in the same room as my mother
and his hands have long since dried up from the night michael died
boys don't cry.

swallowed my pride every time i swallowed you
bitter
even though i knew
better
in the back of my head
but giving head was better than you
losing your head and this is my fault
i was crazy
i saw a shrink. i was fabricating these things.

i saw this coming, i saw this coming, coming, *******, going

away.

three weeks ago you saw the ruins of my people
the souls of dead mayans embedded into the sagging stone steps
i heard them scream my name as you crept to the top
and with a sigh you took it in
majestic, isn't it?
never seen something so
real before

what? like it was some sort of rare sight?

why? you saw my ruins all the time

are you blind?
blind?
blind
blind i can't see
i can't see you anymore
i can't see you anymore.
i....i can't see you anymore but i feel you under my covers
your toes discovering the places my feet have danced
and your mocha frappuccino skin crashing over my snow white like a wave
your fingers brushing over my zebra stripes asking why, not knowing that those same fingers put them there

i'm not breaking

you can drop your hammer now


when i was 14

i walked home with the taste of cherries in my mouth and

i didn't eat for three days just so i could

be with you.

was it because i wouldn't forget my weekends

inside red cups and fake friends

or wouldn't snort lines and --

nevermind.

that only happened once or twice.

i saved you from that avalanche.

i promised i would try every time

and even when i was hacking away at my skin,

trying to find an answer from within

and i wiped the blood across the dresser

and drew pictures of you and her.

and her.

and her.

and him.

maybe it was your pain more than mine.

it amazes me how

after all this time and

after all that’s been done

and undone,

i’m still standing

in the memory

of your too-soft hands

and butterfly kisses.