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.

you always said smoking would **** me,
but I never knew you meant it would be karma for stealing cigarettes from my mom.
I cut the pizza into thin pieces,
so I wouldn't feel bad when I said I ate three.
I was going to rhyme home with phone, but they don't rhyme,
and I was going to quote some famous person,
but I don't know any famous people,
so I couldn't ask permission.

Last night, you said you would call,
but you didn't.
I feel fine because I didn't feel like talking anyway.

So, uhh, when you get this,
just know I called because I knew you were gonna call,
and I wanted you to know I'm not mad.

ok, bye.

I guess this is about someone else,
but I want it to be about you for nostalgic purposes.

there's something different about wanting to touch your face and actually doing it.
that's how it always is.
you're the black-ink-on-paper-to-get-you-out-of-my-head kind of guy,
you're the never awake past noon because you don't want to deal with reality kind of mind,
you're one of those half-drunk, half-broken, half-idon'tcarebecauseyoudon'tcare kind of lovers.

one day I'm going to quit everything.


the cat laps milk
instead of water
from the palm of a mothers hand,
it's rough tongue leaving
purple lines
broken and deep
like the stretch marks that map her body.

She'll talk to me about her children
and the little things in her life that don't seem to matter much anymore,
and we'll watch people and assume things like people do,
and we'll kiss each other out of boredom
and she'll tell me to braid her hair,
because she wants to feel young again,
and I'll tell her to read me her story,
because I want to feel closer,
and she'll tell me about the cat
and she'll let me pet it
but she wont let me sleep in her bed
or put away the dishes
or kiss her on the days that she wears lipstick.

She reminds me of you,
except she's something I can feel.

I've heard you talk about
the way she rubs her diamonds
on your naked soul,
and the way photographs
make you nervous,
as if the frozen people
could somehow thaw.
You keep forgetting
that winter is just beginning.

We've been taking short cuts
handed out to us from the
u-n-i-v-e-r-s-e.

Don't be jealous,
they hurt:
like the rough bark
that surrounds and
protects a tree.
like a passionate
"I hate you"
passed from one
to another.
like an answering
machine instead of
a-

"Hello?"

I can't touch my face because my hands smell like popcorn
and I can't paint my nails because the smell is too strong.
I keep dancing with my arms and my head while I sit in my chair,
and I keep thinking it's okay, but I know it's not.
I want to paint a picture and tape a cats head onto a humans body,
and I want to light it on fire and take a picture of you naked and send it as a postcard to my best friend, (that I sort of have a thing with).
I'm not sure how many times I've called you this past week,
probably none, considering I don't like talking to you, (especially on the phone).
I'm not even sure if I remember your phone number or not, the numbers just keep mixing up in my head and then I end up calling my hair dresser or the pizza place down the street, (you know the one, with the salad bar that we never eat from).
I don't want to have to keep this up any more, I just want to put white out on those things I said and write over it with something funny or beautiful.
I don't want to have to worry about making the bed either, because it's really hard when you do it by yourself.
So please don't make me leave another message,
pick up the phone and tell me you love me already,
wait,
I don't want you to say it unless you mean it,
so just,
call me back.

I tried to read your pretty words,
but I was too distracted by happiness.
I wanted to take a picture,
but they don't sell my size film anymore.
And as I listened to the songs you shared with me,
I realized that anyone could like the same ones,
and that I was silly for thinking I was in love.

It made me think about that night with the guy I just met,
how his car was cold and I kept shaking,
and the music was really bad,
but I kissed him anyway.
Then afterwards on the way home,
I kept thinking about how beautiful you are,
and about how I wanted to see you that night.
How I still haven't gotten the chance to see the color of your eyes for myself.

I wrote some letters this week,
I want to write them to you too,
or maybe I'll call you,
I haven't heard your voice enough,
and I've almost memorized what I've heard already.

When I saw you drawing that hand,
I wished it was my hand,
and I wished you would reach out and hold it
as if you've held it a million times before,
but it meant more than anything to you,
and I wished that you would dream about the softness.

I feel like I should be embarrassed,
but I doubt you even check these anyway.

bye.

I've been clipping my nails in bed,
and I haven't vacuumed since you left,
but I never did anyway, that was always you,
same with the dishes.
I ended up breaking those,
I think the song I was listening to was too sad,
and it took control, and I lost myself.
I'm sorry, I hope you're not mad.
Would it be weird if I started to cry?
I think I might cry.
I'm happy though, I swear I'm happy.
Oh God, I hope I'm happy.

