I don't rhyme anymore.
Walking home in the dark,
Holding hands with strangers and
Falling.
Painfully; shocking my body
As it cracks and whips when it hits the ground.
The sunlight beating off of my straw hat.
Shoes that are too small
People that talk too much.
And people whose tongues are raw with bite marks.
The Word of the Lord.
Sitting, standing, crawling, drinking,
Coffee and tea.
Outside stairwells at midnight
Trying to breath and waiting for peppermint.
My life does not rhyme.
So why should I?

Beauty is whispered after silence
In emptiness.
I am beautiful
Tonight I don't remember why,
I will never remember why.
Haunted by memories of times I was tamed.
Beauty is wild and free.
Tender and grotesque.
Regrets when you stop holding my hand.
Whispered in a busy crowd.
baby
I'm sorry. Beauty is not this.
Out of breath, out of sleep, tender mangling of love letters
Unrehearsed tango of the lips in the dark.
I will love you forever.
Will never stop trying.
And your silence is beautiful.

I have three favorite things:
Coffee.
Whiskey.
The southwestern sun beating down on my bare shoulders.
And if one day I leave here
Don't let me forget to take the sun
And wash it in my sink.
So it shines brighter and brand new
On every cactus in the Sonoran Desert.
So it reaches all the way to Washington D.C.
One day while I'm reporting
About monkeys in suits running the playground
I'll feel it.
Take off my blazer and let that southwestern sun burn me red.
Then I'll go home.
Put some whiskey in my coffee.
And I'll be happy.

There is a street somewhere in the world with snow and old lamp posts.
Where a man sits under a street light writing.
To no one in particular about nothing in particular
Waiting for a woman to pass him and steal his soul.
Because she is untamable and fierce. But quiet.
There's a notebook in her purse hidden under a flask and two unopened packs of cigarettes.
And she is **** beautiful.
Walking straight towards no where.
On an empty, *** hole filled road in the south.
Hoping to pass a street light covered in snow with a man sitting helplessly underneath
Who could really use two brand new packs of cigarettes
And a shot of whiskey.

Five, four, three, two... too late.
For any of this. Too late for anything
Too late for love, too late for lust.
The park smells like emptiness every morning
Feels like rain on a perfect day.
I hate the rain.
Dripping on my glasses.
I hate you. Running through my mind.
Five, six, seven, eight... hate this thinking of you
All the time. Nothing but your lips
On my neck,
You're hands wrapped around mine and me
Making up stories about who I am
And you. Already. Leaving. Without me.
Because crazy is contagious. And that's what I am.
And you're afraid of me.
And I'm afraid of me too.
But all that counts is us counting down
To when it'll all
Be. Positive. Again.
So drive away and don't look back.
I'll walk home in this rain.
One day you'll count on me.

The young are foolish and blind.
Pretending each figure looming over us is Jesus or Barack Obama
Whispering sweet infinities down our necks and into our ears.
"I want you. I want you. I want your body. I want you."
Everyone looks the same in the dark?
But the comfort of a panic attack suffocating you in silence doesn't happen with him.
So explain why, when satan throws me down, I'm supposed to pretend to want it.

I would have asked you to sit with me,
But the truth is I prefer my own company.
It's certainly no reflection on the faux concern you tend to display
For the bags under my eyes
Delivered with as much subtlety as a musical theater major
Hinting at their next performance.
All while your face is glazed over checking your updates.
Mentally and physically in another world.
Yet politely trying.
I spent the past four hours talking to people
But not seeing them.
My sprained ankle suffocating inside my no slip shoes
Bending and breaking under the pressure of each turn and step
Right now all I want to do is rest it and watch people
While the October breeze blows my hair over my face.
So sorry you didn't get the invite.
But maybe next time.