i can feel d i s t a n c e
it's an ache in my bones,
creaking doorways,
noisy joints. stinging knees and ribs every door frame and welcome mat
i don't know what i want except a certain proximity

i know there's not much to it,
we grow we age we die
20 feels like a ton at 3am.
I suppose I'll have coffee in the morning
perhaps put a needle through the eyelid
(stick it to the brow, hopefully i won't raise them much)

freezing girl wonders
"what is interesting
and is it better than happy"
and i say
"always
but dear,
be boring if you can"

tipsy in bed
ate too much and admiring old photos of last summer, last winter
i never thought i was skinny but these photos look so slim
and then i tried to eat more this year, thinking too little would make me weak (even though i was strong)
and now I binge and restrict then binge
it's all so stupid and pointless
and i'm fine
but i looked better when i was ****** up

light forms from fixtures in the empty parts kept deepest within us.
(i think we're afraid to share,
scared of growing dull if we give too much of ourselves away)
i have just a bulb in me,
the type of light that shines in a basement (kept tidy, though).
i don't prefer lamp shades or light covers
i thought it'd be beneficial to show my light off,
to project
to present how bright it is in there.
a whole life of keeping my bulb uncovered in a world kept hidden deep in their own chests
has left me little
by little
less bright.

who's to blame, really.
and who's smarter for it

there's a lot to the body of a poem,
i don't know.
sometimes i think a whole book of short sentences and 'enter,'
a whole book that reminds me of my early high school stream-of-thought poems,
shouldn't be acclaimed as great poetry on a shelf in barnes and noble.
but at the same time, I think you could leave a pile of feces to bake in the sun on the sidewalk,
3 people step in it by accident in a day,
and that is still life's finest example of poetry.
I've never really claimed to write poetry
but
there's a lot to the body of a poem,
each curve, each cellulite clump,
each real and exposed part of a poem
close up in a mirror type of exposed,
naked in front of your love for the first time type of exposed,
those are deserving...
but so are life's poems,
which is a lot like **** on the sidewalk.

I think I write both, and I suppose I like both and I know I am both.