The click of a lighter
I guess when you hear the sound enough
As a little girl
You connect it to your daddy
Especially when you have daddy issues
That aren't as predominant as your mommy issues.
But that's okay.
The sound of weeping is a broken kind of home for me too.
When I took up smoking,
I thought of my daddy
Every time I lit the power between my fingers
And I smiled.
Would he be proud of his gay daughter?

The smell of *****
Most people cannot smell it
But to me it smells like bleach and dish liquid
The smell that lived in
My father's house.
And maybe that isn't the liqueur.
It could be the taste of her lips
That still lingers from that Monday which seems decades away.
It's been two weeks.
I like to taste *****, just like I love to smell it.
It is a home to me.
And that's all I'm really looking for.

ive run out of people
who will
*fight for me

the blurred face of a ******* a picture of a new york city street
someone too lazy to give her an identity
or someone too afraid to let her paint in her own features
but her daddy and mommy never painted
english majors don't paint
or draw and neither did she
so she was a blur to everyone she met
maybe because she ran too fast
or her steps were too small
her legs weren't long enough
someone should have at least painted in her crooked smile
so i could see it just one more time
under the city lights
and in the blues of the reflected skyscraper windows