Everyone sat
criss-cross-applesauce
in our hearts.
Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

I try hard to sound
important,
when I write *******
because
there are bodies
reading this *******.

And bodies grow and wither.
They thrive and survive.
They get married
and die alone.
They die.

To become dead.

Perfume is made
with dead things, right?

When I was little
I played with plastic toy knives
and dragged them across
my brother's throat
saying, "You're dead!
You're dead! You're dead!
I swear, you're dead!"

And we pretended
kool-aid was blood,
letting it drip down
my chin and neck,
down my chest,
past my pec.

I wrecked my bike
and ran for days.
I was stung by bees and swore,
"Nothing could hurt more
than this."

And when I turned twelve,
I learned how to ******* to dreams.
The grip on my skateboard
wouldn't let go of me.
I ollied over plastic bags
and stared at lottery tickets
sleeping in the garbage.

She and I played with fireworks
faster than shooting stars.
We waded in the lake,
being a cliche.
She and I rolled on the grass, naked.
I don't know where she is, now.

I don't know.

I asked her why she cut herself,
and she said,
"Because death has an edge
and life is pointless."
She asked that I not
write a poem
romanticizing suicide,
just a poem about
how hard it can be
to celebrate life.

Part of a mud-caked quilt,
between the city walls
and the tornado path,
*******--not at all.
Because he's a voice
in the crowd.

If I could shave
your burnt hair from my arms.
And hear the sirens blare
through cross-stitched alarms.
I would give until
the water leaves
the copper cuffed canyons
in my sleeves.
I want to want something
more than what I'd give.
Just to blend into the sky.
You and I.

We used to make paper planes
as flimsy as our confidence.
Nothing ever flew the same,
smothered by the thawing sky.
We counted the seconds
until rain ate their bodies,
"5,6,7,8".

Too afraid to go outside,
mom and dad are gone.
Hovering hips beside
the holes in our walls.
Staring out the window
as foggy breath falls.

Seaweed salad and water
before we sleep.
Thinking about
if the paper graves
are as deep  
as the cheap cliches
in our head.

The buzzed people
burn out on the street.
It's four a.m.
and cold toes are leaving imprints
on the concrete face
where the drunks and the homeless
beg for help
and for the past to change.

You, me, and every one we've met,
lean on the side of the tattooed bar,
smoking cigarettes that stain our lips,
slurring words that escape our souls.

You're wearing
Black Chuck Taylor All-Stars,
as we stand underneath
the black, starry sky.
You tell me,
as you put out the cherry
with your wet thumb,
that, "I busted my cherry
while riding my bike.
I hit a bump, then another,
and another."

We kiss and you whisper,
"It sounds better than the truth, right?"
I feel overwhelming sadness,
as I look at your freckles,
your speckled irises,
and I want to believe
the manufactured ignorance
that the world offers
and you take,
saying, "Of course, love."