It's a sad life when you spend your childhood licking knives
and you wait in the rain for hours, and you always get hurt,
and your moms dead, so you live with your dad,
but you can't afford band-aids.

I've been keeping myself busy lately so that I don't have to think about anything,
I've been thinking too much,  and that doesn't get me anywhere.
I made some money the other day, I still don't have a job,
but it was good money, and I bought some more books,
and I got a new journal.
I feel like writing in it again, maybe if I get my thoughts down I wont be thinking so much.

I've been avoiding other people lately,
but the loneliness is starting to get to me,
there's this point where it begins to eat away at you like the delete button, it's terrifying.

I was looking at the moon last night,
and it was too bright for me to handle.
I kept thinking that I wanted to sew my eyes shut,
and I wasn't wearing any underwear,
and I was really hungry.

I've been feeling so old lately.

You never looked at me when we were driving.
I got so tired of it that I said your name out loud (just so you would look at me)
Oh god, the way that it smashed the silence,
I squinted my eyes and blinked

You picked up your eyes
turned your head
and looked at me, confusion pouring out of your open mouth
“What?”

Later as we walked down the middle of the street I reached for you and you said
“something’s come between us”
with a smile stretching over your mouth.
It was the soap in the palm of your hand

Right when you were looking down, I looked up
[                                              ]
when you kiss me, let it be
*let it be once

I've been clipping my nails in bed,
and I haven't vacuumed since you left,
but I never did anyway, that was always you,
same with the dishes.
I ended up breaking those,
I think the song I was listening to was too sad,
and it took control, and I lost myself.
I'm sorry, I hope you're not mad.
Would it be weird if I started to cry?
I think I might cry.
I'm happy though, I swear I'm happy.
Oh God, I hope I'm happy.

My hair is longer now,
I've been too tired to cut it,
and a little scared, because I know you like to cut hair.
I guess you could say I'm saving it for you,
even though I didn't save some other things,
more important things.
I keep remembering all these lies I told you,
and I've been writing them down,
trying to figure out how I could make up for them.
I guess I can't.
Okay,
I think I'm going to cry-

I tried to read your pretty words,
but I was too distracted by happiness.
I wanted to take a picture,
but they don't sell my size film anymore.
And as I listened to the songs you shared with me,
I realized that anyone could like the same ones,
and that I was silly for thinking I was in love.

It made me think about that night with the guy I just met,
how his car was cold and I kept shaking,
and the music was really bad,
but I kissed him anyway.
Then afterwards on the way home,
I kept thinking about how beautiful you are,
and about how I wanted to see you that night.
How I still haven't gotten the chance to see the color of your eyes for myself.

I wrote some letters this week,
I want to write them to you too,
or maybe I'll call you,
I haven't heard your voice enough,
and I've almost memorized what I've heard already.

When I saw you drawing that hand,
I wished it was my hand,
and I wished you would reach out and hold it
as if you've held it a million times before,
but it meant more than anything to you,
and I wished that you would dream about the softness.

I feel like I should be embarrassed,
but I doubt you even check these anyway.

bye.

I wonder what you taste like,
I can't help it.
It doesn't matter how many times our lips touch,
it's not the same.
In the morning when you make me coffee,
I wonder what it's like to be beneath your skin.
While you drink your cup,
and smile,
I secretly want to drink you,
but I smile back instead.

I've been reading your poetry lately,
wondering if it's about me.
I've been crying lately,
because I'm in love.
I've tied myself down with wishes,
all of them are about you.
I've done a lot of things,
all of them were for you.

When I wake up next to you,
it's better than any cigarette.
I try not to stare,
afraid you'll wake up.
So instead I stare at the ceiling,
the one I've memorized.
I hope the addiction isn't obvious,
although, that would make things easier.

It's hard to tell someone else's lover these kind of things,
it's inappropriate.

No matter how much I love you.

We reach out for dolls
with withered hands.
Stooped over, we play
in the sandbox.
Ancient children,
so old, with innocent eyes,
we never grew up
in an aged world.
Time steals our hopes,
to have everything be alright.
The ticking of the clock goes on.
Yet we cling to youth,
not quite knowing how to mature
to where we need to be.

We are the adult children of dysfunction,
and we feel equal weights of young and old
balancing on our scales of self.
The hardships we endured
heap wrinkles upon our souls.
But we go on.

Ancient children,
we've been around forever,
relics in the nusery,
babes wrapped inside
the armor of adults,
feeling all so wise,
street smart to a cruel world,
but only pretending,
so naive,
Ancient children,
we become in reality
what we long to still believe.

I can't touch my face because my hands smell like popcorn
and I can't paint my nails because the smell is too strong.
I keep dancing with my arms and my head while I sit in my chair,
and I keep thinking it's okay, but I know it's not.
I want to paint a picture and tape a cats head onto a humans body,
and I want to light it on fire and take a picture of you naked and send it as a postcard to my best friend, (that I sort of have a thing with).
I'm not sure how many times I've called you this past week,
probably none, considering I don't like talking to you, (especially on the phone).
I'm not even sure if I remember your phone number or not, the numbers just keep mixing up in my head and then I end up calling my hair dresser or the pizza place down the street, (you know the one, with the salad bar that we never eat from).
I don't want to have to keep this up any more, I just want to put white out on those things I said and write over it with something funny or beautiful.
I don't want to have to worry about making the bed either, because it's really hard when you do it by yourself.
So please don't make me leave another message,
pick up the phone and tell me you love me already,
wait,
I don't want you to say it unless you mean it,
so just,
call me back.

It looked better in your head,
it sounded better, too.
You were out of breath and restless,
but that didn't stop you from making a fool out of yourself.
The shooting stars, the baseball field,
everything was perfect for closure.

When you got home and cleaned yourself off in the candle light,
you couldn't help but stare,
the people looked so scared,
you could feel it in their gaze,
it was like they were burning it into you,
almost as if they knew you could understand.
It made no sense
because you were alone,
and you went to the doctors,
and you got the medication.
You hadn't seen them in years
but they somehow broke through that strong wall of chemicals,
and here they were,
staring back at you like nothing had ever happened.

You sunk to the floor,
wrapping your arms around your head
trying to block the images,
they were hungry and you knew that they always would be,
it made you sick,
it made you shrink.

I want to melt into the speakers
dance in the fibers of the fabric
that layers the plastic,
like a small child would with make-up
at the age of seven,
there's no such thing as too much,

Never a chance to remember,
all the time in the world to forget,
everything is perfectly fast:
in the moment.

Imagine living like that,
the sting of a bee on a young girls foot,
the screams
and the tears running down her confused face,
her eyes ask questions to the sky,
to her foot,
to the crushed remains of what caused her so much pain.

Then,
the kiss of a freshly peeled band-aid,
almost as soft as a mothers kiss,
almost as soothing as her cold hand on your forehead,
almost as sweet as the lullaby she would sing before you'd drift.

Always trying to fall asleep with your eyes open,
trying to catch every last inch of the sky,
counting the stars through the ceiling,
slowly falling asleep
without even realizing:
you're waking up.