I held her hair for her, and
Found poetry in the back of
Her head where more
Careful lovers
Have eyes.

I cursed the alcohol making
Her cheeks and heart wet with
Painful thoughts without
Root in reality,
But none of

My prayers could turn the
Wine to water, as grapes
Became teardrops in
Her blood.
So I carried

Her to my bed. On the
Side of my king sized
Compassion for old, old pain, I
Sat down and was
Silent until her

Heart followed my lead,
And my hand found the
Poetry, stroking it
Like a parent
Until

It no longer rhymed
Or made any sort of
Sad sense
At
All.

I see how white light startles.
I snapped a pic and she spun in circles.
She wanted a photograph
to cover her mother's epitaph,
so she could have a laugh.

She smoked to get away -
but this isn't what'd she say,
exhaling, "All we are is carbon
and a lack of empathy."

We blended into hues of
microwave dinners
and church alters.
I used to tell her to go
just to halt her.

We prayed to get away -
but that's not what we'd say,
whispering, "Help us be more
than carbon and a lack of empathy."

He doesn't like the taste of black coffee
but he swears he could drown in her eyes.
He hates mornings
because there aren't any stars to look up at
but her smile shines just as brightly.
The sound of birds chirping
makes him want to scream,
but her voice sounds like wind chimes
and he wouldn't mind waking up early
if it means he'll get to listen to it.

The night before, she whispered,
"The quickest way to break a heart
is to pretend you have one."

Howling,
like you've never heard before.
And she sat next to me, radiating.
Her body jumped with every bump,
as foam blossomed out of her mouth.

And I promised her
that I would get her there in time.
And her dealer promised me
he didn't give her anything.

Howling.
I was howling,
like you and I have never heard before.
And her glazed eyes would open.
And my eyes were wide shut.
Her body lain crooked,
like the antenna of the wrecked car
my grandfather left me.

And I wondered if the planet
was moving too quickly
or if I wasn't moving fast enough -
before I decided the only time
that was real, was now.

Howling.
The police sirens were howling,
like the suburbs have never heard before.
The wails were begging me to pull over.
And the flashes of red and blue
danced across her ivory skin.
She mumbled to her deceased grandma,
and I asked her to stay.

And in that moment,
I tried to numb myself.
I tried to detach
and let the river carry me.

Howling.
I was howling,
like the deputy
had never heard before.
I begged for an escort.
I begged to go back into my car.
He looked at her knotted body
but didn't see her like I saw her.
And he told me to remain calm.
He told me to stop yelling -
but I couldn't express enough.
I couldn't release enough desperation.

And the river carried me
to the rocks before the fall.
At the bottom, I knew she was dying,
and this killed me, most of all.

Howling.
I was howling her name,
like she had heard before -
but not this time.
No, not this time.

The night before, she whispered,
"The quickest way to break a heart
is to pretend you have one."

I am my fathers daughter.
I know this because he tells me every time he's drunk or every time I'm drunk
I think it started when my mother left
skipped town with the preacher
left me shaking in the bathroom holding my knees like a bad taste in my mouth
this is family
this is coming home or the lack of coming back
this is making toast for your mom when she's had too much wine and somehow ends up where it all began, in the apartment that was once hers but has since switched ownership
this house is not a home
without a mother
this house is not a home without the fathers daughter
we become glue for those who cannot become sober
we become wall, ball and chain, we become our fathers at such a young age we forget how to be anything besides drunk

Last night we told the town about our pseudonyms.
And, because the stars shone too bright
And we were left exposed with our tragedies hanging through the air,
I had to teach you how to paint the sky a darker color-
So that no one could tell the difference between our affectionate self-satisfying thoughts and,
Our misspoken words.
You always spoke like you knew more about being detached than you did about love.
Your shaking hands, your posed expressions,
Always tethering to always want to fall apart but almost too simple and beautiful
To ever be able to do so.
At the beginning I watched your lips blow through the light in your flute,
Trembling slightly to create a sound greater than my memories of the only voice I've ever fallen in love with.
Again and again, as you inhaled and exhaled, lightly creating that shape that only perfectionists can create-
And it was hard to believe those lips were now right besides me,
Muttering 'To die by your side is such a heavenly way to die'
over and over again without them even knowing it.
"Let's talk about heart break." you would say.
Let's talk about how you couldn't find a pool of enough antique movies to drown the romantic guitar music in your head with so you just used apathy instead.
"Lets talk about introversion."
Let's talk about the way you heard words you could not listen to- the way you constructed lies to the first pair of hands that offered to hold you, the same way you constructed a mask of indifference when they began to shy away to another girl in another school.
"Let's talk about nothing. Let's sing instead."
Let's sing that song from The Queen Is Dead by The Smiths.
Let's pretend like the queen died the second we sipped our first glass together.
The people are rioting in the streets, the people are screaming and refusing to march but we do not care because this isn't the first time we've stripped something away from ourselves
Whilst wearing a grin and pretending like we're complete.
This isn't the last- drink on, drink on.
There are two types of people in this world - the ones who get hurt and the ones who destroy.
You never knew this, but I was too busy figuring out if I had to become the latter just to be able to conquer love when you came into my life again.
I thought I would feel no calmness when it happened-
But it turned out I conquered love in a pint-sized African cafè.
With a girl who sometimes wore her hair back like Audrey Hepburn and thought that
Calling random boys on the phone and screaming 'Im in love with you' even when she wasn't was a perfectly acceptable way to spend an immaculate Thursday evening.
There is a light that never goes out,
There is a light that never goes out.
And even if it did go out,
I wouldn't worry.
Because you'll always be right by my side in that tiny cafè when it happens.
And you are something between radiant,
And radioactive.