I remember waking up very early the next morning,
maybe three hours after I fell asleep on the bathroom floor.

I tiptoed through the house, careful not to wake anybody up,
even the guy who kept telling you to drink
even though you very kindly asked him to stop.

I'm not sure if you ended up drinking,
I forgot most of what happened that night,
but I remember shouting from the tire swing
that I loved you and that I loved you
and that I loved you.

I found where you were sleeping,
relieved to find no body next to yours,
and calmly placed a hand on your forehead.
You stirred, before gently grabbing my hand as it pulled away.

Eyes still closed,
you asked me how I felt.

I feel okay, nothing appears to be broken.

You said nothing and went back to sleep.
I said nothing and sat there for a long while.
I watched your chest rise and fall with each breathe,
and I loved you and I loved you and I loved you.

After a time I stepped outside to smoke a thought,
and the thought I smoked was not of you or of the night before
but of my mother.
She told me,
after I brought home my first date, two months into my freshmen year of high school,
that just because I desire somebody's love,
does not mean I deserve it.

I loved you and I loved you and I loved you
but I did not deserve your love.

I think I'm better.
At many things;
at being a drug user.
Hold up, you're saying, a better drug user?
How could you be better at using drugs?
Isn't the point for addicts to stop using?
Isn't that what makes them better?
Maybe.

I only buy my **** at the lowest of prices,
yet I always make sure it's good quality,
I won't buy it again if it's not.
//
I never use two days in a row,
or at least I try not to.
I don't use like I did anyway.
****, I hardly remember this last summer,
what with all the hydrocodone,
methamphetamine cut MDMA,
***, and alcohol.
I don't think I was sober for more than two days.

But it's not like that anymore.
I don't get high on days I work,
I don't get ****** at school,
I don't drink on weekdays,
I don't pop Molly anymore.

I'm a better drug user.

You ask me what it's like to hate a human being.

You're so sweet and innocent and you need to be punched in the face.
You where your cute fall clothing and smile your deceiving smile.
I shove my fists in my pockets and shove my anger down my throat
whenever you speak.
You may have friends but they're as fake as you.
When they push the knife in your back they won't be able to twist it as much as the one twisted in back.
You're just a liar; and I guess I've always known this much is true.

Hating a human being is stepping in a puddle and getting your socks wet.
Hating a human being is having your shoe lace untied in a busy hallway.
Hating a human being is finding your pack of cigarettes empty.
Hating a human being is me thinking about you.

In the sky there is a lonely star,
and in my heart there is a starless sky.

With the help of friends and methamphetamines
its been forty-eight hours since I've slept
but I am not tired.

Last night I laid awake on a lovely boy's couch
thinking of the moments we spent together
and I couldn't help but replay them in my brain
over and over,
hoping beyond hope for sleep
and you to share it with.

I guess I didn't see your scars,
blame it on the lighting or the beer,
but I knew they were there.
As my hands felt their way across your beautiful landscape,
I took special care not to rest them upon the raised, pink lines,
not wanting you, for even a moment,
to think the thoughts you thought when you created them.

I would tear my skin wide open,
stretch it across all the seas seven hundred times,
if it meant a single, tiny scratch would never find it's way onto your body with the guidance of your hand, the guidance of your starless night sky of a heart.

I know back roads and bonfires.
I know pine trees and rivers.
I know parking lots and cigarettes.
I know trailers and trailblazers.

The day I was born I was wrapped in dust,
it coated my skin and made me sneeze.
I was laid down on a bed of dust and my nose began to bleed, it hasn't stopped.

In school we'd throw a tennis ball against a wall, we'd run through the field, we didn't have swings, we didn't have a soccer ball.
We read from dusty books, we inhaled the words and dust alike.

In high school we drove fast down back roads. We drank beer and started a fire. We swam in the rivers and smoked doobies on the rocks.
These are the things I know.
I know this small town, I know the people in it, I know the trees and I know the back roads.
I don't know heartbreak.
I don't know alcoholism.
I don't know anything that is not covered in dust, I don't know anything beyond this valley.

