Drink makes you spill your guts
and I shouldn't stand laughing
pretending I don't know it's real.

You say you adore me.
I think I might be using you
for fun and drugs and validation.

I'm so ****** up.
I'm evil as they come, and everyone
seems to think I'm normal now

I hate myself, but I'm better than you at least.
Maybe I'm mad and I just can't see it.
You said you'd buy me things.

December 31st, 2016
Sometime around 10:40pm
On a balcony in the closest thing to a mansion I've ever been in
The weather was the worst weather for a New Years Eve party I'd ever seen and yet, there we both were, on that balcony overlooking a dark and foggy field under electric blue lights shining upon red solo cups.
I first noticed your sweater, where a hypothetical pocket would be, a little girl in a yellow dress holding a purple umbrella, standing in the rain. Salt?
Salt.
I then noticed how you looked European, only to find out you're from Florida, but living in New York. I didn't get that information from you, your cousin filled me on who you were.
At some point, I was in conversation with some friends sitting under the blue lights, with a small plastic pastel pink cup filled with chardonnay, and as you walked past me, you quickly tapped the tip of your beer bottle on the rim of my cup, a tiny toast, without even looking at me, and you just kept walking to wherever you were walking to on the balcony. I'm not sure what about that exact clink intrigued me, but I looked down and smiled at my cup in thought for a few moments. I ended up observing your mannerisms for the rest of night.
You had a cigarette tucked behind your ear, a sinister but pristine set of white teeth behind pink lips. The bags under your eyes complimented the blue in a way that when I looked into them I could see the nights spent awake, probably at a skate park, or some ***** New York alley, smoking *** with girls with septum rings and stiletto nails.
I moved closer to the table to see who was winning the game, like I always do when I don't feel like engaging in small talk with old acquaintances. You mocked me for my black and mild and asked to have a hit. You offered to share your behind-the-ear cigarette with me and I accepted, and lit it with my flannel pocket lighter.
We passed it back and forth while you tossed a ping pong ball back and forth across the table.
At 11:40, I left without saying goodbye to run towards my midnight kiss, and made it just in time. I'm not sure if you got a midnight kiss.
I hope you did, under the fireworks. But something about you makes me feel like you didn't deserve one. You looked like trouble. But I don't know anything about you except that you said you were twenty one which I'm almost sure was a lie, off about five years, give or take.
Our meeting was brief and both pleasant and bizarre.
The fact that we met in Louisiana was a lucky happenstance.
I'm not sure if I'd even say lucky. Our chance meeting has had no true effect on me, except perhaps, maybe next time I pull out the salt from the top shelf of my pantry, I'll think of you and smile in that weird sinister way you do.

January 3rd, 2017
9:05 pm**
I was closing the coffee shop after a long downtempo day. I had almost everything done when my boss texted saying he had some things to do, and that he'd be there soon. He told me he brought a friend, named Elif (which I later secretly googled in the office to learn the origin of) that he would like me to meet. "You'll like her."
And I think I have just laid eyes on possibly the most beautiful girl I've ever seen.
I shielded my irritated pink eye behind my hair, along with rosy cheeks at the sight of her.
There she stood, tanned skin, long brown hair with blonde tips, a soft smile, softer brown eyes, natural thick eyebrows, a septum ring, green socks over stockings with flats, a mustard yellow cardigan, her own handmade crystal beaded bracelets up her arm.
God, where did he find this girl?

He made us lattes, and we talked about my tattoo that she inquired about, but she'd never heard of Shel Silverstein and I was afraid to make a fool of myself and say something dumb so I kept the explanation short and sweet.
She held a peppermint mocha latte with whipped cream up to her lips and inhaled with a soft smile, and I wish I could've captured that moment forever, it was so sweet and heartwarming, to look at her small figure like her core was gravitating up into the cup, her shoulders right below her ears, her fingers wrapped around the red paper mug.
As he pulled a shot of espresso for me, steaming whole milk even though I mentioned I'd rather almond milk ("it's better for latte art"; showoff) he mocked me for always showing up late, but she thanked me because the way things worked out, he was able to leave early to spend more time with her because of my mistake, and I claimed it was what the universe wanted to happen, and she laughed. And that felt nice, to hear how she laughed.
She was so soft, but also genuinely easy to talk to, and thrilled to talk to me, and she was just so cool. so so cool.
She leaves tomorrow morning to return home to Georgia, not Turkey, like I thought, which we both agreed would have been sad.
I wish I did not get introduced to her the night before she leaves, but I am glad that he knows me well enough to know that I would greatly enjoy her presence, even if only for a short while.

I will add that he had little love marks on his throat, I'm sure which were from her, and that makes me very very happy to know that he has found someone that I think is almost as interesting and dynamic as he is.

I hope to see her again. She said she'd make me a crystal bracelet and gave me her email.
Maybe one day I could email her and maybe if I ever happened to end up in Georgia, or her, back here, we could have a cup of coffee together and I could read her The Light in The Attic.

Fly here. Tonight.
We can score six grams of blow
book a hotel room,
order hookers and room service.

We could chain smoke
cigarettes out the window
and **** on the floor
'til the cows come home.

Live a little. I'm sick and tired
of this, day
after day. I'm so bored
and I'm finished my therapy.

Dreaming of Chateauneuf-du-Pape.
The wine is cheap, but sweet,
and fast. My eyes see stars
in the tiny kitchen, floating
over the microwave oven, I'm eating
Brie on crackers, alone— wearing
a Christmas jumper. Drunk.
I'm not looking for anyone to love
all I'm searching for is self love.
I'm hunting enjoyment of my own company.
I'm not a monster, for once, the self
loathing dissipates into laughter.
It's Christmas. I'm learning to be happy
I'm learning to drink six euro
2015
Cuvée Réserve; singing Sinatra
and smoking rolled cigarettes.

