books about mental illness,
a future where i dont
get up and walk out
towards a dream of
someone i care about,
no way of stopping;
this is all there is

i burst into tears in his office
sent home alone:
something’s gotta break,
something’s gonna break

all the birds in your hands go south for the winter
the ones in your mouth flutter and preen
and prepare to nest in mine

the goldfish in your gut skim the water
light and trembling—children at play
darting through intestinal knots

you want to be my boy
you want to flush the mites out
you want to lick my wounds

you want to wipe the old maps clean
youve been under my skin now and you know
there are no dragons, here

—all im saying is
dont you ever get sick
of the salt in the air and
the mist that contains you
the winds that know your name
the boys with crooked teeth
who turn to men with crooked fists
knuckles like mountain ranges
everything pointed,
straining
like a misplaced patient
confined to the morgue
under sheets of skin
and hair and fingerprints
saying “look at me, girl”
with their eyes dark
chests swelled
"look at me when i talk to you"?

scrunches his face up
he thinks it's a joke, at first
he thinks it's just
another one
of those dreams

hurt eyes; small apologies
he's never been prettier
he's going to throw up

you drink to lose weight
i want to start smoking
southern comfort; a lucky strike
it's poetry--bruises on my thigh
where you almost hit gold
youre getting closer, i know it

teeth go crooked, grow apart
you almost tell me something sweet
next dance, between ****** feet, broken ankle
dont worry: it burns to the ground
the world wont listen but youve nothing to say
im getting closer, i know it

in a fit you take me to your first home
turn for me pages of teary-eyed diaries
tender, light-fingered: obviously lying
a sad necessity--but theres things left to know
places left to go, and well i wonder
arent we getting closer?

SUNDAY
had a go at hating you, first
found it wouldnt quite fit—well
things like this never did suit us
we're really not the right people for it
not those dark-eyed shark-teeth people
who could craft art from the wreckage
of one another: split each others atoms
open, and maybe find beauty
all the way down
i know we're far too ugly for that
and it occurs to me today
that you likely know it too
so again i'll be the fool, will i?
that's alright; i know you'll get your turn
and i know its always good to have
a little mystery left

MONDAY
i found some old pictures of you
private things, badly-lit:
spent two minutes thinking about
how you almost got there that one time
watching my collarbones twist up into my skin
as i shrugged and said "alright—
do what you like";
spent another one
wondering if youve been there since

TUESDAY
look,
i remember it all just fine
dont tell me a single thing
about how much i did
or didnt eat, and dont you dare try to tell me
how you were always a little drunker
than you let on
ive decided i dont give a ****

WEDNESDAY
i saw your latest ex
just last week—thought you should know
they walked fast like someone with nowhere to be
who does not want anyone to see the aimlessness
of their travels
it reminded me of a bird, i think
or a desperate little moth
or a locust
lost in lieu of an swarm
either way: something with wings
and i wondered for a moment
if in the end theyd believed me after all
and then i went back off on my way
just a bit faster than before

THURSDAY
sometimes i think it wouldve been easier
had you just really made me **** myself
i think you couldve come up with
something really beautiful
if you tried
so at least there is that

FRIDAY
theres a bloodstain on the tracks tonight
a little faded, a little old, not quite enough
im waiting for the last train home
turning myself inside-out
with thoughts of you
and suddenly i am hoping
that wherever you are
you are okay
(i lean my head in against the window
and sleep, all the way
and i dream of you)

SATURDAY [1AM]
i wake up shaking
and i miss my stop
and some other things
and i realise on the long walk home
that you liked my writing before you liked me
and i wonder if youd like this
i wonder if youre winning

SATURDAY [1PM]
you wouldnt touch me like this; sickly
and sweaty and small
paying respects to a watery grave
youd love me but you wouldnt touch me
i left you a message in-between waves
just to ask if you meant what you said the last time
i couldnt even quite remember what it was
something slurred that hit me running
like being passed over by a storm
and then i heaved a dozen flecks
of language up into my hands
watching some illusion of coherency
a quiet, collected existence
drip out through my fingers
and didnt care one bit
yes, im quite sure now
youre winning—no
youve won

SUNDAY**
i thought about it and decided
im starting fresh; it is 10am
and i am trying earnestly
to hate you

so your wandering hands may be the death of me
and your grave of a mouth might turn me blue
youd ruin me, sure--but youll own me for good
now how does it feel to know im dreaming of you?

look, dear, let me tell you something: of the atoms
in your body, 98% are replaced each year
so its fine, keep going: i promise you never fell
for this flesh below you now all fake-filled with fear

your mother called today--i think shes missing you again
oh, dont look at me like that, you know im right
dont you? its fine. ill pretend. ill let you loathe me
just a little; if you liked i could even put up a fight

yes, i know theres something wrong here
i know you care for me still--dont say it that way
please stop, please, youre making me sick
i cant do this much longer. please, go away.