Cat.

Milk.

Where were you at 4 o'clock?

It's easier to stare at the people you want to be
than to actually work towards being the person
that they're so carefully showing off.

Just like pretending to listen to the dribble
slowly pouring out of the attention seeking addict,
and daydream about kissing
or having them say what you want to hear
rather than whatever it is you're avoiding.

Calling people names, all the while forgetting yours.
There's always that hesitant moment before you respond,
like a woman who learned the wrong names of colors
and she still can't get them right, even after six shots,
shots to her head, too many blows,
there's something about her, she's too sweet.

I've been spending the past year awkwardly avoiding eye contact
and very (almost too) comfortably  staring at a (wo)man's crotch.
My vocabulary seems to be shrinking as I dump out all the silly words
and try to avoid the ones you can't say infront of kids.
It's not like I can use the ones that are supposed to mean something,
those are all used up, and I'm not one to follow the mainstream,
I'm not even a fish.

I want to go where I can still see the stars.

Where a flat tire is a simple "I miss you".
I won't be back for a while,
I've been feeling hungry for attention,
like a child.
Dreams about you in the grocery store,
and rooms with our names on them,
but not the same ones.

Is it wrong that I like my secrets?
Or that the girl screaming "*******!"
probably didn't mean it?
Or that I wished I was 4 floors closer to her eyes
and her hands?

Hopefully we never meet.
I wouldn't be able to hold on for more than a heartbeat
or two.
It takes more than a million to fall in love,
And twice as much for them to love you back.

I'm sorry I talk about love so much,
but it seems to be the only thing you're interested in.

I forgot the true meaning of acceptance


and what's worse,
is that after I decided how ironic
and sad it was,


I wondered how difficult it must be
for all my friends to stay by my side.

“I’m trying to change.”
“Say it again.”
“I’m trying to change.”
“Keep saying it.”
“I’m trying to change. I’m trying to change. I’m trying to-”
“NO. YOU’RE. NOT.”

She was the only one I trusted enough to let hold my hand,
hers wasn't as soft as mine, but I liked how long her nails were,
and the color of her nail polish, which I can't remember,
it's always changing anyway.
I hated it when she cried, but I loved it too.
The way her lips would almost curl up,
teasing you with the taste of her beautiful smile.
Her tears made her eyes flash from light to dark so fast that they would glow.
Her eye's a rich, dark chocolate, would melt into a moist gold and I
swear you could see the universe unfold in them.

She is the light that casts my shadow,
and the darkness that blends it into nothing.
Stripping my soul from bones and flesh.
I bend into her as she makes room by removing time and replacing the space between sight and sound.
The warmth in her red-stained lips, long socks, and tight skirts,
force me to smile as I walk alone, knowing that I'm the other half of
something.
Her colors make me scream a thousand times, until my throat gets
clogged with her contrast
and the inner-lining candy-coated things I
want to say dissolve with a down pour of tears
from the phrases that she pukes into my mouth for me to swallow,
and digest.  
Like a mother bird to it's baby.
She's often like a mother, the way she holds me,
the way she pushes me out of the nest
knowing I'm afraid of heights,
knowing that I'll fly anyway,
knowing I'm terrified of myself.

Trust is hard to come by alone in my room,
imagine my surprise in the amount that she would wrap me in,
imagine my surprise when she held me:
and wouldn't let go.

She fell in love and we visited his home together.
His bachelor apartment revealed his artistic interests
and his tendency toward a monkish life.
It made me tired, and hungry.
She slept beside me that night,
barely understanding what he was thinking through the walls.
I imagined her trying to feel his arms around her,
instead of the humid air and scratchy sheets.

I wished that my hair had less dirt
and that I could be the one whose
thoughts were blocked by concrete and wood,
and not a swollen tongue.

It's been a long time since then.
I give my cat milk instead of water,
I sleep with blue blankets instead of skin
and I keep my pajamas on.

