I can tell you about the girl.

Her freckles were beige constellations,
and her voice was husky and rasped
like birds before the churning of a storm.

She was weird and laughed at everything I said -
which made her even weirder,
because I'm only funny in certain photos
and in certain clothes.

Her left arm was covered in scars and burns.
"As you can tell, I'm right handed," she said.
Arthritis surrounded her wrists and other joints,
and all I could think about were my
grandmother's arthritis crippled hands,
and if the girl would thank the arthritis, one day,
for no longer allowing her to self-harm.

One of her feet were bigger than the other
and, when she walked, she would lose balance.
"I'm not sure if the world is too fast
or if I'm too slow. Then again," she winked,
"it's probably because of my feet."
I liked her because she treated me like a person,
but didn't take me as seriously
as I took myself.

I struggled with self-respect
and she struggled with a drug addiction.
Her arm was needle park
and sometimes she missed ******
more than she missed me.

She wasn't the type of girl to shake
without her drugs -
she'd, instead, talk about them
like they were old friends.
She understood them
more than she understood herself.

After a few months of ***
and, "I'll be sad when you leave,"s,
I called her my girlfriend
and she smiled.
Flecks of speckled angles, bright,
I saw her, first, she accepted
my night.

Five days later,
she overdosed on morphine.
I picked her up.

Her eyes were glazed over.
I said, "I love you,
but this is *******."
She cried and said,
"Forgive me."

I lain in bed, next to her -
next to the avoidance of death.
She asked how I was
and I said, "Everything I write is ****,
but I'm glad I can write ****** poetry
about how we'll be okay."

She asked, "We will be okay, right?"

I hope.

When the thunder collapses like my grandfather's love,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
As the lights begins to stain and drain my eyes,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
Skeletons fell with the sea shells in the air.
I hope I'm falling asleep.
To no longer be here
is to be fair to everyone.

Art gallery in my head,
where the paintings hang above
polaroids and used condoms.
Where it's okay that I'm there:
the picture of a *******.
Where it's okay to love me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to know me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to get close to me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to believe in me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to be me.

In 2003 I was molested.
I want it to be okay to be me.
I detached myself from lullabies
and sorry eyes, only to realize:
I could have been dead in March,
right before the summer glows
and everyone would know
It wasn't okay to be me.

Why did you have to do it
My flesh tastes tainted,
and my eyes are painted
with the disgust of distrust
and the disgust of your lust
that corroded my body
and ate my blood
Am I any good
I want to be good.
I want to be pure.
I want to be more
than what I am.
****
There's acid in my veins
There's ******* acid in my veins
My body ******* shakes
Even when in love, I shake
When I'm safe, I shake
Am I ever safe

God isn't real, and neither am I
I am about as real as the dream I can't even buy
My talent is irrelevant, my past dictates my decisions
My love is the only redeeming quality,
and even that lacks precision.
I want to be perfect. I'm sorry that I apologize for anxiety;
it's not so much that I'm asking for forgiveness,
I just want to hear that there's no need to be sorry,
because it's okay to be me.

Oh. Hey, my eyes are watering; isn't this cool?
We're all having fun. Yippee.

The sun bursts rays, and there are twenty-three different ways
to stay alive inside when I'd rather hide from the sun's naivety
Searching for warmth on the walls with blistered palms,
as I lay in bed, naked. Removed of clothes and hope.
Blood in my mouth, new starters with broken shoelaces on the floor
Dreaming of different places. I said: dreaming of different places.
Cryptic words. In other worlds. In fire, I learned to drown.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Reentering the room, drunk.
H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P
Hide behind the bloodied bunk.
Q-R-S-
T-U-V-
W-X-
Y and Z
Now I've learned my lack of harmony,
next time won't you spare me, please.

Roses fall from the ceiling. There's no way I'm feeling.
Detach yourself from this room, this nation, this planet.
"You're too fragile to talk to, Josh." Thank you.
Don't allow yourself to ever be hurt again.
Regain your focus after I count down from ten.

