someone's in the next room over
having *** while we
are weeping
what a way to mark the occasion
the day my fingers found a wound
you let someone else doctor
it's upsetting see
the bible in drawer next to us
the way our hands still
fit together
like the torn halves
of a love letter
the way you got
all dressed up like the rain
and how we couldn't tell
the difference in the shower
it was the longest hour and a half
spent crying
the hot water wouldn't give up
so why should we
right?
even though it was scalding
neither of us touched the ****
we knew this was supposed to hurt
your hair
a black mess against my shoulder
my fingers
oil in the vinegar of your hands
our bodies
the great divide
all the sobbing
a river runs through it
without the courage
to carry or **** us
so we step out
and drip dry
down to a mute breakfast
composed of quiet
and last nights liquor
as we came back in
there were people in our room
at first i thought them detectives
dissecting things
to see who had died here
i had forgotten this
was a hotel
and they were only
cleaning up after us
i wanted to stop them
plead
that the sheets were still perfect
that if they clean the bathroom
no one will know
what happened here
someone has to remember
"please
i know
these cigarette burns
by name
i will bury the faucet
let me take the tub
i don't care how
if i have to
i will drag it home by hand"

It's never quite right, he said, the way people look,
the way the music sounds, the way the words are
written.
It's never quite right, he said, all the things we are
taught, all the loves we chase, all the deaths we
die, all the lives we live,
they are never quite right,
they are hardly close to right,
these lives we live
one after the other,
piled there as history,
the waste of the species,
the crushing of the light and the way,
it's not quite right,
it's hardly right at all
he said.

don't I know it? I
answered.

I walked away from the mirror.
it was morning, it was afternoon, it was
night

nothing changed
it was locked in place.
something flashed, something broke, something
remained.

I walked down the stairway and
into it.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

I can't think of titles to these mindless poems anymore because this stream of consciousness isn't poetic it's just ugly and I want to say that I'm not in love but boy would I be lying if I said that because when his hands longer on my waist for longer than they need to and his face gets close to mine I swear to god I can feel my heart pound faster than it ever has and rationality jumps out the window along with all the walls built and if I told you I didn't miss him I'd be lying again because all I want to do is see him and he's all I think about and I want it to stop but it's the best feeling I've ever known and I'm willing to risk it all for him because he makes me feel safer than I've ever felt before and the comfort I've been searching for I've finally seemed to find wrapped in his arms and near his heart

I don't want this to end and if the world can reset at exactly midnight and turn all the numbers and mistakes of the day to a fresh start of zero I can reset everyday and start it with him because it's only then I know it'll be okay

I should stop being so ridiculously naive like that one time when I met a boy who bluntly admitted that he was too conceited and full of himself I didn't pay much attention to how true it was, thinking that he just wanted to impress me until it was too late. I got to him first. He became one of the cool kids. I was deserted.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive, believing that boys actually do fall for anything other than a fully made-up face, a heavy, talkative tongue with irrational words and meaningless sentences flooding out of lips, a ****-head with no thoughts of the universe, a statue with the appropriate body parts and long, shiny hair, and deceiving, shallow eyes.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because for once, I thought, that this other boy who had trouble talking to me might like me back. He second-thought handshakes, hellos, but never eye contact. And when our eyes met, I could've swore he felt it as well. I fumbled with actually speaking to him. I could never get him alone.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive that one time, my best friend was that same guy's best friend and laughed about how we should get married one day since we're the exact opposite. She said I was sweet and calm like an impending storm. She said you were reckless like a hurricane. But oh, if only she knew you were the reason behind my silenced grieving.

(Yet my heart shall do as I command, soon.)

I should stop being so ridiculously naive because I realized that the boys I'm most comfortable with and so close to are the ones I don't write poems about and give much thought to. I should stop writing poems about you. I should be neutral towards you.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and develop a solid personality and a loud opinion to stick with. I refuse to be a third wheel.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and find my own voice because no one is going to speak up for me.

I should stop being so ridiculously naive and be thankful for the fact that there is no other me but me.

The Creep That Loved You

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils.
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune,
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink
overfed whale.
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.