your mother used to
think of me as a street drug
but the bigger problem was
that she didn't treat you
like an addict and you
did not act like one.

your mother is gone now
and unable to see the real
street drugs you've been
hiding under your tongue
and in your pockets
but i'm sure she'd still
look at me as if i were
death itself.

he sat naked and drunk in a room of summer
night, running the blade of the knife
under his fingernails, smiling, thinking
of all the letters he had received
telling him that
the way he lived and wrote about
that--
it had kept them going when
all seemed
truly
hopeless.

putting the blade on the table, he
flicked it with a finger
and it whirled
in a flashing circle
under the light.

who the hell is going to save
me? he
thought.

as the knife stopped spinning
the answer came:
you're going to have to
save yourself.

still smiling,
a: he lit a
cigarette
b: he poured
another
drink
c: gave the blade
another
spin.

I can't drink a Miller without the taste
of a backyard, bonfire
raising and your name
only catching speed
in my throat before I gasp
too many, too late confessions. I can't
let the liquid rest with me,
just before I swallow,
or else I'll drown in reminiscing.
So I gulp.
I ferment my own mind and I punish
bottle after bottle even though
every breath after just reminds me
of inhaling your own
when we'd wind ourselves back up
after a drunken escapade
in your bed after everyone else
went to sleep and our dreams
had no chance of catching up to us. I can't
think of you too long
unless I balance on distance
and YOU'RE NEVER COMING BACK!
That's it. I can't
decide whether I'm happy that you've grasped
something so real and sturdy
after all the times I've played the crutch,
or if I hate you,
still, for leaving me by the fingertips,
dangling on a prayer for your safety,
basking in the light of your brilliance,
only to find myself here
in my shower
with a Miller
and an old country song on the radio.

tomorrow morning,
i will brew up some coffee,
drink it black,
and lay in my bed with
waltz #2 on repeat
and i wont i won't
i won't
think
about it.

i've burned bigger bridges than you.

Thank you for loving
me even when I am
messy.

I. The first time I found the bag of needles and powder in her backpack I left and said I would never come back but she found me sleeping in the cemetery that night just like I always did when things were bad especially at home. I said a lot of times that I would never come back and I always did. She said a lot of times that she would stop and she never did. I still remember every plane of her face from feeling it in the dark. I wonder if she's okay but I can't care anymore.

II. I liked how she felt in bed and I liked how I felt in bed with her.

III. She called me at 4am a few times and talked to me so quickly I only caught half the words she was speaking and I couldn't stop smiling but when we hung up the room felt much emptier than before.

IV. The gun looks absolutely nothing like a toy in her hand despite what I always read. I wonder where she got it but my mind is more focused on other things like the slick chill of the metal against my face and her carefully painted lips very close to mine. I'm torn between staying perfectly still and trying to kiss her and while I try to decide she takes off the safety. It is at this exact moment that I realize how unstable she is and I know I've never been able to predict her actions, only her lies. I have no idea what she might do next and I love her.