When things go okay enough
you never have to embarrass your mom
by letting her know that she messed up.
Things weren't that perfect,
but they weren't that ****** up.
Or maybe they were,
but you're still being tough.

Love is when you
watch a horror movie
with your brother
and you hate them,
but he asked you,
and you're hoping
you'll hold hands
like you did when
you were younger.
Love is when you
spend Sunday at the market,
with your mom
without her asking
because you said no
too many times when you were fifteen
but now you wish she'd ask again.
And love is other things too.
Like when you share a blanket
because there is only one,
and you don't mention that
your feet stick out,
because you're hoping he is warm.
And love is when you smile
though you're scared.
So that they feel brave.
Because you can't change the dark of night.
And love is when
Your arm falls asleep
And you want to move
But you don't because
They are sleeping on your shoulder.
Love is being steady
when you want to fall apart.
And love is sacrifice,
without ever asking why.

If Earth is living,
Breathing, and growing
Just like you and I.
Then it should not be
Sad, scary, or silly
To know that someday
She must die.

Mismatched socks and baggy t-shirts
we bumble down the stairs.
We sit Indian style in our chairs.
Mother busies herself between
the table and the stove.
We're having pancakes
shaped like Mickey Mouse.
And we're talking.
She asks about our dreams.
Little brother is four
and he dreamt about race-cars.
She smiles and listens
"What did you dream Garrett?"
The sun shines bright into the kitchen,
he blushes at the attention.
"I can't remember I'm too sleepy."
He' so beautiful,
its all so beautiful.
Then its my turn.
I talk fast and with purpose
I dreamt about trampolines.
Everyone listens
and then we eat pancakes.
Just an average Saturday morning,
family breakfast.
Because we were a family.

You shook,
While I shivered.
I talked,
And you whispered.
Then you left,
But I didn't.
And I tried,
Though you'd finished.

My mother was
a first generation lesbian.
My father,
a first generation divorcee.
His father was the one child
of a public school teacher.
He found my grandmother at 18.
A farm child, one of seven.
A painter, a baker.
My mother's father
a single boy to three sisters.
His aggressive masculinity
kept the line clear and thick.
He found my mother's mother at 17.
A middle of seven Pentecostal children.
A beauty queen, an agoraphobic.
Each had five children.
The door-to-door salesmen/
homemaker and mother of boys duo
bet it all to open a hobby shop.
They were by far the poorest of the
watermelon farming siblings.
They were artists and explorers.
The high school graduate and ladies man,
was a logger before a father.
And the single mother of 25 he left
scarcely left her home at all.
Neither pair made it big.
But they made my father.
A lonely, post middle aged man.
The poorest of his brothers.
A used to be pilot,
and could have been teacher,
a want to be pioneer.
A nuclear family super fan
who never got his way.
And they made my mother.
A nervous, eccentric hippie
who doesn't know how to talk to her siblings.
A woman working her *** off to excel at lower middle class.
A builder, a fighter, a **** good mother.
Even if accidentally so.
She has plans to travel.
He has dreams to live by a lake.
And they made me.
A single girl among three boys.
A quirky, nervous tomboy.
A thinker, a gardener, a climber.
A loser and a dreamer by blood.

When I first fell in love with you
I wrote everything down.
Every word you said, everything we did.
Every place you took or touched me.
I knew that when I lost interest in recording
It would be because I was losing interest in you.
But here four years later,
you have me entertained.
And you gave me a puppy for my birthday.
A little mix breed that I named after your sister.
I convinced myself that when the dog ran away
you would be on her heels leaving me.
But that pup has been gone for three years,
and here you are with me.
And you gave me four red rubber bands
from the produce section of your part time job
to the daily wear on my wrist.
I knew that when they snapped
our love would wither with them.
But the last one died two years ago,
and you just brought home new ones.
And I used to write your name
on the rubber sole of my shoes.
I told myself that as it faded
your interest in me would follow suit.
But last year the rain finally got the best of it,
and now we kind of live together.
So I found a kitten in a trashcan
a flea invested bag of bones.
This was the one
I felt certain.
I would love him and try to heal him
but he would die,
and then you'd be gone too.
But the **** cat he got better
he got big, he got strong, and he loves me.
And looking at him today I think maybe I was right.
He is the perfect metaphor for me and you.

