I wouldn't mind kissing your chapped lips
or touching elbows late at night.

We could spin the world away
and sing about the lipless.

I'd vaccum my room to get rid of the smell
and then we could lay there until our thoughts settle,
or I could make you tea, promising not to spit in the cup.
I don't know if you like sugar or not,
but I do, so I'll put it in anyway.

I know you don't like apples,
oranges, babies, hairy legs,
stair cases, dark tunnels,
neon colors, highlighted hair,
leftovers, or gapped teeth.

I know you like milk,
dark hair, movies (almost any),
games, poetry, dancing,
singing, my hands (touching yours),
and eye contact.

I only have 6 dollars,
3 pills,  4 cigarettes,
5 fingers (on each hand),
2 eyes, and 1 interest.

i want to be myself with you, honest

really.

but i'm afraid, so afraid
that you won't want me any more if

                  i sing silly songs that don't make sense and sound horrible
                  
                  and i giggle too loudly for no apparent reason

                  and i snore in my sleep

and i'm afraid that you won't love me more if i just relax

                  and my hair isn't brushed
                                    and my legs aren't exactly shaved
                                                      and my feet smell bad
                                                             ­           and i'm not wearing any makeup
                                                          ­                                and i'm wearing my pajamas with Bob the Builder on them that I've worn since fifth grade.
                                                          ­                              
so kiss me,
                  though my breath smells like the chicken pasta with broccoli and onions I had for dinner last night
                                    

                     ­               and tell me I'm beautiful.

I want the respect that I don't give,
and I want you to notice how blue my eyes are,
and how red my lips are.
I can offer you my hands,
they're exactly as soft as you want them to be.
You can look down my throat,
or bite my finger nails,
anything you want.

I want you to stop talking to me forever,
so that I can think about you all the time,
and I want you to watch me
as if you knew what I meant when I said goodbye.

It always gets to the point where my face is hot
and I can feel it seep into my ears,
and my heart is beating so fast that I'm afraid it'll get tired and stop,
then I'll just be dead.

God's not a dancer,
he doesn't have any feet, or a body,
not to mention a spine.
How could you dance without a spine?

I want you to ask me questions that I can't answer,
and prove to me how much better you are,
or maybe if you stood there and smiled at me long enough,
I'd realize how  tired you really are.

If I stop talking, that means I'm better,
and if I keep talking, that means I'm worse.
I hope you don't understand any of this,
because that would make me a liar,
and I'm sick of being a light that you stare at,
and I'm sick of that chair that you sit in.
but mostly,
I hate the smell of the theater,
and I always wonder why the floors are so sticky,
not that I care, I just have an overactive imagination.

I was beautiful because
You told me I was.
You were beautiful because
There can be none like you.

I'm working on remembering you.
(not that it's possible to forget)
But I want your details
So I'm working on remembering you.

I think I have your chin down
But your nose is not perfected.
Your eyes are almost there
And your hands are probably halfway.

I was beautiful because
You made me believe I was.
But you were beautiful because
There can be none like you.

I want to know you.
Your no banana pancakes
And your Dr. Pepper
And your gas station champagne.

Our atoms are getting familiar with each other.
At least, that would explain
Why my skin, no, my whole being
Both tenses and melts when you're near.

Your fingernails know my back
My hands know your chest.
They're close friends, you know.
I'm sure you've noticed.

I am beautiful because
That's what you bring out.
You are beautiful because
There can be none like you.

I am a miserable ****.

Traffic jam thoughts.
Aimless speech.
Fever dreams,
coffee with no cream,
love with no pulse,
alone at restaurants,
            at grocery stores,
            at parties.

I have no identity.

Shifting shape, black to blue,
trading girls, red hair for Persian skin,
parents and gods,
politicians and lost purpose mobs,
all asking me to be sacred,
                            to be loving,
                            to be trusting,
                            to be active,
                            to have no spine.

All I want is a bit of my own time.

A grenade of change,
to end the coagulation of my brain,
to leave me hungry for anything
other than me,
didn't somebody say I was promised something?
                                            I was going somewhere?
                                            I was unique?

I am the same miserable ****,

As every other miserable ****.

The ******* that cut you off on Highway 62,

The person that complained about too many pickles,
on his precious fast food,

The boy yelling at his baby sister for getting too much attention,

The girl sexting your boyfriend,

The boy sexing your girlfriend,

The generation divorcing everyone it knows so it can fall in love with

itself.

All different,
in exactly the same way.

Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
                   Traffic jam thoughts. Traffic jam thoughts.
            trafficjamthoughts. traffic. Traffic Jam Thoughts. Thoughts.
Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Traffic. Jam.
thoughts. traffic. trafficjam. trafficjam. traffic jam thoughts.traffic.
traffic jam. traffic, traffic, traffic. I am a miserable ****. Traffic jam.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.