You, Doctor Martin, walk
from breakfast to madness. Late August,
I speed through the antiseptic tunnel
where the moving dead still talk
of pushing their bones against the ******
of cure. And I am queen of this summer hotel
or the laughing bee on a stalk

of death. We stand in broken
lines and wait while they unlock
the doors and count us at the frozen gates
of dinner. The shibboleth is spoken
and we move to gravy in our smock
of smiles. We chew in rows, our plates
scratch and whine like chalk

in school. There are no knives
for cutting your throat. I make
moccasins all morning. At first my hands
kept empty, unraveled for the lives
they used to work. Now I learn to take
them back, each angry finger that demands
I mend what another will break

tomorrow. Of course, I love you;
you lean above the plastic sky,
god of our block, prince of all the foxes.
The breaking crowns are new
that Jack wore.
Your third eye
moves among us and lights the separate boxes
where we sleep or cry.

What large children we are
here. All over I grow most tall
in the best ward. Your business is people,
you call at the madhouse, an oracular
eye in our nest. Out in the hall
the intercom pages you. You twist in the pull
of the foxy children who fall

like floods of life in frost.
And we are magic talking to itself,
noisy and alone. I am queen of all my sins
forgotten. Am I still lost?
Once I was beautiful. Now I am myself,
counting this row and that row of moccasins
waiting on the silent shelf.

There is a love I wish I'd never known;
Its bitter taste still burning on my tongue
Like steaming coffee sipped in haste.
I held my air tight to my chest, but you
Ripped it from my lungs with no warning,
Replacing it with your breath, old cigarettes,
And fumes from gasoline-soaked memories.

****, I was eighteen and had nothing left,
But you lit me on fire. You took more of me
Than I had to give, then left me alone
To create someone new out of my ashes.
Little did you know, I'd fill my cracks with gold,
Forge a new heart, then let the old one melt.
Babe, if love feeds on pain, devour someone else.

Another bottle
Another thought
Take another shot
Well take two
No matter how many
I take I can't escape
The memory of you
I'll have another
Make this a double
Hell a triple of jack
Ignite a fire in my chest
But it's not the jack
That's causing the burn
It's the girl I'm trying to drink away

On December 21, 2012
The world was supposed to end
Obviously we are still rolling in motion
And most of us are okay
Fast forward two years
On December 21, 2014
You finally kissed me in the midst of a crowded complex
And I was just thinking about how it was a coincidence that a few years back,
The world was supposed to end
But when you fast forward,
My world had just begun
On December 4th, 2014
I let go of someone else,
So that way I could truly be yours forever
We could finally start off right
I can remember that, clear as day.
We went on and I can remember when you first told me long stories about how your parents went from nothing
To successful
How you held my hand tight
But knew I liked you to hold me a certain way
And kissed me when I least expected it
How you always complimented me on the way I looked
But after awhile
I looked down at my hands
And I noticed the blood dripping down my wrists
And you'd secretly been stabbing me
While you ****** her
I noticed how angry you were with me
And I couldn't stop the sadness
I apologized for you being angry with me
I apologized for you ******* the life out of her
I apologized when I finally broke it off with you after coming home from the hospital
I didn't want you to leave
But I suppose it's better to leave the ones
That make you feel so empty inside
Like they've taken something out of your bones every time
And they won't return it, in the way you won't return the records I bought you.
I can't remember much of what happened that day
I'm good with dates, I swear.
I can name off the day we first kissed, the day of our first date, the first time I met your father.
I can remember your birthday, our anniversary, the first time you took me to that art museum
But I cannot remember the day I let you go
It's.. Like Ive blocked it out of my memory
I thought you'd come back
I thought you'd say,
"Baby, please. Let me fix it."
But you didn't.
And that's all I can say I really remember..
Well that and some of your words
That did more than just bruising my skin
The words you used to cause
Dents
And punctures
And words so sharp it took my entire flesh off the bone
I remember those
Like,
"You say I am selfish, but you are the one wanting to commit suicide."
And I am pretty sure I apologized for that too
Because it was something I always said to keep you from leaving..
That's wrong isn't it?
My apologies became as sweet as honey
They always danced off my tongue
And you were a bee,
Collecting it
Absorbing it
And taking it back home
But instead of putting it to use
You abused me with it
Kept doing the same **** things
I only made up excuses for you
When my friends asked where you were when he passed away
I said I'm sorry
This is something I said later when I was crying over him and sad that there was nothing I could do to stop my grieving.
I apologized
When you couldn't make it to the funeral
My god
You didn't even make it to my own
Because I had been dying inside the whole time
I said I am sorry
The date was March 17, 2015..

I am in such a **** mood,
the mountains have no meaning.
Big ******* rocks.

*******, dad.
*******, Fox News.
*******, Indiana.

None of you *******
know what irony is.
Google that ****.
Jesus Christ.

There are yellow streams--
that's poetic ****.
There are ruby stained sheets--
that's blood, obviously,
and, I dunno,
maybe somebody died on a bed?

Everyone can **** my ****.

To be or not to be,
that is the
shut the **** up.

Rapists are disgusting people.
They aren't people.

******* idiots.
Romanticizing everything
you wish you had
because
suicide, mental illness,
and eating disorders
make you cool,
riiiigghhhttt?
*******.
If you do this,
you aren't interesting.
You're just you.
Get used to it.
There are people
that go through
these issues
and they don't think
it's ******* rad,
*******.

I hate 75% of the south.
The south will rise again?
Get the **** out of here.

Stalin was a ****.

Most writers are *****.
Most of them ****.
I don't care.

For the love of "God",
if I read one more poem
about what poetry is
or how to define a poet,
I'll slam my head against
a ******* knife.

Some people are so dumb.
Most ******* people.
******* pseudo-knowledge.
Armchair philosophers.
If you guys wanted
to **** yourself,
you could jump
from your ego
to your IQ.

Something, something, imagery.
Metaphor.

It's something in the chemicals, it makes the "miss you's" come out when you're drunk. Really, we're all liquor store kisses --- things you can't tell your parents. My drink is a little too strong, making my lungs feel like their filled with wasps. I'm a mess, is that what you call it? When someone says "don't cry" but you cry harder. Everyone's talking all they want around me, but I'm not listening. Lies, lies, lies. But, the lies are only good when you're telling them. I need help, aka a wedding for all the things I've lost in my eighteen year old life. The morning vomits evening colors from hearing your name. Like I'm vomiting-out all the broken promises you ever made to me. Your eyes reminded me of the prettiest diamonds, what did mine remind you of? Loose change? I need to do laundry, but I'm too lazy. I'm living in a wastebasket of flashbacks. I'm driving home tonight, alone, not sobber. I won't grip my steering wheel tightly, I won't wear my seatbelt, I won't use my breaks. I'll remember the amount-less number of drinks I've drank, slightly. But, they were no mistakes. I'm good at pretending my life is in order, but clearly it's not. This isn't who I want to be anymore, I hate the remembrance of you. I think getting drunk will help, but that only makes the remembrance worse, and I keep thinking about our first kisses --- and how they tasted --- how they drained the color out of every living thing --- how ladybugs decided to make their homes in the palms of our hands --- how it wasn't hard to forget that we have an unbearable amount of seconds left on this planet.
(k.m.m)