I heard we
ran out of papers
so you ran up
around the walls
of this house-
thoughts scribbling
on them like the paint
we could not decide upon;
like a troubled mentalist
looking for solace
the sound of your pen
against the walls-
how they went from
flowing to screeching-
hands now bleeding
blue
heart; you reached the
porch where you underlined
your first steps and her last;
the bedroom a serenade
between the sheets some-
times a lie tucked away
underneath;
there are fractured stories
in the woodwork finally
seeping out.
You are making the
ceiling cry in the eulogic living room; the kitchen
is a mess of lonely dinners.
You left the library for the last.
This was where you began a
passion never ending
fantasy; open up
the curtains.
The world will one day
listen to the way
a little scribble went
to a house
and came back
a masterpiece.

the truth is no one ever taught me how to fix a flat tire or how to ask for help or what love was even good for in the first place

and the truth is that the cookie was good but the lemon icing wasn't and the truth is baking should be done without any kind of lemon at all

and the truth is i wish you'd hold me close enough that our skin fused together and i could burrow into your spine and learn all the things you won't teach me

and the truth is you were never good at making eye contact but i dare you to look at me long enough that i can trace the line that connects your iris to your pupil and count how many shades of black a person can produce

and the truth is i don't know if the grass has fingerprints but i know that yours are cigarette stained and no better at letting go than mine

and the truth is i am a dump site and you are an inhale and i am clockwork and you are a melody and i can't keep my teeth off your eloquence

and the truth is my feet are covered in acrylic paint from leaving smudged footprints in sparkly things

and the truth is i don't want you all to myself but you can pretend i'm yours when i'm engulfed in the ocean and making it hard for you to breathe

and the truth is i'm looking for a different kind of intimacy from you

and maybe it's just some teenage girl talking but the truth is that i want to drown with you. i want to burn with you. i want to scream with you so violently that the body that crushes my lungs crumbles and i become a balloon for real this time

and the truth is, if you hadn't called me beautiful, i would have mistaken last night for a paradise i don't believe in