It's dizzying how much misunderstanding there can be
between a father and son.
He thinks I'm out having ***, smoking dope, getting in fights, stealing cars and shoplifting.
When I all I do is chain smoke with my friends and ***** about our respective fathers.

So much trust has been lost in such a little time
and it's not him, it's me.
Coming home high, smelling of cigarettes, two hours late,
that'll do it.
I can't tell him that I was two hours late  because I was trying to sober up,
finding it disrespectful
to be high around my own old man.

He's afraid.
Because I'm just like him, and he sees it.

Pale Blue Eyes began the moment our socks came off.
It may only be a five minute song but it felt like an eternity.
Our bodies were cold and wet from the October rain.
Our hips met just as Lou Reed sang "I thought of you as my mountain top."
A feeling of warm rushed through my body and I'll never forget it.
"Thought of you as my peak," as I looked into your dark green eyes.
We fell onto the bed and the pain went away.
There was no headache that had clouded my mind,
the coldness from the rain was replaced with warmness from our love.
The wetness of the rain was replace with the friction of our beings.
****** started playing as you began to yell
and my muscles gave out.
We stayed there until morning,
with The Velvet Underground on repeat.
We fell asleep happy and we woke up happy.
We were two very different people but for a single night and there onward we are the same.
One in the same.
Love tied our strings together and put it in a nice double knot with loops in it.

Pale Blue eyes played as our socks came off
and it still plays now that the lights are off.

I cry ***** the color of Christ-blood.
It stains these linen sheets
and gets me drunker than Uncle Jim at a Christmas party.

Lonely thoughts breed lonely feelings
and lonely feelings hurt.
They hurt in the same way you do, because they're made of the same stuff.
Mixed in the same kitchen;
the recipe is the same.
One part brandy to one part cola to seven part tears.

A little girl who believes in love is much better off than the one who does not.
Much in the same way as a child believing in Santa Claus.
Belief can only set you up for disappointment,
but the feelings at the time of belief run deeper than the feelings after revelation.

This kid I go to school with told me his “Perfect way to be a nice guy and get girls to like you” today in math class.

He said to find a girl who tends to get drunk at parties and sleep with random dudes and regret it later.

He said to go to a party with them and get them drunk and then instead of sleeping with them let them sleep in your car and take care of them if they get sick or whatever.

He said than you had to make sure to tell her about it when she sobers up and how it’s “no big deal”

He said doing the right thing makes you a good guy.

I guess what he doesn’t understand is that setting yourself up for personal gain by using people with personality flaws is not what makes you a good guy.

Looking past Gilman St.
and looking across the
Bay to the indescribable
beauty of winter's hold
on San Francisco, I
couldn't help but
think of the world I
had forsaken to come
here and the troubled
life I will soon be leading.
Free of any masters, free
of God, free of judgement.

This old VW van is full
of smoke, full of hope,
and also full of memories.
And as I recall this we drive
past a small accident. Only
a fender ****** but there
still is a woman crying
in the rain. I imagine she
is not crying because of
her baby's health, which
appears to be fine, but
because of the hand she'll
to dip into the college funds
that she set up for her
daughter to pay for
the damaged. Not the
damages on her car,
she can live with those,
but the damages on the
2012 Ford Focus she
bumped into.

And I imagine that 16
years from now when
the now a baby girl
applies to Berkeley
and gets in her mother
will have to tell her that
although she got in, their
is no way they will be
able to afford to send her
there. The daughter says
I know mom, its more of
a pride thing. The mother will
then remember how she had
said nearly the same thing
to the daughter's father as she
kicked him out.

Later that night, she will
drink half of a fifth of *****
and take seven 200mg Vicodin.
She will not write a note. Just
as she will not wake up.

Berkeley will give her daughter
a full ride scholarship. Not because
she is the most qualified student.
Its more of a pride thing, they won't say.

~

She is not smiling much anymore.