My hair is longer now,
I've been too tired to cut it,
and a little scared, because I know you like to cut hair.
I guess you could say I'm saving it for you,
even though I didn't save some other things,
more important things.
I keep remembering all these lies I told you,
and I've been writing them down,
trying to figure out how I could make up for them.
I guess I can't.
Okay,
I think I'm going to cry-

It's a sad life when you spend your childhood licking knives
and you wait in the rain for hours, and you always get hurt,
and your moms dead, so you live with your dad,
but you can't afford band-aids.

I've been keeping myself busy lately so that I don't have to think about anything,
I've been thinking too much,  and that doesn't get me anywhere.
I made some money the other day, I still don't have a job,
but it was good money, and I bought some more books,
and I got a new journal.
I feel like writing in it again, maybe if I get my thoughts down I wont be thinking so much.

I've been avoiding other people lately,
but the loneliness is starting to get to me,
there's this point where it begins to eat away at you like the delete button, it's terrifying.

I was looking at the moon last night,
and it was too bright for me to handle.
I kept thinking that I wanted to sew my eyes shut,
and I wasn't wearing any underwear,
and I was really hungry.

I've been feeling so old lately.

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 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.

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.

you're the same as I remembered you:
                                                            ­ eyes like daggers
                                               swim towards my barefeet
it's almost summer again: it's too hot to hold you, or
                                                              ­         anyone.
sighs about tomorrow: "you're just going to fall asleep again."
I avoid the mess and go straight for the spill: lips. eyes. brain.
you're the lipstick on my coffee cup, the smell of smoke after a house burns down.
she screams about the horses, the costumes, the memories:
                                                       ­                                         I tell her to be quiet.
"just shut your mouth! just shut your god ****** mouth!" and again,
                                                                ­                              "you're hideous" in a different way.
the anger moistened breath (shouting)
released her from the frenzy of being herself.  
                                                      ­                   standing in front of you, arms shaved and knees lotioned:
"thank you", from the voice of insanity,
signed on the back of a handmade book
with your name on it.                                                          exit­: left ear right ear left ear right ear left here.
Words like ghosts      they go straight     through her.
lack of empathy lack of mourning lack of desire lack of satisfaction
it all goes down the drain: in this house
                                          (clogged with hair [it doesn't matter who's, so don't ask]).
the boredom cries out (again) with freedom
                                                         ­            and instead we call it "relaxation".
(things we think
but we never think)                                  
to say: I lost the meaning of vacation counting license plates on the way to Texas.
(would bring back more than just the dead)
it would bring us                     back to dead,
and death would say
(something ringing in our ears) that we understand.
              that we understand the things we want to,
whatever they may be,
and then maybe:                   in death
                               we can find peace.

education:  takes my motivation
                           and squelches it.
                    plummets me deep
within the caverns of responsibility.

the fight for pleasure without pain.
taken aback and washed up ashore,
what's more? I'm buried.

chippin' rocks at last
sunrise 'till sunset, convenient lover
conventional friend.

at each beginning I sense our end.
each tattered piece of your broken heart is clenched,
your muscles aching.
bleeding and blended into a bitter batter, what's the mater?
you haven't always been this tender.

you shiver in your regret
the tension's in your sweat
and I bet you're not as sick as I was
when I felt you beside me when I was all alone

your arms were a death bed
reaching around my shoulder blades.
not a moment until the understanding
pulses and fades as your love
shimmers and dissipates.

comfort kills this fragile figure
rotten molten black lunged angel,
I fear the moment I can no longer
feel that you are unlimited in your tender form.

Camille is purple
tensing her body
feeling lonely
not lonely
enough
to call anyone
all calls are dry mouthed
and stained ***** red
apothic red if you
want her to be
exact although
unnatural
she writes
drunk
and never edits
the words tumble out
of her like kids who learn
gymnastics at a young age
and laugh at her for plugging
her nose when jumping into the
foam pit, so unnatural

Marilyn talks to her and she
feels a little less lonely, and
a little more comfortable in
her abnormalities as she sips
at her glass before chugging
the rest of the bottle while
pondering another until
she realizes that it's no
good for her rethinks
and decides it's a
yes

I live in California
but I'm afraid of the ocean,
I live in the mountains,
surfing the web,
spinning my webs,
catching flies,
discover lies,
say goodbyes.

sorry that I mislead you,
misread you.

been a bit
detached lately
burns and cuts
running amock
waking up
face down
on the couch
reaching out
my eyes
wide closed
my hand
grabs yours
it's light
now leaving
barely seeing
dry heaving
after water
instant *****
fragmented memories
almost gone
don't
do
the digging
smoking
****
fading
out
no                          doubts.

