as coffee gloriously pollutes my veins
warding off sleep.every cell in my body      
                                                                       pleads to be
                                                                       aligned with every cell in his.

cloaked in a black cave
my fingerpainted strokes
make the silence
pregnant with
care
&
disregard
&
those feelings submerged
inside somewhere.
if a ravenous bear appeared
i'd be happy for the company.

hardwood
and the smell of writing
writing
and the smell of hardwood
i could sleep here
under the disorganized desk
and wake up in

unequivocal happiness.

against a tree
in the cemetery
singing to those
who cannot sing
back
shouting words
above the wind
strumming with
life,
and with breath.

IN MY HEAD, YOU WERE NEVER REALLY DEAD

a hug that smelled like last summer.
'you didn't have to drive all this way for me'
it took me two hours
on the backroads because the freeway is scary
lost in neighborhoods where everything looked the same,
rows of shiny white teeth. it never crossed my mind to miss it.
           how do his eyes burn impossibly blue,
           even under the awning?
'the thing is, i had to'
he understood,
he understood just then that i was the girl he loved second best
and a sore loser always eyes the trophy cravingly
before walking away small.
            'i'll miss you'
whose to say? i'll take silver & wonder if he ever wrote to
             the other redhead.

love is something
you want to take back,
like the ugly sweater you get for Christmas.
love is something
you have to accept in hindsight
even when you are sure
nothing hurts more.

October sun tickled and made me mean it
                                                              ­                     three
                                                                ­                   words
shouted at first
then whispered and kissed and traced over and over
subtleties in the way the world did not open up wide
and treeleaf eyes took a beat too long to find mine
subtleties in the way my arms enveloped too tight
and his
                                                             ­                      three
                                                           ­                        words
seemed to slide off,
water over a rock.
love is something
incapable of vanishing
as much as a
nostalgic heart
beating numb
wishes otherwise.

a beauty i will never
                             understand
exists in watching an
                             inhale
a hit that tunnels down
                             deep
fills up a cracked soul,
one i would like to call
                             familiar
and blows out nameless
                             hopes.
who needs last period?this is the way to learn.

'something didn't come that should have'
                               you never looked more like a little kid
                               and you wouldn't hug me.
visibly, apathy became your decision
thinly smeared charcoal to conceal
petrification.
who were you trying to
fool?
'abortions aren't a big deal'
                                i never looked more like my mother
                                and you wouldn't touch me.
in the backseat of that jeep
you gave me some quarters
and told me not to tell.
'i gotta go to class'
                                i smelled ****** on you
                                and knew i would smell it later.
                                ****** is what got us here.
i hid my face in my sweater.
my *** said no baby
i said congratulations on not being a father
you said cool and i'll talk you later.
                               i wish it was
                               that easy.

the day she went,

head escaped icy window

and screams escaped head.

i have three best friends.
one is Thomas.
they asked me to sing at his funeral
but i couldn't because i was crying too much.
he left his hat
and it smells of nothing but him.
two is Aly.
we carved boundless into a river bridge before
she moved to Liverpool. an actress with more *****
than anyone claiming masculinity.
it costs eight stamps to write her but i do
because i believe in handwritten letters the way most people
believe in church.
three is a read leather journal
with graph paper pages
crawling with the inked version of my
trainwreck brain
the words that i can bury myself under
and call it art.

under the dark of covers
promise me
promise me
promise me,whisper it
that leavings are not endings
and that if you love something

you tell it goodbye.

when you grabbed my ***
without looking in my eyes
                                          i probably should have felt something like a novelty.
when you kissed me hard against a wall
and stuck your cold hand up my shirt
                                          i probably should have known something more than your first name.

when the deed was done,
lying with harsh spaces on your futon
                                          one of us probably should have said something
                                          before the anonymity of the night
                                          ate us alive.

crazy
follows
me around
like
i'm leaving
a candy
trail

words are rocks in my mouth and
i think obeying traffic laws in the
middle of the night is stupid and
driving from your house i feel like
the little kid who realizes he is too
big to stretch out in the bath tub
anymore. my pockets are full of
those gummy worms i stole yester-
day and pockets in my head are
***** with wanting your selfish self
in the passengers seat, telling me
when to take a left and using red
lights and your pretty eyes to the
full advantage

i think i Indian Gave you my heart
with my infinite, innocent love and all
and i think you double crossed me
and have it still
and it makes you sad
but it would make you sadder to give it back.

climb roofs whisper in ears get uncomfortably close scream out a window hike in the night paint the details i know of you envelop don't wear clothing don't wash my hair climb a tree you think you can't meet somewhere at an odd hour slip in foggy in the morning sleep with the cold wind on your face in the warmest sleeping bag remember the smell of typewriter ink and hardwood floor kiss my nose don't go stay and build a fort like little kids stay until that world collapses rearrange say my name in my ear and in the air look at you and we both start running

unnamed emotion
slips: over my head
like tepid bathwater
in a clawfoot tub

coil into dimly lit
memories;vintage motifs
where the glamour
is all but tarnished

lips once stained smoothred
are cracked;withered
not fit for a kiss nor a
memoir of the evening

submerged beneath heavylight
weight of regrets?no.
lack of: a detached nostalgia
featuring no judgement, only

the autumn wisps of when you felt anything at all.