I hate you.
I hate you too.
Why did you let this happen?
Me? This was all you, baby.
Oh come on, don't give me that *******. From day one I said this was a bad idea but you kept pushing us along.
*******, you had just as big of a part in this as I did.
I guess so. But still, if you weren't such an emotional ******* train wreck this wouldn't have happened.
True, but if you weren't such a cold hearted **** we could have let her in. We could have loved her.
I know. Now stop making me feel bad you *******.
I'm sorry.
I love you.
I love you too.

I have a strange relationship with my across-the-street neighbor.
Every morning, after the coffee *** is brewing and the bed is made,
I enjoy a cigarette or two just outside the front door.
I look across the street and I see him.
Bearded, usually wearing a hoodie, sweatpants and slippers.
On a typical morning he is out before me, about half way through his cigarette.

Although I've lived across the street from him for the better part of two years, I do not know his name.
I know that he smokes Marlboro 100's, just from the way his pack, generally in his cigarette holding hand, looks.
I know he has a wife, and a what seems to be three year old daughter.
I love this man.
I love him and his wife and his daughter and his Marlboro 100's.
Every morning that I see him, it is a sign that I am awake, that this is all real.
For if I were to not wake my mind would not be so cruel as to trick me.
My mind would not be so cruel as to deceivingly use my only sense of comfort against me.

Before daylight savings so rudely interrupted my subconscious schedule, the sun would just creep above the low tree line behind the man's house as he put out his cigarette and go inside.
On some days, I imitate him shortly after, dropping my cigarette and returning inside.
On other days, days when I need all of the tobacco in my cigarette, which have been occurring more often than they used to, I follow him more slowly. I stay outside until the sun is completely out from behind the tree line. Some days, as was the case this morning, I need two cigarettes to properly prepare me for the day.
And on these days, the man returns outside, with his baby girl in his arms and his wife following behind.
They all pile into his grey Toyota pickup and are off.
Where to, I know not.
All I know is that I will see him tomorrow.
And I love him for that.

-
Yesterday at school,
as I was walking through the halls,
a girl, (who I do not know the name of for sure, but that's not important right now) before walking past me looked up and into my eyes as they were already intent on her.
She was beautiful,
you must understand.
And her eyes pierced through the fog that the melancholy environment of the school had left upon the halls.
And when she smiled, I swear all else around me stopped,
all things inside me rapidly expanded,
filling my body with an awkwardly warm feeling.
When I smiled back to her without meaning to I remembered looking into the mirror that morning and seeing my face, with it's too large nose and it's skin invaded with acne and a few scars and even fewer whiskers.

All these vain trifles of mine own face quickly evaporated from my mind as her eyes made their way back in.
I looked down at the ground around her feet and noticed nothing but her feet.
Covered with black China flats which were covering black tights that wove their way up her calves and thighs where they disappeared under a brown backed floral dress which again, stood under a denim jacket.
******* my short casket of knowledge when it comes to women's clothing
but God ****** if I don't know a stunning girl when I see one. If I see one, and I saw one.

My eyesight slowly wandered up again to her eyes
and thinking back on it now I am wondering how I had enough time to take such a clear mental picture and save it in my smoke filled brain.
And as I looked up I found her eyes again, looking back at me.

She continued smiling and said hi.
I continued smiling and more or less grumbled hi.

We each continued walking in our own, opposite directions.
I don't know her name.

And I have a friend named Fiona who played a tree in our school's production of Wizard and Oz.

~

I'm not pretty enough for cornflowers.

What's one more pill to a man who's taken thousands?
It depends;
if you're running out and you drop one under the fridge, it's enough to move the fridge.
If you've taken eight but can't seem to fall asleep one might just do the trick.
If you're trying to sober up one might mean starting the cycle again.

"It's Toasted"*

Something about that red circle calls to me.
Something about R.J. Reynolds appeals to me more than Phillip Morris
and Santa Fe Tobacco Company.

Maybe all it is is the classic red circle.
Or maybe it's the nostalgia.
Maybe it's knowing that 4 out of 5 of my dead ancestors smoked Lucky Strikes.

But oh boy, to get one burning and in my lungs is bliss.
Whether it's in the morning, accompanied  by a cup of coffee
or during school after sneaking out of class.

The smoke that fills my head clears the smoke that filled my brain.
And shadowed my eyesight.
And made me shake.