protected in this fragile state,
wind rushes through me,
echoing a heartbeat

my past companions
entagled in my integrity
have begun to spin faster

strands of web
alchemized to gold
as full moons appear
and fade

counting the stars
one by one, day by day,
endlessly,
as the years pass.
until our goodbye
is no longer poisioning.
until our goodbye
fertilizes new growth.

the passion in blooming
was once my undoing,
yet, no longer so looming,
or damning, or dooming
as I swing hard, heart heavy,
and prepare to take flight,
over the Sea.
bite me,
soaring bullet, straight arrow,
striking hard, falling hard,
tongue sharp,
grab the tarp for this new heart,
it's healing faster than you can tear apart.

words *****:
sticky, messy, hot and heavy.
vibrant smile, searing red.
I see you
seeing dread.

grey today, but with a shine,
a flash of your smile in my dreams.
turn me sideways.
I'm seeing you, loving you,
in nightmares until daylight.

no longer settled with,
"what's left of me?"
no longer longing for what was.

I'm amused, my muse,
no longer confused
with the parts of me that struggle
when I'm reminiscing you.

A love, once loved,
never unloved.

I began decaying in the process of
trying to love another,
when I never stopped loving you.

Letting go of what doesn't serve me.
I'm creating space
as I grieve what it means
to let that love breathe.

the best of us hide
because we know what's good for us.
killing something because it's expendable isn't an excuse
scream at me longer,
I want to bathe in the passion you reveal.
leaving early
the game was too intense
to keep playing.
adventure can seem fleeting
when all you focus on is fleeing.
self-corruption at it's finest
in the form of getting over
and going
beyond.
although these feelings can be more difficult
you'll realize what was there,
(nearly invisible),
before breaking
             and
             soaking
through.

a never ending summer
left a foul taste in my mouth
a stench on my clothes
and far too many take backs,
ten-dollar scratchers, and lessons on
how to properly **** yourself.

maybe the word
                            no
could have dropped out of my mouth
instead of my lips closing down
left to drown in my broken shell.
I felt so pale, no gold inside, just a joke
just a plague.
there's no mistake
I'm gonna bake
this summer come
but won't be numb,
will no longer crumble at the sight
no longer hide away my eyes, maybe
find myself at night with a friend
I hold too tight. I stay up late,
can't help but write.

all my thoughts, they're here for the taking.
staircase downward falling
against walls, she crawls,
feels like something forgotten,
keeps on running, unburies thoughts,
she hides no more, she's here for the taking.
sometimes poetry's repeating all the beating
we try to hide, but it's also gathering the feelings
that we often take for granted,
mistake that our lovers are ourselves
that their shame and crime is intertwined
with the person you have come to find
when you look in the mirror
or the eyes of another,
when you speak to your mother
or to a friend whose lost some other
part of themselves they see in you
so they talk and act on through
try not to hurt or shame, it's a humble game
experience doesn't always have to be defeating
when we can't help ourselves from greeting
all the travelers from their homelands,
looking for deeper meaning.

words can be whatever you make them
it's an expression of thought, communication
is one of the most incredible attributes to being human.
a voice is a projection of your breathing mixed with feeling.
next time I'll try to say more of what matters
and less of what I don't care is best.
this life is a lesson, there's no way to fail,
it's not a test.

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.

we are merely children
that continue growing.
loneliness is a struggle
but so is engulfment.
to plunge into commitment
with hopes for each day to rise with opportunity
and excitement, and for each day to prove more time wasted,
brings upon an emotional sickness known as heart ache.

a lover is to not just love,
but to follow and to lead.

however my love is wandering, lost.
trapped and wondering, is this love enough?

again my heart yearns for something else than what it's given,
yet is so afraid to remove the safety of what it already has to venture anew,
where a different kind of loneliness awaits.

feeling hopeless in a hopeful time
rendering gifts of promise useless
I admit I'm not pure, that I find moments where I'm not only the prey
but hunting, and the cycle of my torment is guided by my own self.
for lack of decisiveness, and abundance of indecision.

I'm not myself today.

You always stand too close to my back
and your breath gives me chills.
If you don't want me

go away.

We look good together
and our smiles have the perfect frames
                                                     for kissing.
Since when did you get so thin?
and
your hands
are exceptionally soft today.
Your jokes  
            are so funny,
                                           and that's perfect,
because I've been looking
for an easy
way some to burn some calories.
Your *** is so good,
                                           and that's perfect,
but for different reasons.