When we started there were
Five minute kisses,
Late nights sneaking out,
And texts of "I love you."
There were long looks,
And long trips,
And texts that said,
"I love you."
Now there is
"How is your day?"
"Very busy."
And texts, "I love you."
There are short phone calls.
There are no more long walks.
But there are texts, "I love you."

I see wrong.
I see right.
I saw crying
and I saw fights.
Mom loves money.
Dad loved life.
I see wrong,
and I see right.
Mom raised us
and dad was gone.
I see right,
and I see wrong.
Kids pick sides
as time moves on,
but I see right,
and I see wrong.

We stopped joking about keeping you
When things got really scary.
We were twenty.
We were students.
We were poor.
And we had dreams to travel the world.
In our pretend life we could make it work.
I was prolife as a teenager.
But things weren't that simple after.
I put off taking the test for weeks.
Dreading the inevitable, you.
But when the strip turned pink
I smiled.
Just that once.
Just to myself.
Then the hard mask of terror took over.
The next few weeks were a blur.
We made the right choice.
But that doesn't mean I didn't love you.

His name was really Billy.
I'm not changing that for the story.
His name was Billy Jones,
and we hated him.
He was the fattest kid
in the sixth grade class.
He claimed his cat peed on him
right before he got on the bus,
so that he didn't have time to change.
But he smelled that way all the time.
His Metallica t-shirts were riddled with holes
and they were too large even for him.
Billy did not look like anyone else in the class.
On top of it all he was too shy to defend himself.
His meekness made him embarrassed in place of angry.
And I hated him.
To my core I hated him.
I watched him suffer in front of me.
I saw the way my classmates laughed.
I knew to be with Billy was to be with dirt.
So I hated him.
To hate him was to belong.
I extended no arm of sympathy.
The teacher's poked fun at him as well.
He did not belong with us.
Then one day he was gone.
Moved away.
And the wrinkles he had created
in our conservative, small town
middle school smoothed.
Everyone looked the same again,
and we didn't have to look at
the ugly angles of life anymore.
Some grew up and never had to again.

It's not as special as it sounds.
Although the title is exact.
I met the creator of the universe
In the dusty isle of discount mystery novels.
Had I not immediately known it was God
I would have profiled him a ****** predator.
Late middle aged and unshaven.
You're probably wondering but don't ask me.
I just knew, and you would to.
I asked him if he owned the place.
He said no, that he was the manager
To this tiny, tucked away bookstore.
He appeared to be an unhappy, lonely man.
There was a combination of comfort
And disappointment in this.
"Is there something you want to ask me?"
Of course there was.
"Why do you do this to all of us?"
He examined his fingernails
Pushing back his cuticals.
I could see the yellow of wax in his ears.
"I found myself existing.
Just the same way that you did."
He started with a sigh.
"I didn't understand,
and I'm still not sure I do.
Why do you live the way you do?
I was created and I try to make
the best of it just like you.
You see, I'm still trying to figure it all out.
I fail and I succeed.
I like to think I'm getting better."

I had never visited before.
On the drive over I imagined her name
carved in Helvetica on the stone.
Birth date- death date.
Would her picture be on there?
Would the names of her grandchildren
cover the back?
My eyes strained to keep the well from spilling over.
I found her in the Catholic section.
The rest of her family buried elsewhere.
A small gray stone with nothing,
except her last name on the back.
And a simple explanation
of her existence on the front.
There were no angel statues.
Only one sun faded bouquet of plastic pink flowers.
Nothing else.
Nothing to show that she was loved
and that her life mattered.
Nothing to show how much her being here
had changed everything for me.
July 19, 1948-Sept 4, 2008
That's all.
Her entire life amounted to a two foot
un-mowed concrete block.
I felt her body rotting beneath me.
I sat cross legged, staring at the only evidence
that she was ever real at all.
This is what it had all come down to.
I had never visited before.

