3/16/2015

When I awoke,
too depressed to leave my bed,
too caught up in the fact it was Monday,

I decided to take my liberties with
attendance and questioned when
social services would end up at my door

but that's for later. For now I stood
up and went downstairs, and the first
thing I took note of in the panoramic
window

was the fact that all the snow had
melted, seemingly overnight
and I saw how grass looked like

I remember close to a month
ago I had spent a blessed day
in town where the birds chirped

seemingly out of place for a
February sunday. But I smiled
and smiled and I still felt like

Every single vein was ripped out
and I was watching my blood stain the sidewalk

And  last night I had a dream about you for the first time in months and I was happy to have you back even as a subconscious hallucination

Where I drove my car into your work
that little funny store where we ate breakfast the last day of summer

And you just stared at me, red in the face with a reviling hatred that
I am used to at this point.

The snow melted when I had woken up but now the ground is so hard to walk on and the sky seems blue today bluer than usual but I know it is mocking me.

3/15/2015

Around me. Around. Everyone around me. Around me they're *******. I figure if I had something equally stupid to ***** about I wouldn't be so bothered by my mom asking me why her secret boyfriend hasn't talked to her in a day. I Don't know. Divorce dad first. I wouldn't have problems I wouldn't mind, something to cling to. Something to tether myself from. That's her problem at least my life is in order. But I'm miserable. And I'm not well dressed. Everyone is *******.

3/15/2015

everywhere I roll
on the bed there's a
glass bottle waiting
to be crushed under weight
and bleed shards peppered with
red chrysanthemum petal

excuse everything I do with
"I was manic back then"
everything was beginning to get
tragic back then truthfully

first baby december days
and here we are in March
we haven't spoken in three months

and we will not forever.
I know when you say
Never Again you mean it because you had said to me earlier I Love You with the same vehement strength and I knew you meant that.

When I think of it,
butter knives pry my ribs open
the pain of the cut still hurting me

such a long time afterward and
nowadays I spend my days sitting on steps smoking a pack, kissing men trying to replicate something. And what?

it seems I am so detached from love, now I am trying to replicate me leaving a dorm room looking around hoping no one noticed

and sitting on a bench writhing because
I have so much to say and not one soul really truly wants to hear it, besides from men who've seen me naked and read my poems and

I only find that thoughts of dying,
not suicide of course just dying
are the only accustomed ones that I enjoy

I ***** onto the sidewalk
(hopefully my weaknesses my desolation right? Like the black humor of plague times)

blink my eyes
(Patients of severe depression are said to have melancholy, heavy grazing eyes. See Ian Curtis)

check my phone
(last call I made out was 8 hours
ago. no call back)

move toward nassau street now,
the long term suffering victim
of too much love,
and I can understand
why people **** themselves after

ten year long relationships.
however I am not so vexed,
just resentfully doleful and I

decide I shall blame tonight's
little dorm room nightstand on
sweet hypomania.

3/7/2015

I've met a few good men,
a few good men, this is why
I am so vexed.

The springing pantomines
of careful youth rings around
the green, as it always has

the campus store sells
cigarettes and muffins and condoms
as it always has, and

although the mood is different than
the one on early semester Halloween
night,

The grass is as green as it always
has been.
I need to learn to let people

and things go, but it doesn't help
when you live, when half of those memories

happened in towns where George Washington and Witherspoon got
drunk off their *****,

and Madison lied about men in the woods. Sitting dully alone in the stadium

the vast Powers,
I am one in 23,000
and I do not know how I feel

about that and the lost
days when I used to chain smoke
voraciously in the parking lot

in a car that smelled like
burnt tobacco
and run through

the rain in Murray dodge,
write on the walls at the Pyne
arches and smoke

drugs with friends
in the freezing rain on Wilson's
grave.

This is all gone now
and
I need new trivial distractions

now that all of mine are gone
and I see the summer sun getting
closer to my bruised memory.

3/3/2015

"Hard when all my friends are
addicts, down low people, you know..."
caught her own thumbs.
spring'd only come in calendar form,
it hit her astonishingly coldly like
"Please don't let her do anything that could hurt her.." From the others and the don't worry I won't that came with it.
"I don't know my value," adjusting her skirt
"and I guess I never will"

3/3/2015

At three years old, my
mother's grandmother took my
hand and proclaimed:
She is a nervous girl.
my hands shook. my hands shake.
in my younger years I stripped the
skin off my hand with my teeth,
in the ides of my youth I swallowed
many a perique blend–
all to cure the shaky hands,
that came with having to ask
if friday plans were on every day
since Monday,
exclusively listening to Joy Division
because jazz makes me nervous
and screaming music makes me rattle.
'You've said that 3 times already'
I know I know I know, I'll
never be able to live here
'you're so nervous!'
a wind is going to knock mine out
one day

3/4/2015

so much depends
on a
single droplet of

pure water roaming
down beatific
skin

and the lost hour
at midnight
sprung forward

the dewy pine
disregarding the
dead cold.