Any cigarette will do it
save for maybe those God awful Fortunas.

How about this weather we've been having.
And how about them Yankees.
But boy, oh boy, how about those Strikes.

Dedicated to Bobby Trice, Willem Cole Traupel, and Haley Ristow*

Spilled sodas
and spilled hearts.
Smoked cigarettes
and smoked days.

The snow has ceased falling, and my mood has continued climbing.
What used to be a dark shade of orange, an orange haze,
is now a light, gentle shade of white.
Crisp and clear.

And as I shoveled the drive way,
I thought of the less than extraordinary Sunday
and how extraordinary it was.

And as I looked into my cigarette pack, finding it empty,
I remembered a quote the director of our school play had said
"Do not cry because it's over, smile because it happened"
And I guess it's silly to think of a pack of Organic American Spirits in the same shade of white that others think of a school play.
Maybe it's not so much the cigarettes but the people I shared them with.
The people I love.
My bestfriends.

He has so much more than I could ever have.
He's got the looks, the girl, the money, the car, the scholarship.
What do I have?
Smokers lung and more than a few scars.
His future is golden while mine is cold and dark.

He is so much more than I could ever be.
He's the quarterback, the life of the part, the valedictorian, the nice guy.
What am I?
The wise guy, the teacher's nightmare, the guy on the sidelines, the ****.
He is a golden boy and I am dark and cold.

"I'm a mountain that has been moved
I'm a fugitive that has no legs to run
I'm a preacher with no pulpit
Spewing a sermon that goes on and on"

Long ago,
there lived the most beautiful princess and her name was Ornia. She was loved by her people, and she loved them back. On the day she was to crowned queen a terrible cancer appeared in the heart of the mountain she called home.
She prayed to the Spirit of the Sun and the Spirit told her the mountain is sick, because there is not enough love being returned to it, only love being taken from it.
Ornia, feeling her heart heavy and bursting with love, crawled through many cracks and fissures in the mountain until she reached the center.
There she released her heart from her chest, wove the vessels into the cancerous ones of the mountain and cured it.
Still, silent, she lies there, feeding the mountain love.
The people so loved her and recognized her sacrifice they named the mountain after her: Calif-Ornia.

I imagined your hips in my hands,
and I imagined I had it all under control.

I stared at your lips when you spoke,
you pretended not to notice.

I stared at your *** when you walked away,
and your hips swang methodically, enticingly.

Public intoxication, two nights in the county jail, 500 dollars in court fees and fines, and the feel of your breast on my palms.  These are the things that haunt me.
You haunt me.

I'm always talking, baby, talking too much
I love that little girl and I just can't get enough*

I don't know how to deal with these feelings.
Feelings that have lain dormant for years.
Like a volcano of biblical strength
my love exploded all over her neighbors porch
and now I need to pick up the pieces.

I've been searching for something to distract myself.
I took some pills today.
I spent half the time promising myself I won't start using again
and the other half trying to buy more dope.

I need something to ****
and I need something to snort
and something to drink
but what I need
is to stop letting this affect me so ******* much.

This isn't your fault,
for ***** sake
this isn't your fault.

This is me and my inability to handle any sort
of pressure,
like a ******* ******* dog,
I pull on the leash and pull on the leash
until my owner beats me into submission.
Five minutes later I'm pulling on the leash again.

Two celestial beings destroy each other over a petty argument.
And two cartoon characters live happily ever after.
An actor is playing an insecure caricature, while a despicable tyrant commits genocide.

I am talking to a girl who flirts with me and it makes me happy.
I'm allowed to be happy.
I lay awake at night with guilt.
I'm allowed to feel guilty.

I drink and I smoke,
but I haven't touched an ****** in so long I lost count of the days.

We continue to talk,
I hear nothing but meaningless small talk
and speak likewise, if only to prove a point.