My phone calls are lot dirtier than I'd like them to be,
and my heartbeat can't reach farther than my vision.
Now she cries for reasons I'll never know,
and I hate it.
It scares me that I can't dry them with my back turned,
and that she lives too close for letters.
I can only hope  that she'll stay long enough to be my winter skin,
and so that I can be hers,
because I know without each other we'll both freeze to death.

My heart needs you,
and my soul needs you,
like a stomach needs food,
or a suicidal man needs morphine,
or a child needs a friend,
or lips need the burn of a yes
or the freeze of a no:
I need you.

I only say that because I love you more than I love myself,
and that's saying something.

an apology isn't good enough,
neither is an explanation.

Sometimes only your heart can help,
but even then it's still not enough.

I guess you just have to tear off your skin,
so they can see what you're really made of.

It's as simple as it gets,
and I hope that you think it's beautiful.

Because I've been sitting in the dark,
to hide from the shadow of my chaos.

Only so that you might see,
what lies beneath my swollen blue.

I know I've used these words before,
but I'm going to try it in a new way.

I'm sorry,
but I'm not in love with you.

I want you to think of me when you've just woken up from a bad dream
and you're staring out the window wondering where you went wrong.
I want you to be able to tell the difference between moonlight and snow,
or that if you rub them together the right way you'll disappear.
We practiced drawing lines (failed attempts at being artists)
but there were too many crooked ones that didn't make any sense,
and we crossed the wrong ones, and got too close to the others,
the picture got so distorted that we appeared crazy.

That keeps happening.

I tried to escape myself to find myself but instead I became more complicated and more sick, than ever.
It made me see how much stronger  brain waves are than ocean waves,
that they can drag you deeper inside yourself than a broken heart,
and they can hurt you more than a broken bone.
If you don't know where you are or who you are, how are you supposed to know what will help you?
How are you supposed to know how to love?
You can't.
I've found that it's harder to live in your shadow than in your soul,
that you can't find yourself in the stars, or in the bathroom, or in some one else's eyes.
People wont love you if you blind them.
Chaos isn't comforting.
I keep turning them away.

This keeps happening.

they were close,
closer than ever.
she stared at the side of his face, afraid to make eye contact,
his flawless skin made her nervous, she stood there in silence,
praying that he would move those few inches closer.

his smile was part of his appeal to her,
the way he tossed his head back with laughter at her jokes,
even when they weren't funny.
The way he looked at her when she spoke,
not to mention those muscular hands that she would watch
as he would strum his guitar, or those blue jeans that hugged the perfect parts just right.

As the silence grew deeper,
she stared into his piercing green eyes
as he licked his lips,
answering her prayers,
he moved in for the kiss.

I want to live my life backwards,
so that the things that I say will come out right.
I've been spending my time sober in a place that doesn't exist,
and in the end I forgot everything because I was blind(ed).

I'm glad he remembered how good of a kisser I was,
because I didn't forget how good he was either.
He asked me why my hands were so cold
and I said the feeling must have seeped from my heart.

The night went on, we acted like cousins.
It was bitter, but I sat and waited for it to taste good.
His hand was clenched with a fist full of my hair.
We were silent. I felt comfort in his grasp.

We walked, our legs untangled and silent,
the sparkles in the street made the breeze control my heart,
and my legs screamed, burning for more,
begging for closeness, yearning for someone else's skin.

I tried to explain how I felt, but things always come out like pearl laced clouds,
and I don't want my pain to be beautiful,
because that somehow makes it okay.
At one point you realize that it's easier if you just stop caring.

enough alcohol and you'll be puking out your heart
and soul in words that shine like diamonds,
and no matter how hard you try,
you wont be able to stand up straight,
and it's really ******* hard to put your shoes on without someones
hand to hold, and if you don't have your shoes,
how are you supposed to go shopping?
or walk on sharp rocks? or stand on hot pavement?
You can't.

you're gorgeous,
too gorgeous for words,
and yet your words
magnify that beauty
by a million.

I feel like your lips,
and everything beneath them,
belong to me.

I feel like your fingers,
and I want to feel your fingers,
on my lips,
and everything underneath the sheets.