The night is cold. November tends to be.
I tend to burn out quick.
Those talks all sound the same to me.
They tend to make me sick.
So I spit up a few fake goodbyes
and glide through doorways, out of sight
               to find
I've got a bag to grip again.

These sips don't go down easily,
like back when we were kids
spending neon nights together
and pretending to shed skins.
               No,
they hit like bitter fists now;
no new memories, just bruised skin.
          Once again--

   it aches after they leave.

And all the ways they always find
to always leave you far behind
will never fade from memory
no matter how far your way winds.
The faces change, but not the times.
               They've gone.

          Again, you circle back.

The walk home's cold like two-thousand-and-twelve,
when I fled from myself--
from ghost of future Christmas me,
past "CLOSED" signs, beneath bells
in the churchyard. Wanna ring my neck?
'Cuz--cuss me, Father--I am wrecked.
               And I
can feel them sneer on the way out.

These sips won't stay down easily,
like when you were a kid.
Tonight, they tasted bitter.
Bitter wind chews wrinkling skin.
                 With
the feeling rising fast now
through your guts: they're not your friends.
               Once again,

      it burns when you exhale.

And all the ways the always found--
deflate, un-name you, pitch you out--
will always chase you doggedly,
however deep you dig you down
into the ******* frozen ground.
               You know...

   And they know that you do.

Half of the time we are silent.




I see the tip of your tattoo--the head of an eagle
at the nape of your neck below the delicate loops of a
thin silver chain -
and the thing about skin is that is whispers and pleads
to be seen or stung or washed

to be photographed, of course
mountains and valley exist on more
than one visceral plain, the earth comes
on more than one planet, one grain, we know.

That scientific studies show water to seek
the lowest point,
the lilac crest, the thoraclumbor fascia
(are we water? are you water? am I water?)
a percentage of it is water and the rest is
heart, the rest is soul

go stand beneath the water
and take your shirt off, take
your shirt off, gentle so that
the muscle doesn't stir, so
that you feel every inch of
cloth that doesn't belong
so that you don't see me
behind the lens
so that I don't
ruin what
good can
come of
being
naked.

It was only partly cloudy when we showed up to the dance.
Polished, striding slick in all our style.
Lucky buckeyes stashed in pockets,
rabbits' feet clutched in our hands
          we marched up to that fancy fence
                             and asked,
          "When does the fun begin?"

It had only started raining when our escort let us past
the gate and led us on toward the door.
But I tripped on my own shoelace,
fell behind and watched you pass.
          Your smile turned to sour salt
                             and ash.
          You looked back and you laughed.

Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
                         'Cuz the rain is getting thick
                                                                   now
                        and this scene is getting sick.

                               Wretch me up.
               Soak me down right to the quick.

                     Thought somehow it could be saved.
                     Preserved or salvaged from decay.
                     Decidedly unjustified to chance.

                     But I bought these fancy shoes
                     with my last dime, got all these moves.
                     So waltz me off, stage right, with all the
                                             other trash.

The door was swinging inward, blocking your form from my view,
closing to a slant of yellow light.
Windows brightened golden inside;
out here ink night, black and blue.
          I saw you next through window panes
                             as you          
          cavorted with the lords.

The rainwater's slashing downward, raging cold against this face.
Curse escapes through blunted, yellow teeth.
Among finery you are dancing.
Here, I shiver in drenched rags.
          luck charms fell from fingers to
                             the dregs.
           When does the fun begin?

Count your friends up, count your digits
and your achy, sagging limbs.
Make sure none of them are missing
before you try to go swim.
                         'Cuz the rain is getting thick
                                                                   now
                        and this scene is getting sick.

                           Wretch me up.
             Soak me down right to the quick.

We scrawled out this stupid story
'til the pens fell from our hands--
'til exclamation points were
               dented,
              bent and
                  rent;
until we'd asked,
             "What's the final tally, mate?"

                       Now,
this bad and greasy hair
is hanging low over this face.
This ******, used up body droops
and slouches toward its age...

And the rain is like no bitter ex's invectives
ever taste.

               What's the final tally, mate?

A few floors up.
The doors slid closed
and stayed shut.

We could have ascended forever,
or seconds. You were so pretty.
Looked at me from under your lashes,

smiled and I was transfixed.
We stopped at every floor.
You could have got off

but you lingered. The smell of you
filled the small space
and we kept climbing.

The higher we went
the harder it was
to say anything.

Too afraid to speak. Too vulnerable.
Strung up by thoughts of other people.
Then the bell rang and you got off.

Goodbye then, I should have
asked you to stay but you would
have gone anyway.

The fog unrolls itself from hill to tarmac
like winter blinds. It sinks behind hedges
and hovers, hawk-like, over the canal.

A streetlight winks from the path,
muffled by ***** white like a child
smothered in his new winter coat.

The trees have given up for the year
leaving mushy browns and crisp yellows,
sweet damp smell pushed up noses.

Morrison’s is open till ten now.
Piles of pumpkins watch in sorrow,
waiting for homes next to plastic spiders.

Trying to fill
a gap. Those moments
we had were all meaningless.
You don't miss me, you don't ever
try and see me,
it's insulting. You know,
I have boys that never stop calling,
fall
all over me. Ones I don't love,
just love their company.
Like to tell them eat their dindins,
worry for them when they say
they've been two days
without eating and that they
owe two
grand tick to the white man.
Laugh at their jokes, we're
best friends,
they tell me I'm cool and I know
it's true, boosts my ego,
makes me sad,
hold my hand it's the same
way you crack me in two.