Save the last cigarette
for the ride home.
Brave the storm, hide your keys.
Getting lost, you never know.

And without a source of direction
we lift
And rumble throughout the sky.

Left-handed ambiance,
So typical with the tyrant,
The hierarchy of a mind.

Bass drums so loud I can't breathe,
hold onto what's haunting me.
And this car isn't ready to ride.

I used to miss the way the rain down your face,
The way aluminum siding relfects viscosity,
Similarly grey and slick.

Made of brine and vinegar and bits of salt, you would sparkle.
Shimmering in the fragrance of smoke between our lips.

i will make you hate me eventually.

boys like you always
falling
and stumbling around the edge of my bed
on early sunday mornings,
the break of sunrise cascading off
your pale skin and
crumpled boxer briefs.

i will make you loathe me eventually.

especially remembering those
long coffee dates,
after swinging on park benches
and letting our limbs get tangled.

so cup my tiny face in your big hands,
and let me look into your eyes
and tell you all the things you need to hear.

because i will make you distain,
disgust,
and aspire
to rip me apart.

Park benches, dark autumn early breezes
underneath the sounds of crunching leaves.
Your leather jacket,
My failed attempts at charm and
being mysterious.

A smile lit up like fireworks,
September was never brighter
while swinging and wailing like a siren
lost in the backseat of my car.

Looking at you with lingering memories
of someone that I used claim to be myself.
Pulled back and ripped apart like an old scar
that is now a fresh wound.

I didn't come here to tell you to stop yourself
from falling completely into me
like a crash in the ocean,
or a match striking paper.

I come with warnings and stamps of approval
from the regrets that lay furthest on my mind,
and I still just can't stop myself
from rewording these clever bruises,
that I'll have to explain when I get home.

You cherish me like fine china,
passed down from your grandmother's hands,
soft and porcelain smooth.
I am similar
with worn and cracked edges,
blemishes that are acquired with age and use.

I know that this can't stay for long,
while I'm fighting glances on the arms of sleep.

And these frequent words,
slipping through my fingers like wine,
leave me discreet satisfaction,
staining the middle of my palms.

Fall leaves never seemed so appealing,
marking a resemblance
to the changing seasons of these bones.