I'm not good

at anything, really,

can't be a leader,

don't know how to scream.

I don't know how to be quite or small

I'm never the prettiest, but that's not all,

I'm not good at being a person.

Sometimes my hands shake

'cause I forget to eat

sometimes I get bad headaches

and getting out of bed's a feat

but I'll tell you one thing I'm good at.

I'm good at digging a little blade into my skin

and pretending that I'm just fine.

I'm good at digging it in 'til I see red,

going out and being sublime.

I'm good at casual excuses,

but I wish SOMEBODY knew,

but I can't tell

because they have fragile hearts

and healthy things in their lives, so few.

(If they find out they will leave).

I live in a small town with nice people.

Nice community theater people.

Nice non-swearing churchgoing people.

Nice people who keep their mouths shut and their eyes closed.

Nice people who live in ticky tacky houses and sweep their front porches.

Nice people with children who send text messages and drive to nowhere in the middle of the night.

Nice high school teaching, comfortably living people.

Nice mothers-and-fathers people with bright voices and dark eyes.

Nice bored people.

I live in a small town with nice people.

But occasionally they all go momentarily mad.

You live your life

by highway lights

Never knew anything different.

You live your life

by highway lights

Hands on the steering wheel,

eyes forward, safe,

seat belt unwillingly buckled by responsibility and pressure.

You live your life

By highway lights

Staring at walls

and aching to pull the wheel that way.

You live your life

By highway lights

Shooting stars in your eyes

and loneliness in your heart.

I could run right now.

Through the shivers and the smoke smells I realize with supreme clarity:

I could run away and not come back.

I could leave everything

my friends who don't need me

my family who loves me but can never understand,

I could take my solid seeing eyes out of my head

and wander blind

Alone

On my own

with nothing but a new journal without lines and

a couple of used postcards tucked in my pocket.

I could run through wheat fields and get strange tan lines

or I could shiver through the snow and sniff at the sinus problems that are sure to ensue.

I could scream till the birds scram

or I could listen to the silent sounds of the silver forests that are dripping with something serene.

I could lean against stone walls and watch waitresses and grocery boys shuffle past,

living the fast life

while I live the past life.

I could live with two dogs or one dog

or one person for a while but not

Forever.

I could feel the swell of loneliness in a city in something soft

and maybe feel my back press against the line of a stranger's chest.

I could run right now.

The ending to our night
Was as beautiful as the beginning
Bright eyes were still there, three warm hearts.

Shivering as he stared up at the stars,
Speeding soundlessly down silver roads in the headlights
On which the speed limit is
30.

Listening to dogs bark,
Laughing wildly,
Bright,
Pointing out stars
("That one's a UFO.")

Accidentally brushing hands
And pulling away to avoid a mistake
That would have to be made
On both parts
(I'm better.)

Shaking and sobbing and slurring your words
I almost wish we were drunk
But we aren't
("I don't know what I did wrong.")

Trying to force you to believe what you won't
That you're beautiful, amazing, and more
("I wasn't built to make people happy.")

("But you make me happy every day.")

The girl with the brown hair
And brown eyes cries
Three people stand in a kitchen.

Two steady, with eyes that pierce holes in her head,
The third pacing restlessly, eyes undead.

A dog skitters by
And jumps on one of them,
They pet her, as she is oblivious to what is happening and therefore innocent to the quiet screams and hopeless mutters of the brown eyed girl and her worries.

One of them taller, hands in his pockets and eyes just a bit red
But not quite red enough to be marred by tears.

The other small and leaning on the counter,
There is blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes
Even though this isn't her tragedy.

The brown eyed girl,
So beautiful, so smart,
Silently torn apart by an emotionless kiss and absolutely meaningless talks about absolutely nothing,
Slowly tries to die in front of them.

Sways on her feet as she leans on the couch-
They've moved now to the living room and though the house is empty it has been filled by feelings of melancholy and mutual worry for one another -
Though nobody will let her fall,

For the eyes in her head
And the heart in her chest
Are worth a swim though broken glass.

("No, because glass gets in your fingers and it's really hard to get out.")

You don't cry anymore.

So used to you is the sickness that is sadness

that tears don't fall anymore;

Eyes only cloud

and fingers only pick at each other

and as the monotonous drive drags on and on

you see the tough concrete wall and think,

"It wouldn't be the worst way to go.

Would be quick."

But you never quite do it

because you have parents you need to impress

and mothers to buy houses for

and most of all

you don't cry anymore

so it can't be that bad.