I want to smell like warm tea,
and taste like smooth cream,
and I want you to open my eyes
to your lucid dream.

If you want to spend your time under trees,
I get it,
and if you don't want to waste your time in the same ways,
I get it.
But if you want to hold me,
and mumble ***** secrets that I don't understand to my shoulder,
or smile so that I can feel it on my lips,
then I don't.

We can eat the same food,
and inhale the same breath,
but no matter what happens at night,
it wont matter in the morning.

I wanted the colors back,
so I stole them from the one person
I swore I'd never look at again.

I wanted the feeling back,
so I shared my body with the one person
I swore to never touch again.

The lack of sleep was worth it,
but sitting in the sun alone for an hour
made me rethink my position in life.

I'd like to say I'm not embarrassed,
and that I'm not in love,
but honesty is important,
even if lying has gotten me this far.

There's a lot of regrets hidden in the stars,
but you can't expect the moon to be as bright as the sun.

The moon's not hot like the sun,
it's cold,
as cold as winter skin.

At least we made each other happy,
if only for a little while.

You describe the tree tops as majestic,
and cats, and trampolines, and pancakes with no egg,
not even milk, not even a drop of milk.

Your postcards wont be able to find me,
so don't bother wasting your stamps,
use them for something important,
like potatoes, or some fake eye lashes.

Side-hugs are awkward,
so are nervous people,
and I get especially nervous
when you ask my friends to lick your toes.

My tongue is rough,
like a cats tongue,
and no one wants to kiss a cat,
because a cat hides behind the cracks.
Inside the cracks noise makes,
and in the color of your eyes.

I write out my secrets,
bold, and italic

Hoping someone will realize that I'm lying,
or that I wish I was lying.
That everything I say is a joke,
or that every sincere piece of literature is burning
in the flames that are your eyes,
and it's going to leave scars deeper than you could imagine.

My nails are getting long,
but my clippers are still stuck in that mans left eye,
(not that it matters, he deserved what he got).

I've thought about imprisonment,
and it didn't take me too long to realize that I'm living it,
or that I can see it in my best friends laugh lines,
or in the corners of her brothers eyes.

A whale once told me about her experience:

"All the corners meet brick by brick
I'm stuck in a cell and I'm getting sick
the food is gross
I want to listen to Sigur Ros
BUT I CAN'T
because I did a bad thing"

I guess I don't have any room to complain about love,
or friendship, or ****, or torture, or birth,
no matter how traumatic people say it is.
I'll always be stuck in my head,
and to me,
that's worse than anything.

I wouldn't mind kissing your chapped lips
or touching elbows late at night.

We could spin the world away
and sing about the lipless.

I'd vaccum my room to get rid of the smell
and then we could lay there until our thoughts settle,
or I could make you tea, promising not to spit in the cup.
I don't know if you like sugar or not,
but I do, so I'll put it in anyway.

I know you don't like apples,
oranges, babies, hairy legs,
stair cases, dark tunnels,
neon colors, highlighted hair,
leftovers, or gapped teeth.

I know you like milk,
dark hair, movies (almost any),
games, poetry, dancing,
singing, my hands (touching yours),
and eye contact.

I only have 6 dollars,
3 pills,  4 cigarettes,
5 fingers (on each hand),
2 eyes, and 1 interest.

I dont want to make this
a bigger deal

than it needs to be.

So I will just say it,

I love you.

We were sweating, and moving together, like animals.
It wasn't enough that we took our mothers pills,
and filled our pockets with sugar.
We needed more,
we needed to kiss and dance,
feel something soft against our bodies.

I wanted you to justify your actions
with something more than a side-ways glance,
but you don't care to explain yourself,
because you seem to do things for no reason.

We were too sensual for casual conversation,
and although we talked all day,
we didn't know what our tones meant,
or how to answer each other's questions.

I wanted to feed you chocolate,
and feel your hands on my sides,
but for some reason you wanted to tell me jokes,
and use your hands for other things.