Ten.
Reasons to stay alive.
Nine.
I want to live, I don't want to survive.
Eight.
There's nothing about me that anyone should hate.
Seven.
There's no god, but right now, I can make my own heaven.
Six.
I detached myself from lullabies and sorry eyes only to realize I love you.
Five.
"You're still there, right?" Dial tone silence, followed by fist to wall violence.
Four.
And to know you, is to know everything.
Three.
Adaptation without reclamation I find you in my translation
as hurt yet elation.
Two.
I want to make love in love. I want to die and donate a part of myself;
my backbone, lack thereof.
One.
When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Intermission:

Do you like hurt? Do you like pain? Is a happy poem not your game?
Well, read a poem by Josh Haines and never look at him the same again.
And don't look at yourself the same, because it's okay to be you!
For the price of absolutely nothing, you can look at his words!
Wait, and that's not all! Validate the 'beauty' of his words by
touching that heart and making it red!
Make it as red as the bloodied bunk that stained his back and heels!
Only for the price of absolutely ******* nothing!
Hurry, though! You only have until the end of ******* forever, so act fast!
The number is
1-800-I'M AVOIDING A LAWSUIT LIKE I DO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE

2nd.

Hey, do you like your parents?
Yes!
Trick question. Do you looove your parents?
Yes!!
Do you like seeing your grandmother in a wheelchair?
Yes!
Do you like being hurt by the people that you care about the most?
Yes!!
Then grab some popcorn and cola!

End of Intermission.


Trying like you're crying at the end of the film that documents your life
To divide a knife into your skin like it's a sin to feel this way
I just couldn't take it, bones in the corner of the room.
Inside a skeleton's eyes, flowers bloom.
Chicka-yay-no way. You swear? You say:
Ti-ta-time is on my side, but that's not how it feels inside.
An internal measure of the pressure of the world
and it's bound to run out like the sand in my hands
at the precious beach that would **** me if I stepped
into the blue, for me and you.

Let me turn back time to when I first met you.
Don't be afraid.

I remember everything. To never forget, is to realize every lie,
smile at every face, and to remember every goodbye.

I hurt my hands, I need to talk to you on the phone.

My insomnia lives off the thought, that I hurt you.
The room is blurry, and I'm sorry for being cold.
I am warm. I have the sun inside.
I guess I'm just afraid of burning you with it.

The drums pound into rhyme,
Diamond casualties
Rewind, wound, rewound
To scratch the surface
until there's nothing but sound.

I should have looked both ways.
Instead I followed the way your ribs
concave when you breathe like an optical illusion,
your lips the remedy, hypnotizing me
until I dangled like a puppet
in your amazing little show.
I danced for you on table tops just to grab your attention,
hid my coat in the corner of the kitchen, and stole
another beer from the back of the fridge
like you stole my heart when you walked in.
I created myself, like a piece of art
with lines you could tangle yourself into,
caves where my passion hung like a stalagmite,
glittering in your oppression and hardening with your lust
just when the light hit me right. You followed
my brush strokes on the page until you got distracted,
and I should have looked both ways
before I crossed myself into you. I should have noticed
the girl behind me in the black leggings and belly
that was flatter than your ambition, or the one
with the dark hair and cherry lips,
but I shouldn’t judge. I’m a carbon copy
with a sensible heart and dreams that could fill
perfume bottles if only you would take them off the self.

We were sitting in metal lawn chairs, off balance,
rocking between one chair leg and the next
on the cracked sidewalk just in front
of some ice cream shop I don’t remember the name of.
But I do remember how the drips of melted chocolate
looked like two teardrops sitting on your orange shirt collar,
and I do remember how the breeze would fit
through the triangle-shape of sky in the crook of your elbow
as you leaned in on the table just to steal a lick from my cone.
I hate salmon and sea foam colors, but somehow the reflection
of the bold letters in the metal shine of the counter looked good
on your cheekbones, highlighting you in the softest ocean neon.
And I thought we’d take a walk on the shore like a Jason Mraz song,
but we just made love in the hotel room, my sand-stained bikini bottoms
drying on the balcony ledge, seagulls landing on your socks
with the toes still soaked cause we just couldn’t wait
to jump in, like I do to your skin, when we’re alone and dancing
on top of one another to the muffled sound of the waves
hitting the screens of the sliding door.