Sometimes I think about you
and I get sad.
I think about you being here with me, on this couch
and I get sad.
I think about the way you lied
and I get upset.
I think about the way you manipulated
and I get disgusted.
I think about the way you loved
and I feel cheated.
I think about the way we continue to lie
and I am disgusted.
I think about the way you pushed me aside
and I am disgusted.
I think about you
and I feel cheated, disgusted, sad, upset, lied to and loved.
I feel.
And that is never a good thing.

There is a clock resting above a fireplace that hasn't seen a fire in twenty years.
It is fifteen minutes slow and it has been for quite some time.
I used to take it off the mantle and manipulate the dials so as to allow it to correctly display the time.
And my mother would turn it back again.
I never understood the reasons for this,
and I still don't.
And god ******, this clock has no significance and this metaphor slipped my mind as soon as I thought of it and I can't think of enough ways to say I'm sorry.

I'm not feeling regret or bitterness
I just wish you'd stop embarrassing yourself.

And if this will only make you sad, for God's sake do not read it.
I miss the way I thought of you before I really knew you.
I miss the way I perceived you to be.
As this beautiful, mysterious, intelligent thing.
I don't miss how you turned out to be.
How you were all along.

And if this is making you sad, I beseech thee; do not continue.
I miss the way your hair smelled in my mind, before I ever smelled it.
I miss the way I imagined your hands touching.
The soft elegant strokes would run across my back and neck.
I don't miss how they turned out to feel,
only how they felt before you ever stroked my skin.

And if this will only make you angry, avert your eyes, please.
Because I do not need you.
Least of all angry.
I need to do this though.
I need to put these words out there.
Just as I did before I met you.
Just as I did while I had you.
Just as I do now that I lost you.

You sing songs
of unrequited love
but you know not
on that subject.

You sing songs
of longing
but you know little
on that subject.

Oh God,
I love you,
oh how I've loved you,
oh you disrespect and belittle me.

Love is the only tangible emotion.

It's a picture of a cat flying a helicopter:

It's stimulating in an overwhelming way
and not dissimilar to the first time I drank spring water.

From here on out its Season 2.
None of us really knew what we were doing, how about you?
Under rocks, in fields, along the NID ditch.

Something's gotta give; strung out and hung up to dry, we try and we try.
Rub aloe on my cheeks and I'll try not to cry. Throw me into space and I'll try not to die.

I have a few unhealthy habits that my therapist wants me to shake.
Chewing my nails is a nervous habit, he says.
Smoking cigarettes is only a crutch, he says.
Gorging/starving is a personality flaw, he says.
Drinking alone will cause problems, he says.
Falling for those who are leaving, have left, or are simply out of reach is a death wish, he says.
Hating yourself simply won't do, he says.


Tonight,
a hot summer night,
spent cigaretteless,
loveless,
and sleepless,
teach me more about myself
than Doctor Eric Schlanger, L.C.S.W.
ever could.

I know not about the feelings I have,
and the urges I get.
I know not when they'll come,
how long they will last,
and what my actions shall be.

I'm a mess.
This is the only way to describe it.
I'd rather breakdown in your arms,
than be at ease alone.

Everything about you is wonderful to me.
Everything.
I want to know everything about you,
I want to know what the kids called you in 4th grade on the playground
I want to know who your first boyfriend was and what your dad wanted to do when he broke your heart
I want to know who your favorite 80's synthopop band is
I want to know what you think of when you wake up at 4:26 in the morning with a stiff neck
I want to know what color you wish your softest skirt was
and I want to buy it for you.
I want to pick every single flower on earth and fill your arms with them.

I want to hear your voice when you're sick in bed
and I want to know what kind of tea to bring you
I want to know what movie you watch when you can't do it anymore
because that boy in your history class wouldn't stop calling you that word and ******* it you are not that word but this movie makes you feel better and it always has (it did in 4th grade when they called you that name on the playground)

I want to know which side of your face you prefer to have photographed
I want to know who you pray for
and if you think anybody is listening.

I want to know what your mother wanted to name you before your father convinced her otherwise because "Honey, do you really want our daughter to grow up being called that and have her know that we are responsible?"

I want to know if you like the feel of cold hardwood floor on your feet in the morning or the feel of carpet when you first take your rain boots and socks off after stomping puddles.

