when the lights go out
all i think of is you
all i can think of is you

and i still blister
like you loved me yesterday.

words rack my body
like an exorcism
and i fear
if i do not get them out
i might cry

i'd rather swallow my demons
than let you see me
like that.

i used to drink your *******
until i realized
i got the same effect
by chugging whiskey

today
it s
     u
        n
           k in
           that you really said
                                              i love you
                                               and that you really expected me to
                                               say it back.
                                               excuse my
                                               lapse in judgement
                                                                                    and lack of punctuality
                                                                                    but i love you, too.
                                                                                    please don't wreck me

you could say the problem was
race; half white half japanese
you could say the problem was
passion; which never aligned
you could say the problem was
distance; a desert too vast to cross
but i say the problem was
love; because i loved you more
than i loved myself.

but i think i was born
saying goodbye.

dear michael,

i ******* hate you for wanting to be unhappy. do you and riley realize how ******* miserable it is? it sounds ******* to explain it that way, but you don't seem to get it. being unhappy is not poetic. it is not beautiful. sometimes, it produces beautiful things, but the sadness itself is ugly.

have you ever thought about walking in front of a car? have you ever thought about walking in front of a car and it passing right through you? like you aren't even there? because that's what sad feels like. not being hit by a car, but being so insignificant and utterly gone that it could hit you without shedding blood.

where do the parts go? where do the pieces go when a car hits a person? i'm not talking about their body parts, i'm talking about their soul -- god, i hate that word, but sometimes the words we hate (***, ******, ****) are the only ones that fit. words always have a place. do souls?

i'm starting to think the answer is no. not everyone will be a stockbroker. just like not everyone will rise above their hood. some of us just float. i'm part of an eternal migration south, michael. the mentality, not the place. are you coming with me?

are you sure you want to?

are you quite alright?
                                          he asks
yeah, my knees are just acting up*
                                          i insist
but the way my e n t i r e  b o d y
aches in protest
gives me away.
i can't remember the
last time i felt
rested.