We would sit on the steps of the porch
so the sun would warm our legs but spare our eyes.
She would peel potatoes and I would ask her,
where she got that scar
how many boyfriends she has had
how many bones she has broken
if her heart had ever been torn
and how many times and by who
and what was the worst cut she had ever had.
"I don't know Kels. That was all a long time ago."
That always seemed like ******* to me.
How could you not know many people
you have let touch your lips with theirs?
But then I grew.
I grew and I got scraped, and burned
and broken over and over.
I had my heart stolen
and I gave it away again and again.
Every experience just stacked against the other.
So I guess I kind of get what she was saying now.

You emailed me three times.
I ignored it.
I was thirteen and considered myself very busy.
Repeated empty and un-kept promises
Were my most recent words to you.
I would come by when I got a chance.
There was so much time,
I was just having trouble finding it lately.
I seem to have found the time.
But you aren’t going to email me back.

Not that anyone cares
Kelsey cut class again.
Probably out getting high
With her new stupid friends.

Not that anyone cares
But Kelsey likes to break glass.
She writes on the walls
And she’s waiting for the crash.

Not that anyone cares
But Kelsey snuck out her window,
Out to smash mailboxes
And let herself go.

Not that anyone cares
But Kelsey doesn't do well in school
She’s not perfect like them.
No straight A’s for this girl.

Not that anyone cares
No one listens to her, she’s not even there.
So go for it kid get drunk.
Life isn’t fair.

Not that anyone cares
But she’s always on the run.
Stop saying she’s like them
Her life has barely even begun.

Not that anyone cares,
But Kelsey is all alone.
She’s completely her own person.
Not even close to Regan’s clone.

Not that anyone cares,
But Kelsey cries every night.
She has terrible dreams
And just existing is a fight.

And not that you’ll listen
But she hates her life
And you can’t fix her with words.
So don’t waste your time.

People thought I moved there
To spend more time with my father
But I moved in to be alone.
So we were just alone together
In the skeleton of what used to
Be our happy family.
He would drink beer
And I would sit on the floor of my room.
He said good night to me every night.
And made me breakfast in the mornings.
Two eggs always. Never failed.
Half of the time I threw them away.
He never said anything when
I tracked in mud,
Or stayed out late.
And he never mowed the yard
Or cleaned the bathroom.
We never cleaned anything.
We never did anything.
Our family’s stuff was piled everywhere,
And they were everywhere but here.
I probably spoke twelve words that whole year.
When I moved out my father told me
He would miss me terribly.

The clock in my kitchen is five minutes slow.  
I laugh at it sometimes.
I sit in the rusty metal chair and stare at it;
listening for the sound that proves its short comings.
At the strike of the hour the grandfather clock
in the hall begins to chime.
It is one of those clocks that was
handpicked in the universe
to always have the correct time.
There are not many like this
but there must be a few
to keep our world turning.
My household has lived by this clock for years,
everything revolving around its eternal knowledge.
I laugh at the cheap, battery ran
clock on my kitchen wall.
It is nothing in comparison.
I hear the grandfather clock
beginning his five o’clock strokes.  
I stare at the clock on the wall.
Four forty-five.
  Today I don’t laugh, I cry.

