Stand under the shower
Turn on the faucet
Water flows down on me
I close my eyes
And hope that the water
Extinguishes the flames
Of my broken heart.

Thursday is the one way,
you'll fit right in
but
what it means is
dragging my sorry *** out of
bed
slipping into jeans
doping up on coffee
ripping into daylight
and moving on the day

the time now is 3:30pm
so it took me nine and a half hours
to say that

Procrastination is a cat
with
many faces.

I purr,
but at times it takes me
some time to get there.

and now i'm there it's
time to come back
which is another cat
whose name for the moment
eludes me.

The V formation at Tottenham court road underground station reminds me that, 'one swallow does not a summer make'
I clear my throat in the hope that
my voice will appear


I was here now going there
purr?
I could lick myself.

you're sitting across from me
after months of not speaking
you called and said something about how
we don't have to be strangers

i answered on the third ring
just like i always used to do
and agreed to meet you

we decided to get coffee
to warm our bodies
from the november air
although mine is cold
by the time i even think to take a sip

"there's someone i want you to meet, you know"
it's strange
because when you said it
i didn't feel jealousy
i felt anger
i wanted to know
"why?"
you grabbed my hand
"you're still important to me,
i want you
to meet her"

i knew what you were doing
and so i let you
for a few minutes more

and then i thought about how
you've never even heard my voicemail
because i always answered
on the third ring
and how
i doubt she even answers at all
and that
was enough for me

you wanted me to meet her
to compare
and if i did
you'd see that you're never
going to find anyone like me
ever again

i let go of your hand
look into your sea green eyes
that i used to dream about

my voice is suddenly clear as day
"we don't have to be strangers,
but maybe we should be."

i let the dark in.
                    i keep the window open and i stare into the trees.
i think about holding onto the edge of anything, i think about
my fingers and if they desire anything enough to
   keep their grip.
when i was younger i always thought that when
bad things happened
there would be witnesses.

who is watching my ache?
                   where are all of the eyes when i need them?
bad things happen quietly.
i keep looking for a beginning,
looking for an end,
                i can't find either. it's over.
in silence, i let all of the dark in.
                  i don't think i'll ever know how to let go.
                  i don't think i'll ever know what i'm holding onto.
bad things happen softly,
there is violence in
everything gentle and
poison in everything kind.

when i was younger i thought that everyone
died in a comfortable bed, surrounded by
their families.
i thought that when bad things happened,
there would be witnesses.

                    so where is everyone?
is it just me staring into this dark?
                       i witness my own tragedy.
      i do nothing but look at flesh and bone.
every animal is greedy, every
           body wants to get away with something.
ive spent too much time on my hands and knees.
if there is blood i don't know where it begins and
            where it ends.
i don't know if i can keep watching this grief.
    i just can't find a place to put it down.

they tell me
write me a love poem.
but i don't know who i'm writing from,
which version of me to sign it as,
authorized by the words
that make me seem believable.
a love poem about
eating even when you are full and
craving what you can't get your hands on.
a love poem about
two people pressed up against a tree,
how to get lost and
taking the easiest way out.
a love poem about
choking on
gripping fingers on
things i can't put into a love poem.
a love poem about
being afraid of getting caught, the
thrill of not knowing
what was
right and what was wrong.
a love poem about
what never comes. what is almost there.
how do you write about what it should've been without
sounding like an *******?
i could've written a better love story than this.
a love poem about
being stuck, about learning the curve of a body and
memorizing the sounds it makes, the
security of the first who can cover your heart with
their hands.
i can't address these poems.
signed, who?
the girl that i was molded into?
signed,