I keep picking my scabs when I know I shouldn't,
and all that dead skin is landing in my cup of tea,
(which is too hot for me to drink anyway).

I keep second guessing myself, and saying things in a way so that I can take them back if I need to.
Sometimes I feel like I can control you,
because I know what you are,
but I guess that's just me forgetting,
or being ignorant on purpose to avoid any more pain.

I've met some new people,
I respect them so much that I've started to think in different ways.
Our conversations are the most stimulating,
(and sometimes simple),
I've ever had.
Almost every conversation I forget something in the enthusiasm,
and I will feel like there is this hole inside of me from where it was,
like it meant something, something important,
something like you.

"I need to be nowhere," He said.

I'm listening to a man that prays not to talk about religion,
I hope he likes my choices, because I want to feel his smile.
He knows everything about me, we've seen each other naked.
He often asks me what I'm thinking, and I tell him all my secrets,
because we're good with translation, and reading each others minds.

I'm meeting you in the middle of nowhere.

I can finally function, because I feel wonderful,
and even though my picture perfect moment goes unseen,
I feel fine because I carefully scream. Except I'm afraid to cry,
because I keep finding myself in the same place,
but I like to be in this town with you, we can get lost in each other,
and slowly wait for everything else to end.

"I often meet you there," She replied.

your words are the dirt on my skin

I want you to tell me how you feel until I cry.
I don't think it's fair
to make you describe how it feels to be human.

I can feel the disappointment seeping through your fingers.
I bet they're shaking, and I bet your head is too.

I know better not to expect anything,
but I do it anyway.

With bad news,
comes another shot of whiskey,
and new standards.

I'm sick of the smiles in our photographs,
because I'm not happy,
and I don't understand how I ever could be.

When we drove to your funeral,
we had to pull over so that I could puke
and cry,
it got all over my dress and we had to go back home
so that I could change.

I went into my room and stripped naked,
then I started screaming and throwing things,
I broke the mirror, and ripped everything off the walls,
I threw the sheets and the covers all onto the floor.
I ripped all the clothes of their hangers,
pushed everything off the open surfaces,
threw everything I could find at the windows,
wanting to prove to myself that something could break more than a heart.

I hate myself,
but mostly I hate myself for loving you,
for letting myself forget the world and get lost in you.

I hate myself,
for not asking you when I had the chance,
or telling you,
or even caring enough to show it.

I'm sorry that I can't think straight,
and that I never will,
and that you'll never understand me the way that I understood you.

I've been feeling like I'm home alone,
but there are these projections of memories
that are haunting me like ghosts.

It hurts to know that someone might love you,
but there's nothing you can do to make them admit it,
and while you wait you grow more and more apathetic.

I'm not trying to tell the future,
but there's always room for me to try and read your mind,
even if you're afraid to understand how you feel.

If I kept screaming in your face you might listen,
but there are too many things I need to translate for you,
and I'm tired of being somewhere that no one wants me.

things are getting hot on the bed
wedgies are being picked
the hottest of all women are giving birth to computers,
and ideas, until the energy from last nights soda wears off,
and the color in our hair fades.

I have a stripped box full of friendship bracelets,
I threw all the ones you gave me away,
because they didn't mean anything,
and the only time you made me happy was when you smiled.

Now I'm waiting for you to block my calls,
or change your number,
or answer and tell me to shut the hell up.

I guess I've decided that I wont fall in love again,
at least not until we can be in the same room
and not care if everything else starts to melt.

Face to face with a plum,
and it's not beautiful enough for me.
my red juice drenched lips laugh at the fact,
that no one can feel exactly what I feel.
And to realize the fact that it's our souls,
(and not our heads)
that make us love,
(that make us anything)
is the most human I've ever felt.

Now I'll tell you a secret,
you really can do anything,
as long as you want it enough.
Seriously,
if something doesn't start to eat away at you
from lack, or longing,
then it doesn't matter.
It's nothing.