******* it, I want to know everything about you
so I can love every single one of those things with an intensity
the devout Christian envies.

They say stress can cause headaches
and nausea
and cramps
and they say that stress can lower your bodies ability to fight infection and viruses.

But I'm here to tell you that it's not stress that causes those things for me.
Stress is partly to blame.
It's a combination of stress and lack of cigarettes
and alcohol
and laughs
and love
and they say that too much of anything is a bad thing but I'm here to tell you that not enough of some things can be just as bad.

A lack of water can cause headaches
just as a lack of cigarettes will.
A lack of sleep can cause stress
just as a lack of cigarettes will.
A lack of purpose can cause depression
but a lack of cigarettes will not.

~

Destructive thoughts may only cause harm.

****, this pizza's good*
Shut up Nolan, you're high.

~

She prefers black and white films.

Yes, I'm sick of the world
and all that it holds.

I'm tired of living this meaningless existence
and going nowhere fast.

I'm sick of looking at girls
and being filled with longing.

I'm tired of looking at the past
and wondering what went wrong.

I'm sick of being sad
and I'm tired of being mad.

I'm tired of this pretentious happiness
and this emotion oppression.
--
--
--
I don't want to wake.
I just want to sleep.

I don't want to fight
I just want to drink.

I don't want to hear your *******
I just want to put in my headphones.

I don't want to feel
I just want to forget
about all of this world (all of you) and all it holds (all I remember of you)

I miss the time we spent existing in the same place and I miss you, I miss your soul and the way you said my name and the way you held your coffee cup and the way you rubbed aloe vera lotion on my face.

I miss the hairs I found on my bed after you left. I miss the water bottle you forgot here that I forgot on the metro and I miss the voicemail you sent me, I deleted it believing that nothing is as good as it was the first time, I think I may have been wrong.

I miss remembering the first time we kissed, I have forgotten it. I forgot the last day I spent sober. I miss the way your legs felt on mine under the sheets and I miss the way you held my hand in the car.

I never said I loved you and neither did you and I'm not sure I do and I'm not sure I ever did but you were one hell of a friend, you have been, you've been a blessing on my life, your presence is the build up of all the good karma I've received and then some and then quite a bit more.

You're learning, you're thinking, you're organizing your thoughts and I should be too. I've been looking at blank walls again.

It happens that quick.

The Outlaw Josey Wales doesn't shoot so much anymore,
he has nothing to shoot at.

The sun blazes and it blazes and it burns all those under it
with extreme prejudice.

From the Alpha to the Omega the teeth of wolves are sharp
and they tear through flesh with such disregard.

Jack Kerouac is still writing, the ink still rolls from his pen on to paper
but now, thankfully, nobody knocks on his door.

Death will come once, and death will come for all,
and I'm sure when death comes, I will be cold
and all alone.

November brought
rain,
snow,
sweaters,
and kisses.

We discovered what our lips could do as we lay huddling together.
Under blankets,
in a house,
in a tree,
we discovered the sensation of
excitement in places we thought to be unexcitable.
Like our lips,
our tongues,
our fingertips
and our eyelashes.

I can't remember how many times we watched Harold and Maude,
I only know that we never got through it.

You told me I kiss like I'm in a hurry.
Like I need to catch a train
but I also need to kiss you,
and nothing on this earth can stop me from doing both.

And you kissed like you knew it was a good thing.
Which must be quite a sensation to have.
Just like those we felt in our lips, tongues, fingertips and eyelashes.

Abigail Turnman walked along the same sidewalk she did every morning before she had to work. She had the same breakfast from the same dive as she did the morning before.

As she was sweetening her coffee she looked up and into two very dazzling blue eyes, belonging to a young man seated at the table across from hers. She looked down quickly, sweetening her coffee, while she blushed.
She usually didn't get flustered like this and she hated that she was just because some dumb boy was looking at her. She looked back up and he smiled at her, revealing a mouth of uneven, yet not horribly uneven, stained, yet not horribly stained teeth. She blushed again, this time she smiled back.

