It’s not like anyone understands
what it is that draws me to you—
like anxious mosquitos to a caged
blue light, where they die united,
leaving a burnt stench in the air
as the light lives on. Or whales
who throw themselves ashore,
leaving their lives so they might
finally taste the half-baked sun.

Or maybe I am more ordinary
than I credit myself for. Maybe
I am like ants swarming a Snickers bar,
vultures following the dying doe,
Hollywood zombies tracking
the tender brain. But I wonder:
is this hunger, or craving?

Is there a chance that your years
of self-abuse could change you chemically?
That my lips picked up *******
in your saliva, or perhaps ******
laced the perspiration of a nervous palm
over mine? Is this attraction
or addiction? Does it matter?

We make the choices that decide our fate,
or so they say. But who’s to say
we’re really choosing?

Does she wonder what I’ll think
when I find that freshly burned
evidence of a habit—I thought—
she dropped long ago? What upsets
me the most is that she couldn’t
confront her weakness enough
to buy a cheaper brand.

You and I separated long ago. The only writer
I ever loved. I try to find myself in
between your words, lingering somewhere deep
in your inspiration, but I don’t think
I’m there. You always made them up,

but I knew you better than that. Recycling
moments from the past to make a fake
love feel real. I don’t love you.
I only wish I could see your memories of me
living on through your fingertips,

the way you do through mine. We live separate
lives in the same vicinity, touching the same
people. If you had told me this years ago,
I wouldn’t have believed that even a single
degree could separate you and I.

We were each necessary for the other
to mature. My biggest fear is that I didn’t
help you grow as a writer. So what
if we matured? If being loved by me
didn’t improve your writing, then it was all

for nothing.

It’s cold for a California night
near the start of May. The sky
was gloomy all day so some of you left
your suits at home. It’s alright,
wear what you’ve got. Music plays
through tiny speakers from a beer
soaked table as we line up, half
****, along the water’s cement edge.

The song is muffled, so I pretend
it’s The Shins. I can’t see anyone
through the rising steam, so I trip
headfirst to the bottom of the pool.

We get out every thirty minutes or so
to take shots, leaping back in without
a second thought. We don’t notice it’s pouring
until the lighters that live with our
glass pipes (within reach without leaving
the water) give out, and forget how
to make flames. Red cups have been
blowing off the table for an hour now
but we were too busy floating on our backs
and thinking this feels like home.

You
are poisonous,
and I
am an idiot. I deserve
to be hurt.
Your venom spreads
quickly
and soon
you will unknowingly
avenge him.
I would rather bleed
out
on my bathroom floor
with a sharp
fist,
than allow
you
to slowly,
surely,
drain me.

There’s a certain romance
in he who doesn’t kiss
his lover, despite yearning

for her eager lips,
and tongue like a dolphin—
hesitant, yet inviting.

But she’s bottlenosed,
and he has the heart of an orca.
He just wants her

to test the water
before he drags her
down by her feet.