Here I am, the manic pixie dream girl of, you guessed it; your dreams. I am here to ask you questions about your boring, probably something generic, major like business or management or maybe even some type of art form that no one really knew existed until you decided to bring it to your high school and of course the liberal arts school of your dreams has that EXACT program and all the means to support it financially. Of course, I will always ask about you. How your day is, how your plain black coffee is, what you thought of that one song that played as we were walking into the train after a date that both of us probably went on looking to get laid. But in the end, it will always be you. I will continue to fluff your deflated ego that was caused as such by some hollywood trope from your hometown like a cheerleader or maybe even someone who was on AV Club with you, who really knows, because I sure as hell don’t care to do any research into it. Now, part of being your early to mid-twenties manic pixie dream girl, it is essential for us to bond over old broken up bands that neither one of us were actually alive to see perform yet that dream of ours is still so prevalent as we make conversations over whiskey you assume I like because of it’s pretentious name that you will describe as “harsh yet creamy, dry but sweet” and on bad nights I will tell you that it tastes like the back of my father’s hand and you will laugh at a joke I did not intend to tell but then again I will have to ask you what is so funny. I will always be the one asking you about a life I am so willing to leave without even meeting your family. Being a manic pixie dream girl is all fun and games until I am the one always doing the starting of conversations, until I am the one sending you Spotify playlists that I know you will never listen to, until I am the one showing up unannounced. My name will roll off your tongue like smoke from your American Spirits, but only in the beginning, because by the end; you will cough when I finally tell you to stop calling me.

The Repentor

The morning rays lay
a carpet of gold
on the bedroom floor.
Last night I stroked
her long, black hair
while thoughts
Flew high,
back to the first
love of my life.
What I have lost
is forever mine.
Shadows deepen
between us
the carpet fades
the floor board
creaks
under the weight
of regrets.

and the Stars. looking down at this
boiling pit
smile softly,
wickedly,
murmuring to each other
do they know we see them? do they see us?

and the Earth, groaning
as she turns,
mutters
*do they see each other?

i envy those who get to see you, your exquisite eyes that have infinite galaxies in them with a touch of sweetness & divine beauty.

her eyes pluck him
like harp strings
sing for me, boy.
do you sell your voice
like you sell kisses?

she does not have strings.
he would not pluck them
if she did.

why do these men dance
as if they own themselves?
as if these dances make them gods--as if
they are not fleas, deliriously
basking in the flames
of mortality;
mayflies.

I get drunk to not think about you,
yet you slip through the cracks,
every night you dance in my thoughts,
just to fade when I open my eyes;

I hold onto the scars that remain
because that's all I can bear to
keep after we were over;
I kept the wounds open just to hurt

Sometimes I touch my heart
where you rested your head
& I cry alone at night when
you aren't here laying down

It doesn't really matter, though,
staying stuck in the past hurts;
looking to the future without you,
that is truly what doesn't matter

i'm eating glass shards
and complaining about
the way my gums bleed
one day i'm gonna turn
inside out and become some
other body or somebody else

starting with the dentures first
and the three thousand dollar
surgery that you flew out to florida
to get won't mean a thing
because i'm somebody new
not a living embarrassment