you took every
fear i had about
inadequacy
and turned them
from mountains to
speed bumps,
reminding me
to slow down,
but never stop

I'm the kind of odd
That drinks hot chocolate
When it's 90 degrees
And leaves the window open during thunderstorms
Or that does something
That is absolutely impossible
And then does it again
Because I swear I was so close
To getting it right
I keep talking to people,
Even if they've left the room
Sometimes,
I just talk at them
I like to paint my nails
Then paint over that
Then paint over that
I always tiptoe up the stairs
Even when it hurts
I like to waltz around the kitchen
And stare straight up at the sky
I turn off lights in rooms
As I walk out
Even when there are still people in it
I talk to myself while I take tests
And I love taking tests
I talk to myself before school
Loudly
I wear scrunchies on my wrist
Because when I don't
I don't even feel like I exist at all
I just need to be a little odd
Because I have to feel
*something

I left my shores in that fateful night,
my heart was torn in to pieces,
and blood rushed out, a red river
still I fought like an battle hardened soldier,

My old boat made of  seasoned wood was broken
in many places, lost my navigational aids
the sky was windy and overcast, the sun avoided my eyes
at dark nights, the lone star that loved you and me
and wanted us to unite, was covered with angry clouds
that wanted me to get lost in high seas
the storm that was brewing didn't daunt me
I set full sail and saw the island in my mind
listened only to your voice within me , firm and clear
you  are my rudder, light house, love song
Love, is the only light that's left for me
will I reach your abode against all odds?

You ever want to **** someone so bad your stomach hurts? I counted to seventy eight in between when the shuttle took off and arrived and I got off to get distracted by hunger. Maybe I’m a ***** but it’s hard not to want. I smoke my cigarettes so fast I get light headed. It’s the only way to know I’m killing myself.

                                             **** yourself with
                  your last cigarette only almost broken but crumpled
                               it’s more comforting than love.
              Always call your last match false hope when you’re alone.

                                                                                    The days are gruesome.
                                                                       The trees get green then naked.
                                                       The women in pulp paper backed books.
                                               The woman in my pulp paper backed book is
                                a portrait of you, with your mouth open that felt *****.
                         I licked my fingers to smudge the shading on your tongue.
                                   I licked my finger to smudge a poem on the ground.
                                        A poem is a tree punching through the pavement
                                                                                    into the toothy ground.

                   The ground is the trees that tried and died before.

          Before is the whiskey in my cup I have to drink to waste it.

Waste is whole and even. I feel best as an odd number, as a single or a third, as one of those unrelenting fractions always braying to be torn apart. Whole is useless, whole is having nothing to give away, whole is to be a hole you’ve filled with yourself and no part of you sees day or the flowers that pile up from the corpse of accomplishment.

I’m equally heart and
head and **** and their
all digging for clay.