fast forward three years
you're living on the coast binding books and your hips together
and i'm still in the small town that turned me into a sinkhole
you got out though, huh? you got out just fine, you have always been stronger than me
you have always been able to get well and get up without anyone bringing you bouquets of hands

you sit down to explain to her that love has made you reckless, that too many people
have been easygoing with your heart; let it cross the streets alone.
drunkenly leaving it in cabs in other countries
so for a while there you weren't sure who to give it to

my dear, I know now that you were never a hotel I could check in and check out of
you were in the best way possible, the mental hospital,
the time I woke up with nobody but the voices in my head (they were all yours)
(I couldn't leave until I got better)

you tell her you fell in love with a girl who never burned your letters,
who showed love in all the wrong ways, never picked up the phone, "honey", you'd say,
"she was nothing like you" ... "kept her hair light to contradict the dark inside of her,
didn't trust anyone to blindfold her and walk her down the street"
you try to tell her my name, but you can't
you can't remember what they call me, call me, call me,
I never picked up the phone

fast forward three years
you're living on the coast making love and mixed drinks a little too strong
and i'm buried near the sinkhole in town, next to the dog my dad kicked a little too hard
out the door of the house he lived in with my mother
i've got your name tattooed on my neck

he thinks that i have found you
when my eyes meet his

he thinks i have fallen in love with you
when i tell him
i'm falling

he thinks he meets your eyes
when he looks at himself
in the mirror
smiling
looking over his shoulder at me
pretending to be sleeping

he thinks i hold your hand
when i am holding his
and that you kiss it
in the moment he presses his lips
to my skin

how do i tell him
that he isn't you
the one with ink staining his fingertips
holding me
his books
torn
underlined paragraphs
falling apart
on my lap

how do i tell him
that the butterflies i have
when i see him
are for him
but not for you

how do i tell him
that his love
beautiful
is not mine
and the heart
he thinks
i hold
is the one i slipped back into his chest
while he was sleeping..

There are many things I can tell you, and many things I cannot.
The amount of battles I've won is much less than the ones I've fought.
But I've got lots of knowledge buried inside my skull
Some of which is morbid, but most of which is dull.

I can tell you how to sweep the kitchen floor without leaving behind crumbs,
I can tell you how to twist a doorknob without using your thumbs.
I can tell you how to get to Union Station from the West-bound train,
I can teach you different pranks that will drive your brother insane.

I can tell you how to sear small burns into your delicate skin,
I can name you all the different pills that will make you thin.
I can tell you how to hurt yourself in places no one will find,
I can tell you how to arrange your coke into a perfect line.

But there are things I cannot say, for I have not discovered:
How to find hope, how to be kind, or how to be a lover.
I'm still learning how to drive my car in standard,
And I'm still trying to figure out how to behave in a polite manner.

Every day I learn, and every day I fail
But my burning desire for growth will always prevail.

Because although I am destructive and ill and cold
And though I am young and foolish and bold
I am still looking forward to what the future will hold
Because there are many things I can tell you, and many things to be told.

i don't need photos to
remember you;
you are burned
onto my
heart

seconds tick by as angry faces look back in disgust
a smile passes over my lips as we all know nothing can be done
this is life in the corrections institution
while I leave at 5 o’clock each day to go home, we share these hours
quiet hostility
combined with the occasional splash of regret
this, however, is usually passed off as an illness
and they go back to their cells, or as I refer to them “their hotel rooms”
as an instructor, the anger is not directed at me
but instead pours out whenever the officers walk by
leaving me to wonder about the reality of after-hours treatment
I sit in a swivel chair watching light bulbs flash into existence
awareness coming into the life of a ‘lifer’
the realization that they too can be more than they imagined
better than they thought
different than the image the department of corrections would have the world believe
proud of themselves I sit humbled
watching the embracing of an experience
and the acceptance of something other than
what their parents, teachers,
and society
told them they were

I wish I found you before your first rolled 5 dollar bill
your vertebrae goes viral into a double helical spiral.
acid dripping from your spinal— tap.
tap. tap. tap.
i am knocking on your door.
"must i never see your youth again?
just live this age still useless."


you're calm but

your mind is ruthless.

Oh, come to me in dreams, my love!
   I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
   And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.

’Twas thus, as ancient fables tell,
   Love visited a Grecian maid,
Till she disturbed the sacred spell,
   And woke to find her hopes betrayed.

But gentle sleep shall veil my sight,
   And Psyche’s lamp shall darkling be,
When, in the visions of the night,
   Thou dost renew thy vows to me.

Then come to me in dreams, my love,
   I will not ask a dearer bliss;
Come with the starry beams, my love,
   And press mine eyelids with thy kiss.