The dirt road stained the car.
I normally drove but this time
she sat with her left foot curled beneath her.
Her free and bare foot barely touching the pedal.
Left arm dangling out the window,
while her right clung loosely to the wheel.
And she talked.
"That was the house my parents built.
My mom was supposed to get it but he kept it.
That is the church my dad was
going to marry her in.
But she's crazy, she'll never marry him.
This is the lake where I was going to build my
house when I grew up and married him.
But I didn't do that,
and it looks like someone bought it anyway."
And she laughed.
"This is where we always planned on skinny dipping.
But we were too scared until we were too old.
This is where my brother was supposed to marry my best friend.
But they are both on drugs now.
This is where he and I would swim and talk,
and he told me he would marry me.
I hear he is getting deployed to Texas
and that he got a tattoo across his shoulders."
Sometimes she would just drive,
Her eyes on something in the distance.
Because some of them weren't for me.
The place where she nearly drown.
The place her brother gave up on her.
When maybe she should have given up on him.
The last place she saw the first friend she ever had.
"Sometimes I think I should have stayed."
But she knows better.
And the gravel wound cornfields for miles.
And she talked,
and she laughed.

When did kissing you
become like putting my lips
to a cool glass of water on a hot day?
Natural and easy,
almost as though
I had never done it at all.
And when did running
my hands along your skin
begin to feel as though I were
clutching my own arms
to keep warm
on an unseasonably cool day?
At what point did it become less clear
where the lines of your shell end
and mine begin?
Was it when we first collided?
Or is this a fusion laced time?
Have I been classically conditioned
to confuse your body with mine?
How did we grow
from tentatively holding hands
to kissing thighs or spines
with no shiver of uncertainty?
How is it that
even when our embrace ends
I know we are still connected?
Locked together by some magnetic force.
A kiss our souls need no rest from.
How is it that I blended and melted
and molded into you?
And even more perplexing
when did this all begin?
Was is when? Was it when?

In my head I saw
the potential life.
The one that included
not just you but I.
You would change
and come with me
and shift and grow
and adjust to being free.
We would explore and create.
I imagined us cooking dinner.
I never said it,
but I couldn't wait.
I liked the thought of us,
both foreign to this place.
Decorating the house,
and learning each others ways.
And these little ideas
they settled comfortably into my brain.
Nothing but snippets of an unspoken plan
that are now nothing but self inflicted pain.

I would color one side
Purple with blue x's
And black circles.
The other would be
Pink and yellow
With two red hearts.
My grandmother would chide,
You're ruining the picture.
Butterflies have mirror wings,
That's what makes them beautiful.
I could never make her see
That mine were the special ones.
And they were beautiful,
Because they were exceptions.

"We are sort of best friends I guess."
"Yeah, we totally are."
"Totally."
"This is all happening really fast."
"You're ******."
"No, I never am."

A brief summary of
every conversation
we ever stammered through.
Besides the awkward first
I love you's
and the last good byes of the evening.
No preference or preconceived ideas.
Always as honest as we were brave enough to be.
Tirelessly battling the quirks that piggyback
a friendship in fast forward.
A terminal one at that.

"Do you think I'm weird?"
"You are what you are."
And somehow there are a million
stories I want to tell.
******* Boonville,
and Demon Bri,
and getting dishes with Minnie Mouse.
How did all of this happen?
We never even had the time.

"I'm going to be alone here."
"You'll find someone."
"I want you."

They have had separate bedrooms
for the last ten years at least.
But I liked to imagine
that sometimes late at night
their drunken stupor would
leave their lonely minds wondering
and they would tiptoe into the darkened
bedroom of their reticent life partner,
and touch their skin. For the the first time in too long.
And they would lay with their faces together
and whisper, "What the hell are we doing?"
Three adult children, and still children themselves.
And they would laugh instead of scream.
And in the black of three AM
they could be honest with each other.
And every once in a great while
they could remember that they understand each other.

But I don't know that this ever happens.
Maybe they haven't been friends in years.

He said, I miss you,
and that was enough.
Enough to untangle
all that I had *******.
Three words from his mouth
with ridiculous intensity
Feverishly unearthing
everything I had worked to bury.
Come back to me.
My body stiffened against the plea.
After all my time begging.
It was you who was missing me.