Now that winter's over,
I feel heavy when I hold your  hand,
and the pressure of summer is hot,
and you're sweating all this                      hate.
I've got the feeling that
                                                             you want me
to
go
away.

And now that it's over,
I can look the sun in the eye,
but only because

("we're all stuck on our toes")
and

I'm stuck on my toes.

avoiding: love.
or the pains of being in love
when there's indecision,
when I needed there not to be,
when it was coming from both ends.

my tears were like  
stepping stones
(a path you've avoided:
because it hurts too much
to feel, or it's easier to pretend
like those feelings
don't exist).
the fear and hesitation
of letting someone else
see
the steps you've taken,
and not
wanting to explain
how they led you to where you are
because it's hard to tell the truth
when you've been lying:
to everyone.

Without realizing it
half of the time,
and then the other half
I just lay in bed worrying about it,
or what other people think.

The thoughts led me to the point
where I couldn't leave my house,
or my room, or my bed.
The depression made me sick
and I didn't know how to deal with it
in any other way than letting it consume,
[like always]
because I was so obsessed with feeling
as much as I could, as intensely as possible.
I just didn't realize how self-destructive it was
because of the people I surrounded myself with
and the people that I wanted to, but didn't.

New Years: I decided not to make any resolutions.
Commitment still isn't my strong point, but I'm working on it.

I didn't treat those days like they were important,
and they weren't:
at the time.

I sought irrelevancy,
and silence,
and thought
and lack: of feeling, of thought, of silence.
Everything in my mind soon became contradiction
and it didn't take long for me to turn into the person
I feared most to become,
and even after I destroyed the image of it all,
it still existed in memory.

back to relevancy.

It's not about the timing.
It's all about the timing.

it's the situation:
the lack of feeling?
the lack of wanting.
the lack of empathy?
the lack of interest.
the lack of mystery?
the lack of understanding.

want is no way to love.
*** is no way to love.
drugs are no way to escape
(they just made me crazy)
crazy?
with thoughts of you,
with trying to forget about you
with trying to please everyone
with... everything.

I was afraid, so I tried my hand at avoiding:

conversation.
   (there was too much hurt coming from my end
to yours. I couldn't move on, because I loved you,
but I couldn't love you, because I couldn't love myself,
[or anyone else]. The idea of love grew too big,
    [in my mind] [in my pen] [in my journal] [in my life]
[the air around us] [the color of your eyes] [in memory]
[in the amount of time spent worrying about the possibilities
  of things that could go wrong]).

confrontation.
   (The only way I knew how to say sorry was to hold you,
and holding can mean too many different things and physical
translation has never been my strong point).

truth.
(with lies)
                (with truth)
(with secrets)
      (with whatever seemed to work at the time).


making changes
instead of planning changes.

I've said sorry too many times for the wrong reasons,
and not enough for the right ones.

I'm just glad to be myself again.

I found this poem doing algebra,
or sometime after the problems
that crept up on me
in word form
yearned to
join the page.

My face began to rot out the very words
I felt like saying but knew I shouldn't.
The pencil told me it was okay to make mistakes
and I think I went overboard, for the fear of drowning escaped me.
Every memory of the sinking ship I called home held promise.
Sweet salt singing
in and out of my mouth,
I told you I loved you.

bones bones bones
you're bathing in wood
and taste like molasses
thick in my throat
-a knot in the spine
that you tied because
you wanted to suspend yourself in my comfort.

I held you too close and came out with ****** ears.
aching for sound, and screaming
for any answer, some sweet melody that told me
yes
that told me
no.
let explanations take their time,
you deserve it.

desertion of desire
leave me to my streets,
where forgetfulness is salvation
and the path is better than the destination.
lean against me in the form of gravity,
your warmth is firing my senses.
I'm re-experiencing freedom for what feels like forever ago,
for what feels like never.

"I can't imagine more than I can imagine."

I'm going to start telling you exactly how I feel
to avoid all the others (feelings) that follow
when I keep secrets and try to make everyone as happy as
I want myself to be.

"I always think like this."

You're my reason(s).
you're the warm that I bathe in
and the chill that I hide from,
but at least we can talk serious
with our hands, and have fun with
our lips, and our tongues.
I can hear exactly how you feel
in the direction your eyes open to mine.

"You keep forgetting how to breathe."

We can't touch each other without pulling away,
we can't look, either, it's never close enough.

"****** tension?"

Interrupting thoughts:
legs.
yours. mine.
lips. *******.
hands. knees.
orange.
blue ink.
black ink.
everything about you.
that is me.
that I can't:
control.
myself.

