the boots could stand without a body
or lips to kiss
her essence was in them full like water
she would shout and not be heard through all the smoke
now it is clear, but she is silent

there's always too much to figure out or trust or not trust
when you're seventeen and gorgeous and sorry
but he should be sorry, not me,
he never looked at my **** like they would fit into his hand
or into my eyes like they were oceans/moons/something surreal
milk tastes better with chocolate syrup
until you get older: you like bitterness in your hot mug
and in your eyes

roll up the bible like a pillow in your lover's bed
you are your lover
i am my lover
we are lonesome
scared of touching feeling lying asking knowing scared of being scared

now i'm tired of not feeling things that need to be felt
I see it in so many crevices like bookshelves
and cd cases
hiding behind some sort of transparent anger
and now it's about him again and his thick fingers and immature, un-trusting ways.

i keep trying to make things about you,
but maybe I need to stop looking with my glasses on.
there are no secrets, only words that mean nothing.
I collect them in tiny jars and cabinets.

he held my hand like he deserved it
and i'll hold yours like I want it
if anything in the world made sense then i would stop trying to figure it out
but i'm here listening to my parents yell at my brother for sleeping
and listening to my brother say **** and **** and ******* and words that only sound good in the daylight

if I wasn't alone on this couch,
things would make less sense.
but we are
and I am
with **** yous seeping through the walls to remind me i'm at home