I am the ninth born
of fourteen Campbells.
The dividing line for most
between the big kids
and the small.
I, the oldest little
led the gang of ***** boys.
Always antagonizing the elders,
until the war was waged.
My cousins they were towers and
being thrown onto their shoulders
was the equivalent of being
launched into outer space.
They could spin us by our ankles,
they could keep us at bay with one arm
and when all of us would gang on one.
That was a triumphant day.
But the battle wouldn't last long.
The adults were always busy.
So I'd head off with my warriors
and we would plan our next attack.
The entertainment of the day,
getting thrown across a room.

Its funny looking at this now,
I am care taker at a preschool.
I'll pick up a child upside down
only to be flocked by eight screaming
"me next me next!"
and I'll laugh as they outnumber me to the ground.

One minute you are climbing the tower.
The next you are that tower falling down.

There's a beautiful flower
at the end of my yard.
Purple or red
depending on the sun.
My flower is made of steel,
but it breaks like glass.
My flower is rusty
and covered in dirt.
She's bent in her middle,
My beautiful flower.
Her leaves brown and wilted.
She's just at the end of the yard.
I never walk to see her
for fear she'll run away.
My flower she is perfect.
She is filled with misunderstanding.
I never get to close
she doesn't want me near anyway.
My gorgeous flora,
she grew out of mud.
I never touch her.
Her dried up dying petals.
She doesn't need me.
My beautiful flower.

In the dark of the night
and in the silence of my room
torn between sleep and reality
I often scream at you.
******* its all your fault,
I don't miss you anymore
My brain plays out your part as well
A fight that can't be ignored.
You aren't a special person
I hate that I wasted time on you
Things I'll never say out loud,
Though that doesn't make them untrue.

I could not ever
write a phrase about you
that wouldn't be a lie.
At least not if I ever
intended to show you.
No that wouldn't be right.
Because then you'd know
loud and clear
that you're the type of guy.
That drives me so ******* crazy
I want to stab out your eyes.
And no not in a cute way.
Please stop ******* talking.
We were never ever together
So please God keep on walking.

I used to write about you all of the time.
I used to think about you all of the time.
I used to talk about you all of the time.
Then one day I read through
my old journals.
And I realized I was always
writing about the way things used to be.
So maybe its not you I'm hung up on.
Its just the used-to-be's.
And I'd like to think maybe
I'm getting a little old for that stuff.

Love seems to be
the only thing
I ever feel.
Whether it be heartbreak
or sprouting of new love.
It seems to marinate
in every bit I write.

And now
you put that all to shame.
I wish
I had never scrawled of love
before I learned your name.
I wish I had never before
Told tales of love and pain.
If it were up to me
My first written word would be your name.
Because ever since I've loved you babe
nothing has been the same.

If I could have it my way,
every kiss that ever left my lips
would be passed directly off to you.
If I had my say on things,
From the start
I'd have you every day.


Love seems to be
the only thing
I feel when I see you.
I want to compare you
to the most beautiful sounds
that ever soothed the earth.
Or the coolest water,
such as that as that cliff
where you took me,
on what should have been
our last day.

But you are better
than anything I can think
better than this
horrible explanation
better than any
love I have ever felt
for anything.
You are my everything.
I'm sorry I can't tell you.

I close my eyes and I feel it.
I open them and I see it.
In the darkness of my dreams I hear it.
The pounding of my heart.
The choking of my lungs.
The screaming of the crowd,
and I run.
My shoes pound the turf,
as my body scales the Earth.
All the while these people determine my worth.
Even worse it's fun,
so I run.
I feel it in my veins.
The irony of this joyous pain.
I live to do it again and again.
This seems to be who I am,
so I run.

"Let's have lots of babies
and grow old."
He told her in a card.
Six years before she left
and one before the birth
of her last three children.

