They lied to me through the gaps where their teeth had been,
and clutched at my purse with their eyes
until I was unclothed and wise,
causing fate to follow behind me as I walked blindly on.

There is no measurement of time in a moment when you feel something,
and I held that moment for as long as I could,
cradling what I thought was different in me.
I stretched until I could see it going around the corner,
and I called to you, trying desperately to get your attention.
But this is fatal,
and only what I don't do will spread quickly enough to get to my lungs.

I don't feel what I used to,
like maybe I can make myself change in the same way that the hand moves over the face of a clock.
I'm just reminiscing over created and discovered memories.
Maybe I found them on my way to the third floor,
I cradle them as if they were yours and hope to god you're an idiot when I know you're not.

It doesn't make sense to be in any body but mine,
thinking anyone else's thoughts,
or feeling anyone else's emotions.
It doesn’t make sense for me to feel sorry
or for me to wish I could handle these things better, like I always seem to.
It doesn’t make sense to be what you think I am,
but that’s why it was fun.

When we used to go to the same supermarket,
I would watch you pick out fruit
and buy the same kind.
I felt close. I felt like maybe someday you would notice
and say something like,
"I've always loved you," or "I like blueberries, too."

I can imagine your face
lingering between blueberries and raspberries,
the teetering glance you gave to each price,
and even the way you opened each carton gently,
as if it were a precious music box,
and tasted the slow, sweet juice of each berry.

When we used to go to the same movies, I would sit near you,
imitate your reactions.
I only wished I could come closer,
and maybe touch your hand.
Your eyes made me wish I was on the screen.

When we slept in the same bed,
I held you tight enough to scare you.
You said let me go,
but I couldn't. I won't. I didn't.

You gave me AIDS.

The bruise on your left knee is yellowing
and I watch it when you're speaking.
Your breath is straight from the oven,
your teeth clattering like a rattling spoon
as you feed me your words,
hard and fast--my stomach so full I can hardly take more.

You talk at me like I'm a chalkboard
and I should be able to create your words at the same pace that you can;
you stop feeling my gaze on your knee
and you try to tickle me with your eyes,
as if this simple movement will make your words softer.
As if I will stop feeling something if you stop too.

You tuck your eyelashes low, like that counts as an apology,
and you face me like you're strong.
You're always like something.
And you have fingernails like a girl's, and you are one,
and you have fists like an ex-lover
and eyes like the city,
but the city is ugly in the light;
you're only beautiful when the sky dims to night.

I can't smell the night air
because your lyrics are getting in the way
and I don't like them enough to listen,
but you're everywhere, it seems.
And I don't mean to be rude,
but you're being very rude.
Just thought you should know
in case you thought you weren't.

And I can't see the stars because, crazily enough,
I can't see through solid objects.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
But you must think that I can
because you sit with your back to me
like I'm Superman or something,
when really I'm less:
I'm nothing (to you).

I knocked on your door at 3 AM because I was cold,
but you let me inside for different reasons.
I was wearing my mother's jacket and perfume
and I think you thought I was her,
but my lips are fuller and my hands are harder.
I felt your smile and you felt mine,
and you told me about being gone
so we left.

I held a whirlwind of your emotions in my hand
and it was the first time I'd felt so much
without even moving.
You asked me to throw them, but I couldn't do it,
so I put them in my coat pocket and cried without telling you.
There was something you whispered to me
at half past six that is sitting in that pocket, too,
but I just can't bring myself to look for it.

And the whole time I was waiting for you to hit me;
I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't her.
In the passion of your memories
you would grab my hand and shake it,
the weird part was that I let you, I didn't protest.

You were kind at 9 AM when I left because I was warm,
but you pushed me out the door for reasons I don't understand.
Maybe because I wasn't her,
or maybe you just needed your sleep--
but I am content with a pocket full of your emotions and memories,
and you are content being alone.

Buttercup, she whispered to me,
your hair is falling out.
I began to worry, and I wanted to scream
but I stopped myself because
I had already screamed once that day,
and she always seems to tell me
Once is enough.

But my dad found out what she had been saying to me,
he told me she was lying,
but then I had no idea what to believe.
I missed the feeling of loosing hair,
and I missed the way it felt as it landed on my shoulders.

At the grocery store
while choosing between strawberry and grape jam
some twenty years later,
I glimpsed her humor in my peripheral vision
and I turned to dance with her
but faced only the peanut butter.

I have seen the sun at night
but only when I was sleeping,
and she always used to tell me
Night time is when things aren't real.*
And I believed her.

2morrow, I will go 2 a dance party.
I will drnk chocolate milk.
I will fake an orgzm,
or mbe I won't try that hard.
It's all up in da air at dis point.

I'm sure that 2day my mother died,
I felt it & I knew ILY,
IDK if my mind is R;
each breath I take is JFF
and I can't seem to con't.