"I can't express myself with words in this place."

it's okay if we don't know what time it is,
she's got that whole look together
like it were a saturday afternoon and
she has the whole world at her feet stones.

******.

she like's her mother but she doesn't
know her father, she's hated her brother
but she hasn't met the rest of them, not
to mention her sister.

she doesn't like to write about herself
it's like she's looking through water.

her knuckles are read with kool-aid
and she can feel where she needs to be felt.
when did that part of the body begin to exist?

(what kind of man does it take to resist?)

she's written letters that will never be sent.

"hand delivered is the way to go,"

another drag
from the holder of a cigarette,
about 11-inches from
her covered face,

"because then you can watch them
read it."

a smile spread
and wrinkles saw what they were.

today when asked what I would do with the rest of my life
(if I could pick anything I wanted regardless of money)
I told the whole class that I wanted to be a beat poet
in a jazz band, but I didn't tell them: I also want to sing

my baby told me
I'm dancing with a demon slayer
put her lips to my ear
whispered, "some secrets are meant to be shared."
if only I had cared
caressed her
skin to skin
but habits die
                        hard
and I have trouble beginning
because I'm so afraid of
                                          the end

the thought of sleep after a cold bath
is just as bad as having to listen to
your family doctor diagnose your insurance:
dying as fast as your childhood memories,
and although you've got the same blood
your grandfather, half-dead, doesn't want to know your name
and he doesn't care about the wrinkles water gives you.

he's got eyes like those charming men you see on the
t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n.
what's more:                                                            ­                
he can wink and blow kisses at the same time.

two phones
two coffee cups
one long conversation about nothing
and shared laughter over the mumbles we heard
from the downstairs neighbors when we were kids.

remember?
we'd hide in bushes with flashlights,
too afraid to move, too afraid the dark would
catch up to our short-distance legs and
our too-wide-to-see eyes.

I remember:
we'd talk into unplugged microphones
and trap ourselves by climbing fences
with stacks of rocks that we could barely lift.

one time, we found a field mouse:
he died the next morning.
the funeral was alright,
none of us cried at least.

I blame the mouse for getting caught in the heater,
we gave him a house and wrote his name on the front
so he wouldn't forget, but his mother must not have
taught him how to read English.

You told me he wouldn't be able to--
"why is it a boy? why can't it be a girl?"
--it didn't take me long to realize:

you can be whatever you want
or whoever you want,
and that if I was
(as trapped as)
that mouse,
I'd probably choose the heater too;
but I wasn't,
and I had you.

a romantic without love
is a pile of empty letters
strung together into hesitant conversation.

I see you now in memories:
you and I, half-asleep,
avoiding eye contact,
over coffee
and cigarettes.

here's the truth:
the parts I imagine
and the one's that I want to feel:
(all I want to do is feed you peaches
and tell you how beautiful you are).

I love you.
                    Say it more:  You're amazing.

"Look at all the pages you're using."

"You can cry if you need to."

approaching the end of slavery:
these moments are defining.

Therapy: and the way you explain things.
(you're different)
   ("PROVE IT!").

there are too many people coming in and out of these rooms.


empty spaces?

I'm here to fill you up.

            (if you let me)
(if you want me)

I love the idea of being with you.

She's the kind of girl who
locks the bathroom door
in her own house
when she showers.

I would pray to whichever God
that could make me the water
that runs down her neck,
and every other part of her,
down to the drain.

your goodness escaped
in trembles.
you're a magnet
turned over and pushing me
back.
rough edges are
pulling me
close, rip
through my skin
already.

nails dig deeper
thick touching we call problems.
is it wrong for a look to feel this good,
or that it took less than a second to shy away
from such a beautiful face?
no such likeness could be a mistake.

look
he's shrinking!
what's this, who's that?
spit back and splat!
there he goes, looking like he knows what he's doing.
clean skin masked in malnutrition
he shaved his face to make her jealous.
really really, she thought he was silly
but his empty belly left him nothing but a shell,
a broken one, or a pile of them.
shoot shoot shoot
I've been shot
and I take the blow
straight through my nose
making it hard to breathe
and impossible to sneeze.

good morning!
breakfast,
we've gotta get out fast
the snow isn't melting
my brain that's so swelling.
pressure release!
pleasures.
well, something.

I knew today would be different
when my skin turned into hummingbird water
as I sweat my stress out beside you
never wanted to have the memories so close
the ghost of tangiblity brought me back in time.