We were holding on in small ways,
secret ways that made people stare,
and wonder if we were in love,
even though they knew we weren't.

I wanted to consume as many chemicals as I could,
because the ones we shared were worth close to nothing.

Ten years from now I don't know where I'll be,
I hope my tongue has stopped bleeding by then,
and that the letters I sent are in a box somewhere.

Hopefully I wont be in the same town,
and that I'll be way happier than I am now,
maybe I'll still be talking to you,
or maybe I'll have moved on.

The floors will be a different color,
same goes for my hair.
I'll probably have fallen in and out of love,
or maybe I'll still be in love,
just in a different way.

My arms will be stronger, and so will my legs,
I bet you I'll eat way more meat,
or just give it up all together.
My pens will have sparkles and be all kinds of colors,
something much more exciting than the black I always use.

Ten years from now I don't know where I'll be.
My tongue's already healing,
and I wonder if food will taste the same.

Nothing could be worse
than waking up with your eyes sewn shut
from an ex-lover
with bad grammar
and a horrible taste in music.
From an ex-lover
that you still think about
but you don't know why.

Nothing can be worse
than a chunk of sour apple
logged in your throat,
in a room full of armless people
with no names,
(which wouldn't matter if they did
because they wouldn't be able to help
anyway).

Nothing will be worse
than trying to examine yourself
under a microscope,
with everyone you ever knew
watching and laughing.
Staring at you like an animal.

Nothing was worse
than saying goodbye
ten days before you left,
ignoring your calls,
your knocks,
your notes.

Nothing is worse than falling out of love.

Thinking that someone loves you is better than nothing,
but what people don't realize is that it was all pokes at jokes
and I bet he smokes,
or knows I do
and doesn't like the smell,
or the way I breathe out,
or how the rings come from my mouth
and are never on my fingers.

And I have paper cuts on those same fingers
that want to be in your hair,
and your body,
(all of it),
and I hope you want them there,
because that's exactly where they'll be
if we ever meet.

The dirt buried in my prints
will leave marks on you like a million hands and feet,
drenched in paint and smeared over your temple.

I bet you don't care what I look like,
or that I have a Van Gough pin,
or that people like to write my name.
I'm glad you like to listen,
and that you're smooth with words,
so I can fall asleep to the sound of your golden text.

I never thought I would like an arial view,
or that I would fall in love with strings of it
all laced together into a perfect fabric,
(or web).

I hope that you're not allergic to sound,
or jelly beans,
because I want to see you cry and smile at the same time.

I need to get drunk if I'm going to say anything beautiful.
You've proved that on multiple occasions,
the only problem is that I've never been drunk,
and you've never bothered to pay attention to what I had to say.

I wish we had walked together more,
and that we drank lemonade and ran through the sprinklers,
instead of dreaming about being somewhere else.

I remember how wonderful you looked with your hair wet,
and your smile shining whiter than my skin against the summer sky.

I can still hear the sound of your heart beating,
and your breath against my neck as you hugged me
and against my ear as you tried to whisper.

It seems like everything I say is about me,
and it's all just a bunch of memories that are about you,
almost as if without you time had to stop.

All I'm looking for is some clear communication in the physical world.

I've got some intentions that don't necessarily balance on the scale of right or wrong,
but self-love gets old after a while.

I know I haven't talked about this in months,
but getting closer has been my top priority,
(since always).

Celebrities die in threes,
and relationships come in twos,
so where does that leave me?

I would use your name like some of my favorite poets do,
but I'm not that daring.
I'm an addict,
and I'll always be a top-notch quitter,
apart from the fact that I find new obsessions.

I have these new rips in my skin,
I can't help but cover them up,
or wonder about yours,
and if they're the same.

I think it's too late to compare,
but you know I tried to say this earlier.

I'm horribly in love with the sound of your voice,
and I'm sick and twisted from the syllables your throat pours.

I want you to take my picture without any light,
because I'm aching to get rid of your dictionary.

The metal in my mouth is gone but I still feel the same,
I guess the porcelain clashes with the wrinkles on your face.