"Let's have lot's of babies
and grow old."
He promised her that birthday,
on an over the top card
that clearly showed
the light in which he saw her.

"Let's have lots of babies,
and grow old."
He begged her
as she packed her things,
us along with them.
Leaving him with an empty heart
and empty drawers.

"Let's have lots of babies,
and grow old."
He scrawled in his neatest chicken scratch.
The only thing that left in a drawer
years after she changed her mind.

Or perhaps she always knew,
and the day she took my fathers life
was the first day she quit lying  to herself.

We sat in the back of the room.
English 201.
There were five of us,
but a max of four at a time.
They spoke a lot.
Raising their hands,
or speaking out of turn
to protest the ignorant proclamation of classmates.
We sat in the back.
Feet propped up, books closed.
Backing each other up on our rants.
I never spoke.
I'll never know how they knew
I was one of them.

I used to run the streets at night
Because I couldn't scream
And I wouldn't fight.
Some times it's too hard
To act polite.
So I'd slip out the door,
And sprint street lights.

Time Stopped
and the world stopped
and I stopped,
Loving you that day.
and you stopped
and you saw
what really made things this way.

Two worlds divided
By a line of sun and rain.
One world filled with laughter,
The other filled with pain.
One world filled with people
Who used to matter most
The other filled with sorrow
and gently weeping ghosts.
A little girl with scars
Sits on the line of gray
Trying to decide
to live in sun or rain.
Her old family weeping,
They miss her touch.
Her new world glowing,
Shining in the sun.
The broken hearts follow her,
And she can't run away.
She is stuck in the sadness.
She is stuck in the gray.
She doesn't want to lose them,
But the sun is so bright.
The other world is cold,
and the wind cuts like a knife.
The young scarred girl must choose
Which world to be a part
The land of sun and gold,
Or the pile of broken hearts.

With my eyes taped shut
I wondered down the road.
I trampled threw a swamp
and squashed some baby toads.

With my eyes taped shut
I fell down a hill,
I wondered out onto the street
and slipped on some road ****.

With my eyes taped shut
I ran into a tree,
got a broken arm,
and scraped up both my knees.

With my eyes taped shut,
I was finally done.
I peeled of the tape
to see I was back where I'd begun.

Its strange,
The rules parents make.
"Why is the cup this size?"
I ask,
"if you are only supposed to fill it
halfway with detergent?"
"The full cup is for rich people."
This policy seemed to be true for a lot of things.
Everything is reusable.
I learned this over time.
Although,
after an excited phone call
and a new work wardrobe.
When washing the plastic forks we used for dinner
my mother laughed,
"you don't wash plastic forks."
As though this had been the rule always.
Its strange,
all these new rules
she seemed to know all along.

She's like a dream
she just appears
Three A.M.
She isn't real
He's like a dream
Her body is a shell
Did last night happen?
She can never tell
Was she here?
He never knows
The complex life
of loving a ghost.
Do I want him?
She asks herself
Silently she stays,
but by morning nothing's left.

I seem to be getting older
Every ******* day I am alive.
My mind and body growing,
But with that something dies.

There used to be a demon,
Who slept beneath my bed.
I haven't heard him howl in years.
I know that ******'s dead.

I considered myself and artist.
But now I see the flaws.
I had a pink plastic cell phone,
But now it won't make calls.

The world I lived in,
Was mainly gold and white
But my mind won't stop expanding
Now there's no room for light.

And even as I sit here
writing these ******* rhymes.
I feel childish and ignorant,
Now there another piece has died.

I can.
Fall True.
Just ******.
A Woman.
I am.
Was wonderful.
The time.
Different things.
Be Holy.
Truly Fascinating.
Not anymore.
Glad too.
I am.
Always different.
So much.
Existing beautifully.

To be.
Is crazy.

Appear strong.
Any less.
I think.
Were true.
So much.
Didn't happen.