As I felt myself grow in the place I once broke,
I couldn't help but hope you'd appear before me.
The adoration is fading, but this heart can't get enough
of this cyclical heartache that's hurt me so much.
Loving you is easy when you're not around.
The ghost of you keeps me daydreaming
and I'm lost in the clouds.

I seek sunsets and starlight,
moonlight, walks through the trees.
I seek for your sunflower eyes,
but it's nothing but blue seas.
I'm lost in a dream,
but I can't lose my steam.
My love is bold and waiting,
this time, it's patiently.

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.

disconnected
hot, tired
restless
sick of waiting

reconnecting
warm, tired
overwhelmed
still wanting to test this

swarming under the sun
we take turns
finding breaks
through the buzz

stuck together
seeking flowers
with skin soft as silk,
milk made of nectar

“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 kept talking about the blood,
how it fell, how it wouldn't stop.
She believed in it so sincerely that you could feel it in her skin
and the way she held your face so that you couldn't look away.
It scared you how she could speak so beautifully,
how easily she could persuade you to follow her,
no matter where she went.

In her dreams, nothing could be more real.
The sarcastic smiles, casual conversations.
Everyone she touched, someone new,
someone she'd never seen before.
Never bothering to learn their names,
they weren't as important as their bodies.
It was alright that she acted this way,
she never pretended to be something she wasn't.

The dirt underneath her nails,
that filled her pockets,
was from the beach.
She was always correcting him,
"Not sand, *******."
Always with a smile.
He would stare at her, and she would try to read his mind.
She'd tickle him, but he'd shake her off,
she'd try to hold him, but he'd slip out of her grasp.

Anger: consumed.
She grabbed the broom, tied a shirt to her head,
jumped onto the table, (knocking his breakfast onto the floor),
"My dimples are waiting!" She screamed.
He stared at her like he had never seen her before.
She'd never gotten that look, not even the first time he saw her,
he'd always known her, (somehow).
Her face dropped, as did her body.
(and the table shook as he watched her fall).
He stood up, expecting something.

Indifference: something terrifying when it comes to love.
They kissed as though it would be their last.
She was social, he liked that, and he tried to escape himself,
(she encouraged it).
They loved each other, enough to forget the world,
(but not quite).
They laughed together, so much that their ribs cracked,
(like his voice so often did).

It seemed like they were lost in each other,
and they were.
He would ask her questions,
but she wouldn't always answer.


Confusion: it's something they hated.
She spread her body on the table, and he undressed her.
(with that same expression)
They had never done this before, but they kept at it.
(he left the shirt on her head)
He made no move, he washed himself with her image.
(she loved it)
Sweeping up his breakfast, his eyes fixed on her.
(as always)
They both loved it.

I feel you like
                        slamming
                                doors.
I see you in
                    the same
                                shifting focus as
when I take off my glasses
                  too quick.
I hold you like I make
fifty                               dollars
                  a week.
                                                          "I miss you"
I scream into my pillow.
                                            "I miss you too" you whisper back
        in prayers
in dreams
                   in your arms wrapped around me
as I cry into your neck.

I want you here: you
                            tell me: I'm beautiful.
these slow steps that I'm taking (toward you)
(away from you) I'm learning your name
easier than cleaning a fish bowl
harder than saying it out loud
easier than writing it down
harder than taking birth control
or wanting to,
because I'm not interested in ***
at this age:
in this age I'm younger than those actions
older than those thoughts,
lost in a limbo, found swinging from a bar,
skipping down a street, turning down what I can't see
"no thank you"

I can hear you.
                              "I'm listening"
     I can't hear you.
"you're screaming"

your face,
                 in the mirror: "you're beautiful"
your face,
                    in the street: "I'm disgusting"

sincerely,
                because I know you're quiet when you're unhappy
because you're trying to tie knots with broken fingers
          because your eyes reflect blue in the shadows of your smile
because you're more than any fabric, soaked in any chemical thought
                                                                                                                    (or feeling)
because the islands of you create an escape better than the moon.

Sincerely, because you're you.

I've been kissing a man with yellow teeth,
the neighbors frown when they see his car in the driveway.
They called the police on us, saying it was a crime.

I woke up in a metal room with fluorescent lights,
screaming, "What's my crime? where's that love of mine?"
They answered with screaming lights in my face,

"We hear you've been eating cold toast!"

Walking down the stairs with a Jello stuffed bra.
My sister told me it was a good fashion choice,
all the men smiled, and so did the women.

I went to the coffee shop, and ordered juice.
The waitress looked at me, then sat down.
Complained about how her fingers bled,
how she never applied for the job,
and about her weak knees.