My interests aren't what they used to be,
because of the way you make me feel,
and if I really loved you,
then nothing I said would be real.

I'll call you for directions
more times than a normal person should
because I never think to write them down,
and I try too hard to burn things into my brain.

I've been asking questions all my life
and now I'm finally answering why.
Except they're not your questions,
and I like how you know
when I don't want you to stop.

Now I don't think it's beautiful,
because I remember how it felt.

Nostalgia has this sickening grip
that keeps me alive with no sleep,
and I know I'm obsessed with dreams,
but I have perfectly good reasons to be.

I hate it when you love me,
but that's all I want when you're away:

it's meaningless lust for what I can't keep.

I've always been able to hear you through the walls,
but I never realized that you could hear me too.

That's a lie, I knew you could,
I just never thought you listened.

I've been killing myself for you,
staying up late to hear your hushed voice,
hiding in closets, and sitting in the streets,
doing whatever I can,
for the one I'll never meet.

I want the respect that I don't give,
and I want you to notice how blue my eyes are,
and how red my lips are.
I can offer you my hands,
they're exactly as soft as you want them to be.
You can look down my throat,
or bite my finger nails,
anything you want.

I want you to stop talking to me forever,
so that I can think about you all the time,
and I want you to watch me
as if you knew what I meant when I said goodbye.

It always gets to the point where my face is hot
and I can feel it seep into my ears,
and my heart is beating so fast that I'm afraid it'll get tired and stop,
then I'll just be dead.

God's not a dancer,
he doesn't have any feet, or a body,
not to mention a spine.
How could you dance without a spine?

I want you to ask me questions that I can't answer,
and prove to me how much better you are,
or maybe if you stood there and smiled at me long enough,
I'd realize how  tired you really are.

If I stop talking, that means I'm better,
and if I keep talking, that means I'm worse.
I hope you don't understand any of this,
because that would make me a liar,
and I'm sick of being a light that you stare at,
and I'm sick of that chair that you sit in.
but mostly,
I hate the smell of the theater,
and I always wonder why the floors are so sticky,
not that I care, I just have an overactive imagination.

You make me feel different than anyone has ever made me feel before.
I think different too.
It's not good, or bad,
it's just the way it is.
Sometimes we have to accept things that we don't want to,
but that's life,
and if you want to feel anything then you need to listen.
Desires can make people sick with confusion,
so sick that they can't sleep,
or taste the food in their mouth,
or hear their favorite song,
or feel the wind on a hot day.

Obsession is dry,
and tasteless,
and it hurts like nothing you could ever believe.
So stop treating me like a child who asks too many questions
and treat me like the beautiful person you claim I am.

I can't help but lust for your skin,
or think about how amazing it would be to carry on a conversation with our hands,
or help but want to lick your teeth
and feel your bones.

I guess the bugs would scare me,
and the smell would make me gag,
but your rotting face would still be beautiful to me.
Sometime's I dream about you all alone,
in the dark, with no one to freeze with you.

It's okay that I didn't get to scratch my nose,
I probably would've ended up tearing through the skin anyway.
You know I've never liked blood.
Too many dead animals on the road,
too many dead things flooding my life.
It makes me wish I were dead.

Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to change your mind?
Isn't it hilarious how easy it is to die?
Isn't it?

Orgasming in the passenger seat,
while she listens to something she doesn't understand,
sitting across from someone she'll never love,
all the while completely clothed and turned off.

She's one of those girls,
who touches herself when you're on the the phone,
or just watching another episode of a mediocre television show.


Everyone's asleep while she sings the saddest songs
in the most **** of ways.
Except he's not asleep,
when they're ******* for days.

I  almost went to a movie with a man twice my age,
but then I told him I'm sort of involved with someone.
I guess you can say it's complicated.

I burnt my hand on a light bulb the other day,
I cried and cried, but I didn't do anything to try and help the pain,
I relished it, I marveled in it, as if it was the sugar in my tea.
It felt better than anything I've felt these past few months,
because it was better than nothing.
I know that's disgusting, and I know if you were there to see it you'd be sick, but you aren't here, if you were then it wouldn't be like this.