"Are you Abigail Turner?" The young man asked in a voice that sounded as if it didn't get much sleep the night before. While he was asking this Abigail noticed his hair, a dark shade of brown, lighter and shorter on the sides, as if it had months before belonged to a military man.
"No," Abigail responded humorously, "My name is Abigail Turnman." She blushed again, at the stupidness of her joke. God, how she hated that this young man was making her blush this way. As if in response to her stupid joke or in embarrassment in having gotten her name wrong the young boy laughed and blushed, but not as much as she had.
He had only a coffee on his table and so she asked him if he would like to join her for breakfast. The young man smiled again before standing up. As he did, his hair fell into his eyes, which he quickly brushed out of the way before nodding and sitting down, across from her, coffee in hand.
"How did you almost know my name?"
Again, the young man laughed.
"Mark, uhh Callahan. He said he cleans up at your office and that I should speak with you."
Oh, Mark. There's a sweetheart if she ever knew one.

And in that instant she knew she could grow to love how this young man made her blush. Instead of hating it she would prize and cherish and she would include characters modeled after him in all her novels.
She didn't even know his name.

"So, you're a friend of Mark's huh?"
She asked this in a more confrontational way then she meant to and the young man seemed to recoil before he saw her blushing again, knowing that she had not intended to ask it in such a way.
"Yes, Mark is a friend of mine. Since high school actually. Uhh, my name is Henry, but uhh," he laughed softly, "my friends call me Hank."
"Well Mark is a sweetheart. So, if I'm not mistaken, you must be native here? At least since high school."
"Yes, I was actually born here, but uhh, if I'm not mistaken, you're from uhh New York, right? The city?"
As much as a sweetheart Mark was, he sure was talkative as hell.
Before she had a chance to say anything, Hank began talking again.
"So, uhh," he laughed softly, nervously almost, "I uhh, I hope this isn't too upfront, but I was hoping, uhh wondering actually, if you were doing anything tonight. My band and I are playing at the Stonehouse, it's a uhh, a charity show for Jonathan, our drummer, uhh his mom. She's fighting cancer, uhh, her condition has been improving but she still needs money for bills and stuff. I mean, you don't even have to pay, you know, I could ahh, I could sneak you in the back or whatever, I mean, uhh, it woudn't technically be.."
She cut him off,
"Yeah, sure I'll go. What time is it?"
He smiled even wider than he had the whole conversation,
"It starts at 8, uhh, it's at the Stonehouse, uhh, ****, I already said that. Oh ****- oh, sorry, pardon my language."
She pulled a pen out of her purse and began writing the address to her apartment on a napkin. Hank continued talking, mumbling, uhh-ing, but he trailed off as she handed the napkin to him.
"Pick me up at 7," she said, "We can go get some dinner before the show, you probably half to be there early right?" He nodded, "Okay, make it 6:30. This is the only diner I know, I've only been here since the start of summer, maybe you could show me some nice place to eat?"
He nodded, smiling and blushing and pushing the hair out of his eyes and scratching his arm and shifting in his seat anxiously.
"Now, it was lovely meeting you Hank, but if I don't leave now, I will be late walking to work, I'll see you at 6:30"
"Yeah, I'll uhh, I'll see you at 6:30"
She stood up and so did he. She was halfway across the diner before Hank kicked himself for being so stupid.
"Hey, do you need a ride to work? I mean, it's uhh, it's no trouble."
"Thank you, Hank, but I'll walk. I'll see you at 6:30, okay?"
She smiled a dazzling smile of white teeth, framed by golden hair, cut short, almost short enough to be considered a pixy cut.
She was out the door as Hank mumbled something stupid.

//

Burning
out brighter than the rest.

Trying
hard but it ain't my best.

Dying
may hurt but I'll finally get some sleep.

Wishing
on a group full of stars.

Clearing
my mind, my soul, my heart, my palms.

Piercing
skin.

Destroying
all in my life that is beautiful.
If I write a beautiful essay I must burn it.
If I continue to do so I must chop off my hand.
If I have a beautiful friendship I must end it.
If I have a good looking haircut I must ruin it.
If I'm getting good grades I must ditch.
If my parents start to trust me I must sneak out.
If I start to sober up I must drink mouthwash.
If I start to love myself I better **** up more gloriously than all before me.