The passenger.
How unhealthy.
That way.
Is given.
Very much.
Their heart.
They should.
Life also.
Big decision.

The sky.
You will.
Is right.
To do.

Sometimes I sit still
and feel the air on the insides of my arms.
I feel the warmth of the sunlight
that reflects off my skin.
I listen to the breeze
that winds through the trees
and through me as well.
I am the same as them.
In the distance I hear birds
and the trickle of water.
They are the same as me.

Later when I leave this rock
things will speed back up,
My muscles and mind straining to keep up,
wearing myself thin
at the end of everyday.
Life is a game that way.
But sometimes I just sit still.

Last night I dreamt of thunder storms
Lightning, hail, and rain.
I dreamt of people screaming and
The somber rattling of chains
In my dream I saw my death
The absence of ever breathing life
I saw hardship and simplicity
In my never ending strife.
I dreamt of un-measurable beauty
And the evils of this earth
I never longed for anything.
Nothing I valued had worth
I dreamt of life long journeys
But never took a step
I dreamt of rainy Sundays
And floors that needed swept
Last night I dreamt of crying
And death before a chance
Last night I dreamt of laughter
And young love’s silent glance.
I dreamt of what could be,
And what I’d never see again.
I fraternized with enemies,
And hated all of my friends.
I ran into the woods
Bare feet and solemn eyes
Wake up! Wake up! Wake up! I screamed,
With my eyes trained on the sky
Last night I dreamt of blood
And death and beauty and pain
Last night I dreamt of summer.
Last night I dreamt of rain.

I spent the fourteenth summer of my life begging.
In the aisles of the supermarket
I found I needed to be the mother of a cactus,
My own mother said plants were a bigger responsibility
Than one would first assume.
In the overwhelming bustle of the summer fair,
I decided I needed to become a parent to a baby rabbit.
My mother warned me that I could not handle the responsibility.
I became the proud owner of both,
Pouring every ounce of myself into each.
But, I seemed to have mismatched ideologies on water.
The cactus drowned,
And the rabbit dried up.
My mother was right.
A lot of things died that day.

I used to be a poet
But then I killed myself
I used to read fine literature
But then I lost the shelf
I used to be an actress
But then I overdosed
I used to dance ballet
And I used to tell good jokes
I used to be a painter,
Before my fingers broke.
I used to be a Christian
Before everything fell
Now I don’t believe in Satan
So I’ll be seeing you in hell
I used to breathe oxygen
Before my lungs filled up with steel
Sometimes I would hear music
Until I learned it wasn’t real
I used to cut my wrists
Until I learned I’d never heal
I used to be a lizard
Before my second life
I used to be a mother
And once I was a wife
I just drank some poison
But trust me I won’t leave
I’m solid, I’m a rock
I’m as strong as I’ll ever

Even when she leaves she stays
Even when she cries she plays
Even when she dies she breathes
Even when she’s blind she sees
Even when she laughs she’s sad
Every bit of good is bad.
Even though she lives she’s died.
Her coward-ness outweighs her pride
She’s full of dreams, though she does not sleep
She does not starve because she does not eat
Her wonderful future, an imaginary friend.
Her life is a game she’ll never win
Her fragile heart, it’s made of steel
Her pain is fake, but ever real.
Every time she breathes she breaks
Every time she gives she takes
And every time she loves she hates.
Even though she’s smart she’s dumb
Even when she feels she’s numb
Every day she lives she dies
She can’t be reached so no one tries
She is wind and nothing more.
She doesn't bleed but always hurts
Her coward-ness outweighs her pride.
From broken heart or broken mind
Her life is dead
But she can’t die.

I liked how it used to be.
When I was you,
And you were me.
I loved the ways
We sometimes talked.
Like you were older,
Or I was mom.
I envied the way,
That you would always claim.
That nothing’s forever,
And this will be okay.

You don’t talk that way anymore.
But I still believe you.
The consequences of me becoming me,
And you being you.