I've been watching the news, trying not to care,
and spilling secrets, not caring enough to clean them up.

I want you to tell me what your pain feels like,
and your anger,
and your sadness.
I need you to make me feel like I'm not alone.

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.

I hurt my knuckles for you
but never can mean sometimes
if you're like me, and you like me.

If I was chocolate moose that **** butterflies for a living,
and sold them on the streets of San Fransisco,
so that I could sleep in your bed after the disco,
would you stay up all night and tell me your secrets?
or would you fall asleep?


I've sold myself clean,
in the most ***** of ways,
giving out hand hugs,
and those glances, that you know are really sensual,
but it's a secret,
because you want it so desperately
(we both do).

Be happy,
because you know that moments are moments and that sooner or later,
you'll be living in a moment,
and that moment,
will be ***.

I keep thinking if my hair looked different that night,
or if I was chewing a different flavor of gum,
things would have turned out differently.

The evening when you left,
I couldn't stand the color of the walls,
or the stains in the carpet,
I moved out within the week.

I still haven't fully unpacked,
because I'm still hoping you'll fall in love with me.

I watched the daises slowly melt
like ice cream,
and I watched the ants walk their paths
but they had no idea where they were going.

I went to the beach the other day,
and all I could think about was the patch on your belly button,
and how you overreacted about the naked children,
but mostly,
the way you looked at me when I was in the water.

I keep losing my self in the labyrinth of my mind,
it's like I'm addicted to obsession,
and love,
and things I can't have.
The fear makes me feel a sickness,
one similar to home,
(something I've always felt).
It makes me wish I could run faster,
or that I didn't get bored so easily.
Or that I didn't feed off of communication
mixed with physical contact.
I hope we talk soon,
this silence is starting to eat away at me,
at least,
the parts I want to keep.

Inside, we're fighting.
Outside, we're searching.

It's the moments when you treated me like a child,
that I c0uldn't stand to look at you.
It hurt every part of me,
and you loved it.
I could tell because of the way you smiled afterward,
and the way you would breathe.

You knew I was afraid of spiders,
but you seemed to mimic them perfectly with your hands,
and you knew that I hated it when you lied,
but you did it all the time.

I remember when you started getting up earlier,
it was as if you knew what I was thinking,
and you had to leave before I could ruin anything.

I guess I always had a way with words,
and hands,
and not to mention breaking things.
Sorry again, about the dishes,
I know you loved them.
Probably more than you loved me,
or maybe even your fish.

my punctuation *****
like a... ***** does *****
and some times ducks
can learn magic tricks
as loud as big trucks
and as sloppy as doggy licks.

I wouldn't say I have a particular type of lover,
and I wouldn't say I always take notice in the beauty of a smile,
sometimes I do,
but it's usually from a ***** mouth.

To think, if our bodies weren't so far apart,
separated by time, distance, clothing,
then maybe something would have happened.

It's hard to face something you've avoided your whole life,
disappointing too.

I've spent the last few weeks loving you like a God,
only to learn that you aren't perfect,
and you will never be mine,
and I'm okay with that.

I need to find myself in this mess before I can hold onto anyone that will last.

When ever we listen to that song,
I imagine you ******* him,
and it's perfect.
For both of us.
I know that sounds twisted, I guess because it is.
I don't care.
If I ever get the chance to kiss you,
I'll try and do my best not to smile,
or laugh.
Oh God, that would be the worst.
I hope your music makes you happy,
and your numbers,
and your pictures,
and your fish.
The next time you need someone to help clean up,
don't ask me,
I'll be miles away.

Does it make me important if you watch me while you eat?

I know I'm nervous because I'm afraid to swallow,
and it cracks my mold,
gulping down my last ounce of  dignity,
I choke on my tongue,
and strangle myself with embarrassment.

I'm hungry for your body, so I starve myself of everything else,
hoping you'll notice how thin I am,
and do something about it.