She cried enough to relieve my thirst.

ah, there's the honey
right in front of you
labeled for eating.

give me information
and take off your blanket
(unless it's snowing,
  and if it is, promise to take me with you):
to play.

oh, there are faces,
beauty, reaching out
beneath eyelids because
direct contact is where confusion strikes.

snuggle buddy
you feel like silly putty
       you mold and mash into me
warm and happy.

tying
and trying
to escape the binds
we wrap ourselves in.
we sweat, we sleep,
wake up hungry.
sit across the table
from each other,
in the corner,
and try
not to
stare.

give me a bite
I just want to taste what you taste.
constant communication
my hands are clammy but running them through your hair seems nice.

you let me lift fingers
tap gently, crawl scratching:
don't stop. don't.
no.

you shake your head
faster than the cold
shakes my legs.
I understand when to back away.
but here I am.
in your arms,
all sweetly woven
that it's me you've chosen,
but I relapse through thoughts
of conversations that remind me that
this is more stimulation than either of us
are used to.
we need time to relate.
some self-stimulation: *******.

give your body away less than you want to.
notice the difference between stimulation, gratification,
and feelings that need to subside.
letting go
falling through
breaking up
it's all puke in the mouth
the taste is indifference
and I swallow it back
without choking or spitting.

thoughts of you: staying cautious.
I'm drinking through thin fingers
my throat is a pillar, an obstacle.
my dead end is an abrupt answer:
so clear. restless, and easy. feeling
the need to move. risking my senses
for more adventurous hostilities.

things take time,
but what if time and I aren't speaking?

My friends mean ***** business
when it comes down to the bottle.
I want to share what I've brought,
for I brought it to be given.
Yet it seems all these people rest uneasy,
and tonight I'll join them.

Corpse hands lost her sight
perhaps it' 'cause she lost her mind
in tryin' to find what's beneath the rhyme,
rather
than enjoying the movement language can take.
Speech
is technique of the tongue.

I've been spending time trying to see how far mine can take me
if it's enough to raise me and if it does, how long will it be until
it breaks me?

'Cause I can't seem to learn enough words,
and the ones I already know are too many.

Is there a structure to look up these feelings in a dictionary?

I find that not knowing how to say what I feel is lash back
side-effect of not being able to find the words to explain
anything that's going on, inside of me, outside of me,
much less what's inside of you
or perhaps what it is that I could do.

When it comes down to doing there's too much to do.
I find myself stuck with expectations and goals that I give myself
that I'll never live up to. Yet I keep surprising myself all just the same.

When it comes to the Self
there is no way to explain,
living, breathing, kissing,
stealing, loving, cheating,
you're going to transition,
so **** it.

Just be yourself, whoever that is,
and your friends will love you no matter what.
If they don't, then they're not your friends.

Keep your mind, heart, and soul open,
for this seemingly never-ending cycle is happening for all of us.

As winter meets its end
I meet myself at the beginning
It's taken time to approach and mend
Where rejection, first, was winning

My inner child is healing
While my pain is fully felt
I let my tears flow down
Heart healing as it melts

Sickness takes it's hold
Of my physical form
They said this soul was old
When I had just been born

The grief of loss
When I looked to her
She walked away
Door shut in my face

The grief of rejection
When he spoke his hurt
Those words were painful poison
Destroying all my worth

No parents to love
Or be loved by
I was only a child
But I wanted to die

Astral projection
My best friend was God
I begged to go back
But my journey, that was not

So I sit here and write
Allowing myself to cry
I hold myself softly
I'm getting ready to fly

Rediscovering what's to love
Realizing that I am enough
My strength is building slowly
Although the journey has been rough

My spirit is being guided
To find what hurts and pull it out
To spill all of my secrets
And remove my heart of doubt

There's been a drought
Long lasting
That I have finally shaken free
Today I walk in gratitude for all who have blessed me

Alone, in my tragedy
The wallowing that ensued
I walked away from all of you
And directly to my doom

I led myself astray
Because of the pain I could not face
At this point in time, I feel it's safe to say
I've found my way and I'm in a different place

I look around and here you are
Loving me as I am
So thank you from the very core of me
For loving me as I am

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.

experiencing myself
empty of desires,
yet continuing to fulfill my promises
and keep myself alive and active.

hard work
isn't as bad if you meditate,
formulating ideas while sifting through memories.
a strange form of meditation while cleaning houses,
yet all the same distracting from the present reality
until you're on your way home with the funds to
provide healthy food, shelter, and a bit of recreation.

hard work
is barreling towards me.
I am planning to jump over and on top of that wheel
which I was in constant fear of and conquer it.
Not only for myself, but for the ones I care for.
If I cannot be there for myself and conquer my
own demons, then I cannot be there for others
to help them conquer theirs. If I am a poison I
shall only continue to seep into those I hold closely, I
refuse to any more. I'm
withstanding.

