the only way I could love
uncertainly.
Hideously open, like a cave-in
and over and over
unbearable compression and devastating release, emptiness
muddy and ****** and thin
thin as our sheets are.
Toast and cracked dishes in the morning
the morning
as it came once more
hollow. Invading the spaces in the skyline
and my eyes.
So we got up and sat, down, if you can call it that
down at our table.
I thought it was something like a reflection, the cracked saucers in your eyes
spilling tears all over your shirt
because you were alive through another night of torment
in a shattered mind
and we sipped tea.

But oh, broken doll, clouded sunrise,
moldy walls, ***** water
crumbling seaside
cliff
how ashamed the white world is of you
how you shame the world
in your aching
terrible
glory.

It hurts worst when I'm sitting in a cafe and a song I know comes on the radio. By insinct I turn to the chair next to me. I turn to your empty chair. Dismayed, I look around for someone to share it with. But nobody there knows the song. To them it's just the gray backround. And I drop my eyes wishing I could make it exist.

Or worst when I'm walking through an empty parking lot at midnight and yellow light is dripping out of the street lamps and washing all over the pavement. The sound of it is deafening. I can't hear it but I can feel it. The weight of it pulls my shoulders down towards my own starving black shadow and makes me think of how the white glow of your skin pulled me down into your arms and made my eyes shine.

Or worst when I'm on the street corner waiting to cross and the rain is pouring over the skyscrapers and down into the canyons of the city. Cars pass like phantoms floating through the fog, their headlights flashing on the wet pavement. The sound of harsh laughter and flooded gutters invaded by creaking busses reaches me as if from the past, and for a second I can hear your voice, humming a song about the rain. And I cross, begging out loud underneath the roar of raindrops for the cars to hit me.

These are the lonliest days and the longest nights. These are the moments when I can feel my lungs caving in every time I exhale. The seconds where a tiny black line dancing to the pulse of time is the only movement in my cold apartment, replacing the warm rise and fall of your chest.

night is coming and I'm sitting at my window watching the sunset die and I don't want to give up  I don't want to and it's getting dark again

Thinking that someone loves you is better than nothing,
but what people don't realize is that it was all pokes at jokes
and I bet he smokes,
or knows I do
and doesn't like the smell,
or the way I breathe out,
or how the rings come from my mouth
and are never on my fingers.

And I have paper cuts on those same fingers
that want to be in your hair,
and your body,
(all of it),
and I hope you want them there,
because that's exactly where they'll be
if we ever meet.

The dirt buried in my prints
will leave marks on you like a million hands and feet,
drenched in paint and smeared over your temple.

I bet you don't care what I look like,
or that I have a Van Gough pin,
or that people like to write my name.
I'm glad you like to listen,
and that you're smooth with words,
so I can fall asleep to the sound of your golden text.

I never thought I would like an arial view,
or that I would fall in love with strings of it
all laced together into a perfect fabric,
(or web).

I hope that you're not allergic to sound,
or jelly beans,
because I want to see you cry and smile at the same time.

when you leaned in to kiss me, I could’ve counted your eyelashes if I wanted,
and I started to.
but I was terrified.
so I scrambled backward and splashed the cup of pink lemonade I was holding in your face
and ran home tripping over my own bones,
slid all the books you recommended to me off the kitchen table
and made some instant noodles, burning myself on the stove and spilling cold water all over my toes.
I couldn’t find a fork, and almost cried and burst out laughing when I realized I hadn’t washed the dishes,
I’m sorry, love is the scariest thing.
but I couldn’t help but wish you were there to wipe off the soup from my face.

He was lean,
a hungry coyote,
tattoo'd, cynical,
probably coming down
from smoking a bowl.

"I dig your tattoos."

"Thanks man. I got a few,
I'd like a few more,
but that **** costs a lot of money."

His hair was shaggy,
reaching for his shoulders,
he hadn't shaved in a couple
weeks.

"What does that Asian script
on the back of your neck mean?"

"Oh,
it means Black.
Ya know?
Like my last name.
It's like a ******' football jersey.
Just in case I forget my name."

We walked down
darkened corridors,
he made me nervous.
Not like I'm going to
**** my britches nervous,
but that this guy is older,
wiser, not afraid to say
whatever the hell he wants,
and probably doesn't want
to waste his time, kinda way.

"Nah, dude.
Burch threw me a bone on this one.
I picked up most of my writing from
taking a course on Creative Writing
with Professor Jamison.
The dude was ******* legit.
He went to Yale or some ****.
Two Ivy Leagues anyway.
You would'uh loved him.
He made bank too.
90 grand,
more than anybody else I
know on this campus."

He talked satire,
he talked poetry,
he seemed ready to devour
any unsightly barrier in his way.

"It was nice to meetcha'"

"Hell yeah, you take care of yourself."

Why do I have a feeling that Mr. Black is going to drastically
alter
my life?

I want the respect that I don't give,
and I want you to notice how blue my eyes are,
and how red my lips are.
I can offer you my hands,
they're exactly as soft as you want them to be.
You can look down my throat,
or bite my finger nails,
anything you want.

I want you to stop talking to me forever,
so that I can think about you all the time,
and I want you to watch me
as if you knew what I meant when I said goodbye.

It always gets to the point where my face is hot
and I can feel it seep into my ears,
and my heart is beating so fast that I'm afraid it'll get tired and stop,
then I'll just be dead.

God's not a dancer,
he doesn't have any feet, or a body,
not to mention a spine.
How could you dance without a spine?

I want you to ask me questions that I can't answer,
and prove to me how much better you are,
or maybe if you stood there and smiled at me long enough,
I'd realize how  tired you really are.

If I stop talking, that means I'm better,
and if I keep talking, that means I'm worse.
I hope you don't understand any of this,
because that would make me a liar,
and I'm sick of being a light that you stare at,
and I'm sick of that chair that you sit in.
but mostly,
I hate the smell of the theater,
and I always wonder why the floors are so sticky,
not that I care, I just have an overactive imagination.

I can't help but lust for your skin,
or think about how amazing it would be to carry on a conversation with our hands,
or help but want to lick your teeth
and feel your bones.

I guess the bugs would scare me,
and the smell would make me gag,
but your rotting face would still be beautiful to me.
Sometime's I dream about you all alone,
in the dark, with no one to freeze with you.

It's okay that I didn't get to scratch my nose,
I probably would've ended up tearing through the skin anyway.
You know I've never liked blood.
Too many dead animals on the road,
too many dead things flooding my life.
It makes me wish I were dead.

Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to change your mind?
Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to die?
Isn't it?

You make me feel different than anyone has ever made me feel before.
I think different too.
It's not good, or bad,
it's just the way it is.
Sometimes we have to accept things that we don't want to,
but that's life,
and if you want to feel anything then you need to listen.
Desires can make people sick with confusion,
so sick that they can't sleep,
or taste the food in their mouth,
or hear their favorite song,
or feel the wind on a hot day.

Obsession is dry,
and tasteless,
and it hurts like nothing you could ever believe.
So stop treating me like a child who asks too many questions
and treat me like the beautiful person you claim I am.

Orgasming in the passenger seat,
while she listens to something she doesn't understand,
sitting across from someone she'll never love,
all the while completely clothed and turned off.

She's one of those girls,
who touches herself when you're on the the phone,
or just watching another episode of a mediocre television show.


Everyone's asleep while she sings the saddest songs
in the most **** of ways.
Except he's not asleep,
when they're ******* for days.