Headphones and fried food,
metabolisms and ****** moods.
Broken condoms; beer pong,
scraped up knees, rip the ****.
Scratched wrists;
That kiss was more than just a kiss.
Mirrors, scales,
headaches, high heels.
Anti-depressants, cold sores,
***** toe nails, clogged pores.
Bare feet, torn shirts,
sweat covered forehead, short skirts.
Lace bra on the floor,
don't forget to lock the door
Pimples and Prozac;
******* and match making.
You can always tell when she's faking.
Pierced ears, cheap beers,
blow jobs and rich snobs.
To your last family party and first cigarette;
Raspberry tinted ***** and the first name you try to forget.
Stained underwear, tweezers and straightened hair.
Mascara and flat irons,
But in all honesty
What the **** is a flat iron?
To rice cakes and heartaches
Lice and love and public bathrooms.
Undercover cops,
Plan B and mushrooms.
A bruise so sore,
what's there to live for?
Can't have my love, can't have my *****,

what happened to the right to choose?

Here's to pianos.
To uncut toe nails and broken jaws.  
Here's to sweaty palms and fancy door knobs.
The last tissue in the box and third graders who know every single dinosaur.
Here's to prickly legs and furless cats.
Slamming doors and rubbing alcohol.
Fun house mirrors and wet towels.
Here's to the boy with the sweaty armpits,
And the biggest heart in the room.
Here's to all the girls who will never give him a chance
Because his hair is greasy
And he always has pieces of apple stuck in his braces.  
Here's to grandmothers holding their children's babies for the first
And last time.
Here's to six foot tall nine year olds
And acne covered foreheads.
North Ohio and beehives.
Here's to wrinkles and back pain,
And the kids who never change for gym class.
Here's to burnt papers and wrongful convictions.
Faked I love you's and backwards t shirts.
For every broken leg and broken heart,
Seasonal depression and ADD.
For unshaven armpits and ripped jeans.
Frequent showers and twisted ankles.
****** mattresses and forged signatures.
Here's to the things that remind me of you.

You are only as beautiful
As the scent of your soul;
And gasoline can't seem to light any fire
But your own.
Wrapped up in twine tighter then your grip,
Pull the string, I'll spin fast enough to forget your face
Again.
One, two, three spokes and sticks
To scrape the cornea of a third eye,
Barely wide enough to see freckles on your face.
Painting sidewalks red with chalk
To hide blood from Christmas morning,
Ignoring every warning;
Do you think leaves brown and fall to die without a meaning?
Palms up, veins sprawled,
Come inside and prove yourself to the rusted copper sign on my spine,
Warning of a fine line.
Splatter spatter dots and scrapes
On the white wall beneath a triangle window,
Crossing a bridge you swore you'd ignore
Back to the soles of my shoes.
Red white and black or blue,
What's it matter when my bones and blood are no longer bruised.
And it doesn't make sense why we don't hold hands,
And why we can't help singing the words to our least favorite songs.
Today I heard you breathe,
Saw you bleed and slam a fist on the table,
Because for every flower that wilts and dies,
A secret garden dances ballet toward torn petals,
Blooming blue from red.

I saw a boy in maroon pants singing himself hymns

The boy became air and hummed tunes to each daisy

They danced on fathers back, carried away from the grass

The grass not cut since last time the lighthouse illuminated

Light for each flower that rolled fire down the hills

Sixteen cuts and not a drop of blood to prove

Just how strong the neck of a daisy can be.

She's eloquent
and wonderful
and  always manages to be just as beautiful at the crack of dawn.

night chased into day as we watched dawn break upon mating birds
though none were heard
your words echo
from the hollow arches
of my bare feet

It's 7:41 on a Thursday,
she's away at school,
her feet aren't in the country,
she would say I warned you
and he would change the subject.
He can't be bothered,
and he who would move mountains
can't know how high they perch.
He's too high to notice,
and I gave her up to impatience months ago,
trading beer for cigarettes,
even though smoking kills.
He would cry victim,
and be right all along,
while she would smirk silently
and whisper
what goes around comes around.

It's 7:46 on a Thursday,
and your lips are far from mine
but in my mind,
still.
Still there, filled with words like
now
and
trust me, it'll start to feel good soon.

Still there, singing Iron and Wine
with too much soul and not enough rasp.

Still there, chapped and peeling,
blowing smoke in my eyes so I can't quite see.

Still there, asking for another hit,
and apologizing because you hit too hard,
but hit the **** again
because we both know what you really mean
when tension is fire and your fists are the savior
So go for it,
hit again
maybe this time I'll bleed enough for you to notice.

Notice,
notice.

The mix tape I left you has love written all over it,
literally.
Is the birthday card still on your dresser?
Ironic.
My dresser,
your dresser,
your fist,
my nails.
We all seem to have something in common here,
maybe none of us know how
or when
to stop.

Stop.
hit,
ignore,
light up,
fall down,
get high again,
bend over,
trapped under...
this time the answer is

**no.