It's like falling into a spider web.
The more you struggle,
the harder it is.

Doctors won't help you.
They'll just give you drugs
that take away the anxiety,
but bring your emotions along with it.

Friends will try and help.
But they can only do so much
before they tell you to get over yourself
and to stop being a baby.

So you'll stay at home,
and smoke your cigarettes
and bite your nails
and take shallow breaths.

All you want
is someone
to put their hand on your shoulder.
To be patient.
To understand,
to kiss you goodnight,
and ruffle your hair in the morning.
All you want is someone to whisper in your ear louder than anxiety already does.

As every phony girl would say: It's time to look on the ******* bright side. I had a good day today. I have the most amazing friends who I love and who love me. I have plenty of good music filling my ears and plenty of yummy food in my stomach. I have a nice comfortable house and my room isn't as ***** as it has once been. I have an awe inspiring family that is very diverse. My hometown is beautiful and the people aren't as bad as they have once seemed. Maybe it's just that Friday night jazz but I can really dig it. Maybe it'll last to next Friday and the one after that and the one after that. But only if I make a conscious decision to let it. And I love you all and I love myself more than I've ever had in my life, right at this very moment.
And here's some wise words from Dumbledore: “Happiness can be found, even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light.”

~

Remember? Please God, say you do.

It's two am.
It's snowing outside.
Cars drive by more frequently then they should.
It's Christmas morning.
I'm at the 7/11.
I'm standing under the awning outside.
I'm smoking a cigarette.
It's my 19th since my shift started.
My shift started at 9 pm Christmas Eve.
I'm getting paid time and a half to enjoy the snow and the cars and the cigarettes.
I hear the bell ring.
I'm alerted to a customer.
I put out my cigarette.
I step inside.
Inside it is warm.
The customer is a young man.
The young man has dark orange hair.
He is wet and he is not smiling.
He asks me if we have any one gallon containers.
I tell him no, we do not sell those here, we have a payphone out back if you need one.
He says no, thanks.
He walks over the soda machine and grabs a 72 oz cup.
He asks me if he needs to pay for it.
I say no and ask him if he is broke down.
He says yes, about a mile and a half down the highway.
I tell him I'll give him a ride.
He appears to think about it for a moment.
He says thank you.
While I lock up the station he fills his 72 oz cup with the cheap gasoline.
I finish up and walk to the car.
I unlock the car and sit down.
He sits down.
We drive and he says stop, there's my car.
I pull over and he gets out.
He pours the gas into the tank.
He starts his car.
I drive back to the gas station.
He follows.
I open up the gas station.
He purchases $36.79 worth of gas.
He says Merry Christmas and drives away.
I go outside and light up a new cigarette.
It's now 2:24 am.
The snow is coming down harder.
The cars appear unchanged.

~

How wonderfully convenient this all is.

I think of her body,
of her curves
and curls
and I blow a line as long as my finger to think of something else.
Anything else.

I think of Freud and how wrong he was,
I think of Clapton and his false credit,
I think of the ringing in my ears and how I wish it would stop,
anything but her hips and her blonde hair and her fat ***.

Help, I've fallen and I can't get up,
and god, it was hard enough to stand up the first time.

-

     Have you ever seen that movie or T.V. show where there's a guy who recently split up with his girlfriend and he's all love sick and sad and won't leave his room or stop playing Xbox or stop drink beer or stop crying? And his buddies all take him out to a bar or something to meet a girl that he can give the time to in the bathroom because it'll make him feel better. And at the bar he meets some girl and they fall in love instantly and she's all hip and they just stare at each other while their respective groups of friends talk and joke right around them. You know what I'm talking about right? Well, **** those movies.
        They're phony and unrealistic and when you feel down about a boy or a girl or whoever you might be in love with you don't fall in love. You don't meet some sloot at the bar and fall in love with her. You don't stay in your room and drink and mope. You live you're ******* life. You live your miserable, fake life even more miserable and fake than you normally do.