Last night there were buses in my head,
a plaque above the door that said
"This will go anywhere for
(insert names here.)"
And I woke up in bed next to
not you.
Whoever it was
was not you.
My eyes stayed glued shut
from sleep tears and make-up,
giving me time to think this through.
If I traveled the country, if,
will I travel it with you?
Because anyone is willing to help
if you allow them to.

My nose hurts so badly it will be difficult to kiss,
my mouth tasting of Portugal,
socks smelling of smoke.
Did we gain an hour today, or yesterday?
Whichever, I know where I spent it,
in a room
filled with ash
and truthful "no judgment."
Where a pregnancy scare started in a closet.
Where that same scare ended on the couch.
And if I had an extra hour every week,
I know exactly where I'd spend it.
Next to you, in that room.

I woke up this morning, thinking my god I've gotten older.
The edges of my dream, knawed at the corners of my eyes
go back to sleep.
Happy Birthday, July.
I had ***** poured into my hands,
I drank it
for the soul purpose of not wetting the bed.
Let's go for a birthday dinner in November,
get a tattoo of a word I think of the hour before,
smoke a cigar til your lungs get sore.
"My god it is beautiful
that I can still believe in god,
if I choose to."

I like it when you **** with my head
and hope we never speak again.
Call me up, please, break me down
tear me apart,
bruise my bones and body.
I feel sick to my stomach
feed me more poison in the chicken soup.
Your eyes were warm once, I don't remember
when. You fed me chicken soup you
said, "I will keep you safe always."
And my throat warmed from the broth,
and I smiled as the poison was swallowed.

I have an unending need for people,
to feel flesh against flesh against sheets.
My blood pumps so forcibly, shaking my bones,
I have an unceasing need to find those I must meet.

Though the look in my eyes has grown weary,
and the feelings I have are short-lived.
Though I've never seen anything clearly,
and I've hardly felt more than a kid.
Though I've lived many lives before this one,
and none of them have reached their goal.
Not one of these facts can discourage
my constant search for shelter from the cold.

I have residue in my blood of every lover I've ever had,
pulsing through my veins,
making my head swell,
making my legs shake.
You call me Siddhartha
Siddhartha Gautama
I am The Buddha, you say.
Understanding everything is connected.
At total peace, gone to pieces as
my heart pumps blood so hard my legs shake to the beat.
Om above my bed,
every of the seven chakras jumbled because
I have trouble letting go.
More often,
I have trouble holding on.

One, I grip your shoulders and bite my lip.
Two, I hold you close with my mouth open,
breath upon breath.
Three, my head tilts back and I let out a sigh.
Four, I grip your shoulders and bite my lip.
Repetition repetition repetition.
"Don't fall too quickly."
I don't fall at all.
My head tilts back and I let out a sigh.
It is you that I want, I look for you in their eyes.

Sometimes I forget that people feel alive all the time.
When I am swishing the smoke of a black and mild
around my mouth til my tongue gets sore,
making rings with the smoke
that I wish could be circling
around your nose,
people feel alive.
This hollow in my chest is heavier than anything that once filled it.
And so I inhale
and take pleasure in the feeling of being punched in the lungs,
destroying the breath that was once used to say "I love you."
And I take pleasure in destroying my body
by the boy who is fully convinced he loves me because
I told him how my father hit me and how I always feel numb.
I take pleasure in destroying my mind
by sleeping all day and smoking all night,
because this is the only thing that allows me
to take pleasure in destruction.
I take pleasure in the thought
of building myself
all back up
for you.

There is nothing
left in my lungs
lingering on taste buds at the tip of my tongue  
underneath fingernails, toenails alike
caught between follicles skin cells or pores
nothing that’s hidden
not anymore
no fragments of letters or commas or ink
no residue, evidence that I could once think.
From the backs of my knees right up to my chest
there is nothing
no evidence
not a single bit left