here's how it happens
the morning after
you reach into the drawer
where the your t-shirts live
to find it austere
you'll shrug because
you're still drunk
& you can't remember
when last it was
that you had something wet
or how long it's been
since you made the floorboards blush
or why the carpet is upset
who wouldn't be
the contents to the upended ashtray
strewn around the apartment
resemble the aftermath
of the smallest war
to ever take place in norfolk
some midnight thief
must've made off with the lighter
because it isn't in
any of your favorite spots
maybe you chucked it
along with a hundred other things
that make noise when they land
in the neighbors yard
you won't remember putting
the refrigerator's belongings
in the bathtub
or scrawling a buzzard
on the bedroom door
but then again who would
you'll pretend it's spring again
before putting on your winter coat
to go out front with a cigarette
in your mouth
you'll hope for a passing stranger
to *** a light from
or drag yourself to the corner
with couch cushion change
to buy a new lighter
and on your way
you won't bother looking back
this is just another day
on eggshells for no reason
another november
choking on birthday candles
on your way home
you step over beer cans
the kind you fell in love with
and wonder who
had the last laugh last night
or if anyone said a word at all
it might've been another
moment of clarity
it might have been some idiot savant
any adjective that feels like home
anything that keeps you thirsty

I get it.
I really do.
She is an ocean
of life--stories within
stories live within her.
Stories of lives
spanning far and forever.
That's why you love her,
why you went away.

I'm just ash.
I'm full of nothing,
I'm full of sorrow.

I get it.
I really do.

What I say: I'm not hurting myself because you don't love me. I'm hurting myself because I hate me.
What I mean**: Please come back and love me so I can stop hurting myself.

It’s all me,
because you never have anything to say.  
I fill the silence
with my nonsense.  
I fill the silence with me.  

There’s too much me
in this date.  
There is
no us,
because I’m inhaling
the summer air
and chewing this buttery bagel

while you’re on your phone
just scrolling and refreshing
secondhand experiences.  

My hands sway
with my useless tales
as your hands hold your attention.
Your thumbs sliding the screen
that is brighter than the words I waste.
This is all a waste.

There isn’t enough honey
in my tea to take this bitter
******* you call company.

I can't write
Russian with this pen.
This pen is stingy with ink.
I have to re-trace
my strokes to make them shown.
It makes me re-think my stupidity
before I can make it permanent.

I want to feel
beautiful again.
It's like I couldn't wash away
the **** and **** you said when you left.
Your words have been marinating my life,
trapped inside me like a bad song.
Following me everywhere like a bad tattoo.

But I'm done.

I'm ready for me now--the real me...
The me I couldn't be when I was half of you.

Let me finish my waffles and
I'll find something adventurous to wear.
No. **** it.
I'm getting up.
Let me look for something pre-you.
Orange skirt? Green blouse?
Wait. What is this yellow sundress?
Yes.

I dug a little too far into myself and ended up staring at you