We'll watch each others reflections
because we both share a love for film.
I've been waiting for inspiration like this,
forever.

I can't stand the heat when you're gone,
it's like my sweat doesn't mean anything,
and the headaches are just there, buzzing.

When my make-up melts onto my shirt,
I just leave it on, and wear it for days.
I don't have to look nice anymore.
(Did I ever look nice?)

It was nice seeing you the other day,
even though none of this was mentioned,
I guess you haven't gotten a chance to listen yet,
or maybe you didn't want to talk about it.
It's fine if you don't.

It was weird when our lips touched,
yours were soft and perfect and everything I imagined,
but it wasn't a kiss,
it happened twice,
but it still wasn't a kiss.

We're both humans,
and I like the little ways we prove it to each other,
(I'm glad you like it too).

Thanks for the drink,
I really needed it.

Sitting next to you is like the first bite of real food
after being a child your whole life,
eating mashed bananas and apple sauce.
Switching from one ****** to the next,
when you switched from ******* to biting
is when I knew we'd finally grown up.

I was in a layer of a memory,
and I was looking at it from inside my mind,
for some reason it scared me
because it's hard to swim in sand,
and you certainly can't breathe in it.

I've been so interested in you that
I've memorized the lines that lace your eyes,
and I can only hope,
that you've memorized mine too,
or at least fade into the color.

I keep telling myself,
"You don't love him,
not like that."
but I can still feel my heart smile,
and I'm just happy that you'll be in my life,
and that I can hold you whenever I want.
I think the best part about us,
is that I don't have to ask if you're happy,
because I know you are.

I've thought a lot of beautiful things,
and I want to share all of them with you.

Time smiled and killed our friendship
I think it was the day after
we discussed our body fabric.
It was because we needed the smell
of flowers to keep us sane,
but you were allergic
and I cut myself on too many thorns.
I swear I never meant to break your piano,
or ruin the carpet with my kool-aid drenched hair.

You said a lot of things would **** me,
now that I think about it,
you always used to get mad about my addiction to coffee,
and that untitled man that sat at our table.

I never understood why cats like it when you rub their necks,
I didn't like it when you used to rub mine,
I guess because it made me feel like a cat.
You know I never liked animals.

Life has gotten cold as time has worn on,
and my face has worn out,
because I have to wear it everyday,
and I've forgotten a lot of things,
so I use thinking as an alternate to dreams.

I've always thought I needed kisses to live,
but when I lie with my mouth open,
my cheeks break under the weight,
and I can't talk with my tongue in your mouth.

I fell asleep,
dreaming of your blood shot eyes
I woke up,
to an earthquake of emotion
I gave in,
to the fragile smile of a timid boy
I gave up,
to the words that held me down
I went to,
a place with people
I left,
and sang about their hats
their dreams
and then,
I danced their ambitions
I fell asleep,
to the song of your splattered eyes
I woke up,
to the reality that they never belonged to me.

I was watching this movie about this woman,
and she was trying to ****** this man,
but they had known each other since they were kids
and he didn't think of her that way,
so whenever the woman would try and make a move
he would simply remove himself from the moment.
It was sad, in a humorous way.

It reminded me of that story you told me,
the one about the time you were home alone
and you tried to make a bath tub full of tea
and drink it all, but you ended up forgetting
about it and you spent the rest of your weekend cleaning.
It was funny, but in a close-friends sort of way.

I know we don't listen to all the same music,
and I don't know that much about what we do,
but I'd like to think that it effects us the same.

Our accumulative energy is making this happen:
The power of thought awakens emotion.
Move our hands, up and down,
glued together in a sadistic motion.
Pull on my teeth until I can't speak,
whisper in the language that makes me weak.

Use your mouth and open mine:
as hollow as the tv screen
you pull my hair until I scream.
Move and flow in my bed
Don't do something that you'll dread.
Turn to the direction of my door
I lay there naked on the floor.
Begging me with your sunken eyes,
the sun melts my skin and you leave me blind.