You had the nerve, the sheer audacity,
To come in smelling of cigarettes and
Cheap alcohol.
Everything seemed to stop at that moment,
Except you
Slowly stumbling toward me
Clearly drunk,
With a cigarette dangling
from your fingertips.
I could smell you before I saw you...
The scent of failure
And desperation wafted though the air.
Bravo, babe.
You've done it again.
But you were always right,
Weren't you.
Even when you were wrong,
You were right 'cause
You couldn't stand to lose
To a stupid, spineless woman
Like myself.
You'll never get over me.
I'm the best thing
That has ever happened to you,
*****
Nobody's gonna come,
Wanting my used up sloppy seconds.
I'll always hold a piece of your heart,
To shatter as I please.
Sure enough, you do.
I tried to convince myself that you
Had no influence over me any more.
But you proved me wrong,
Stomped all over the few shards of dignity
That I still clung to.
Does that make you feel like a man?
After that you turned around and stumbled out,
With an air of self satisfaction about you...
And I finally realized something.
You might have had a hold on my heart
This very morning,
But you no longer do.
After all, you can't hold something
That doesn't exist anymore.

The wind blew colder this morning
than it has in a while.
It blew right between my dry, cracked fingers...

You always used to hold not one,
but both of my hands--
keeping them warm and hidden from the harsh
unforgiving world.

This morning, your absence was
nearly unbearable
(and my hands are still numb).

It's silly really
Sifting through picture
After picture
Just trying to find
The perfect image
To sum me up.
I don't even know
What it is that I'm
So desperately seeking after.
I've forgotten my purpose,
And doomed myself to choose
An image, not of me,
But of something else
Because honestly,
Using an image of myself is
technically me,
But I'm so much more than an image.
Sometimes I think
It would be better
To choose a random object,
Than a mere reflection of the hypocrite inside.

Most love poems sound the same.
The ones by desperate, lonely teenage girls
Are the cream of the crop,
Filled with every cliche in the freakin' book
From sparkling eyes, and shimmering hair
All the way to rippling muscles and the
Sweetest of kisses that leave you wishing you could just
Live in that moment.
Ugh, they make me want to die.
I'd be interested to read a real love poem,
Written with true emotion
And passion.
But that would require a genuine love,
Not a week long fling,
Or even better?
A one night stand.
I may be cynical,
But there must be a way
To express affection without the use
Of overworked cliches that make me want
To stop writing altogether.

It's been two whole months since I last saw him.
(And I'm not talking about a boyfriend,
Or a past love).
Two months have come
And gone
Since I last saw
My own father.
And the worst part is
I've liked it.