I will fight the major influences which rest within my being,
I will trim down the fat to create the muscles to carry myself.
No more leaning.

I am standing on my own two feet.

Until I can control my desires,
I cannot stand with you. Until
I let go of desires and just be.
Strength will help me to let go of the
poisonous cracks in the morals I have
so easily let sink beneath me.

I recognized myself as the person on a horse,
while the horse is up to it's eyes in mud, as
I continue to whip the horse to move forward,
rather than getting off and helping it out.

I realize now that I am the only one who can bury my strength,
just as I can choose to let it carry me. I have found that perhaps
instead I should be carrying my strengths so as to only grow more
powerful, within and without, so that if I need to set it down to
help rescue another's, I shan't be just as helpless.

here's to building on top of what is, rather than taking apart
what was, so as to create something new out of the old.

creation's purpose is beauty  
destruction is wasteful

let us create and if we are finished
move on to the next creation,
rather than continuing to
poke and **** at the old.

I am camille for real I'm awesome

step up and sink in
my mind is a riddle
swollen with thinkin'
surprised at what you made me feel
I thought it was impossible.

is there something so wrong with me
that one mentioning your closeness
and I'll get up and run to you?
even if I'm sure I'd break more?

you words are strings
and mirrors, I don't want to be so caught
in your tangles. don't tell me what to do.

I built for you
(another nightmare).

goodness,
is your heart still broken?

I consider your names from time to time
and fall under in wonder,
if the syllables were just an uttering-reach
for your attention,
or if they were failed attempts at catching
amusements-daze for your entertainment.
my sound waves wanted to cradle your letters,
to give you the alphabet in symphonies
harmonious with my admiration for you
and all I thought you stood for.

you flipped me on my stomach,
face down
trying to muffle the sound of my love,
what pain!
trying to force me not to love so loud.
I felt less than proud to
pull you out and leave you empty,
wishing, for once, not to be so untouched.

your passion for passing opportunities
to prove yourself worth the patience
was the only thing you held onto
when I opened my arms.
your touch no longer comfort,
more infectious and breathtaking
in a wind knocking your lungs down into your guts sort of way,
with all your broken promises jutting into my rib cage,
shredding the butterfly wings that used to arise that love-sick shutter
until I'm sick of love and left with blinds
that leave me to mutter about the darkness.

you were a creature of great wonder in the lack of light,
the shadows painting angels wings
sprouting from the backside of your heart
shooting through your spine,
your halo shining so bright that I lost my concentration,
I took a second look and lost my path
in a concentrated dose of your praise,
witnessed the sin seeping through your skin
as you sweat and soon there was nothing left
but the sound of your breath and the words
and the words and the words and the sickness
came creeping in like a crash.

your wings melt in the daylight
your teeth rot in your cheeks
halo crooked and eyes clamped tight
you sleep because you're too weak to speak
to another human being face to face
and from your face sprouted flowers made of meat
but the bees stung me when it was time to eat.

guilty by association.
guilty of procreation tendencies with absolutely no intention
of creating anything but distance from the wreckage.
broken hearts are broken bones
are breaking our breaking
we've broken apart and my heart
it has been shielded, restored into a beating,
living, loving organism.

for someone who wanted so badly to play the part of jesus,
you sure didn't pray enough, laugh enough or heal enough.
you didn't even try.

you were a wreck that I couldn't withstand,
a self-imposed torture,
because the thrill of losing everything
was too intoxicating to escape.

you were a right handed lover
and a left hand driver
with a ******* and not much else to say
with all that anger in your heart,
with all that hatred in your bones,
you will tear at your flesh to dig deeper
to try and understand something that's already been explained,
as all who once loved you will watch you rot away.

silver tongue city slicker
stay at home in your cabinet
don't come calling or knocking
it's too shocking: I'm thankful.

most positively,
I am free,
because without the wreck
there wouldn't have been anything to feel at all.

forever better
alone with production
forever better
attending to poetic tendencies

the skies cry as I write
smoke so thick that it puts fog in the corner
heavy winds and planes rushing overhead
lightning with no trace of thunder
the wind rumbles louder
sequencing with my stomach
as I ache for inspiration in every toxic breath
that follows after the fire spreads

I smoke with the earth
as my lungs bleed
together with my heart