I could pack myself
for months inside of you, just travel through your smile like a boarding pass.
And you’d think I’d be out of words by now, but I savor you
like sour patch kids on the car ride, stuffing my face with your sweetness
until my tongue is sore and I have to remedy myself
with another night of tangling myself
in your arms like umbrella stands, shading me
from the curve of the sun as it dies,
fading into the night like we do
when we toss ourselves into our cheap, road trip evenings,
all the money we shouldn’t have spent, and the way our bodies line up
end to end.

My apartment still smells like cigarettes from Saturday
when a couple girls with crop-top ambitions
drank themselves through flip cups and through guys’ eyes
who purposely landed on their belly-buttons.
I might have stood on the couch to sing that song,
but I’ve fallen for you all wrong. After another remix,
everyone left and we played footsies while leaning
in the doorway of my bathroom, the wood trim chipping
but your smile brightening in the yellow overhead light.
And I promised I wouldn’t find myself
come Monday morning sitting here with my knees knocking,
and knocking, and knocking themselves back into my brain
that keeps reminding my heart that we expired last season,
and that it’s just too **** late.
I promised myself I wouldn’t wipe my tears on my sweatshirt sleeves,
or run my toes on the tile, or breathe in another toxic pack
of what I essentially believe is you. You are the *** I pour myself into.
You are the chance I keep giving myself seconds of.

I know I shouldn’t have separated myself that quickly, or without notice,
but honestly I didn’t know how to attach myself to someone
unless it was delicate and barb-wired together. I’m sorry I ******* it up,
back then, before the mess, wherever you’d like to pinpoint
the blame on our timeline
but you are the only chance I keep giving myself seconds of.
So I’ll distance myself between my body and this frame,
cut out text-message screen shots and paste them to my frown
so maybe I can remember what it was like to smile
without ******* cigarette smoke between my teeth.

If I painted a picture of you
I think I’d call it Daniel and his Favorite Cigarette
and I’d delay passing the sugar
because you couldn’t wait four more seconds
for your daughter to finish her story.
I would buy all of the newspapers in town
with the crummy headline Fauster & Brown
Up in Sales for 3rd Week Straight and burn them
all the way through to the sports section
just to watch your favorite team’s numbers
go up in flames. I would rewrite
all those Father’s Day cards, remove the empty seat
in the third row on the left from my poetry reading
that I had reserved, stop putting new batteries
in the remote when you complains. But of course

I won’t. I’ll just make a scene at Sunday brunch
after we finish saying prayers to my dead big brother
at his grave, that dash like a tattoo on my bones—
Yes, Dad, I could have worn a tie
but I like the fact that I still smell like yesterday
cause I know my brother will never know
the scent of tomorrow. I will only curse
between sips of coffee and I’ll stroke my sisters hair
so she knows at least someone has been listening
these past ten years.

She told my dad he was “kind of an *******”
the first time we had dinner with him,
at this place called The Pear Room
but she was disappointed that there were not only
no pear decorations, but that there was not a single dish
with a pear included. She ordered a dry martini
with three olives on a skewer,
but she never took one sip. She gulped.

She came at me like an avalanche in jean mini skirt.
I tried to run ahead of her, but she picked up speed
and tossed me right into her path with scratch marks
on my back to prove it. You’d never know it
by the way she twirls her hair into a bun at the top of her head
just to take her make-up off, how she laughs
instead of getting ******, or how she sometimes
orders her dessert before her meal, but she’s just a girl
who puts on her toughness in the morning like a slip.
She folds

her dollar bills into fourths before she puts them in her wallet,
and she strings herself like paper chains
against the sun every day as she drives to a job she hates.
She listens to Miles Davis on her record player,
asks me to dance at half past eleven on nights I need to sleep,
but I get up anyway. I pour us both a glass of Coke
and try to capture the reflection she doesn’t see of herself,
mirror it in my eyes, just so she knows that she
is not just another item on the menu.