A
Alex;
the boyfriend you had while I loved you.
Acid;
can I lend you 20 for some acid?
no. not even as you glint your eyes at me, no.
Anger;
with your family,
mentally ill sister and young parents
who don’t know how to deal with your
flickered drug habit
Attention;
what you don’t get enough of
and what you get too much of
B
*******;
yours are defining
cutting shirts into movements
your least favorite feature,
you always wished for my small peaks
but you have to learn the beauty of your own.
Blunt wraps;
you used an elementary school photo
of a black girl,
her cornrows burnt away that morning
C
Czajka;
chai-kah,
your name has always been a knife to me,
for the first month I knew you
I stumbled on the Polish of your mother’s maiden name.
Sha-jaka?
Calls;
I got a call every morning and every night from you,
so when I found out you didn’t love  me
those hours we spent
backing out the night sky
fell seamlessly away into phone bills.
Comfort;
your shaggy carpet
and ***** underwear
and peanut butter sandwiches
we were crescents together
I told you stories about the time I **** my pants
and you told me stories about how you peed behind the couch
and we were safe
under the lemon light of your room
Coy;
you are that to me,
not a tease but the sound of a wine glass in a sharp nailed hand
coy and subtle and pursed lips
E
Ex;
we are ex-never lovers
and ex-sweaty hand holders

F
Fragment;
you left me with your shards of light,
heavy sweaters and lip stains,
poetry books and fliers,
condoms and socks,
a bike lock and nail polish
H
Hair;
you ripped the hair out of my brushes
to keep in jars in your room,
Hair;
sharp and golden
tinted green at the bottoms,
flat on your head.
L
Lombard;
you live across town
and I spent days with you
listening to your iPod
stripped and full of Chinese food,
legs curled and stuck together
Love;
the only thing between us
was a blue light from a cell phone
N
Naked;
we have seen each other
husk and chicken skin,
only socks and earrings
or when I showered in front of you
***** hair rustling
you asked me why I fell in love with you.
P
Poem;
you read my first love poem to you and you cried at your desk
and I blushed and knew that you never loved me
I performed it that same day
and waited for you to hear me
but you didn’t come
and I don’t think you wanted to anyway.
S
Still;
sometimes i think
i still love you,
that dripping seed i felt for you
is hidden behind calling you crazy.
calling you ***** haired,
calling you nicotine-addicted
Smell;
it smells like Abby,
my cheeks rush and you must’ve been there
because it is just you in this room
Shoplifting;
you do it every time I am with you,
and I am guilty for the both of us
when I tried it for the first time
my fingers shook
and you bit your fingernail and laughed
and now I have a lipstain I think looks awful on me
and I am still guilty for the both of us
T
Tattoo;
you have an eye on your hip bone,
a quick decision that you will probably regret in a year
but I love it for now
V
*****;
the first time i got drunk was with you,
***** lemonade,
basement slurs
and it was disgusting
and I loved you
*****;
you threw up in the Salernos parking lot
on the corner of Fillmore and Home,
and in the back of Cal’s car
Virginity;
you lost your virginity to David
and you said it was just *** to both of you
and I didn’t believe you
and you fell in love with him
and cried when it really was just ***

Someone in a dream gave me a gun.
Five seconds, a dog, and a man.
Asked me to shoot either the man or the dog.
I shot the dog, paws nestling on my knees.

When I walk at night,
my mom tells me to watch for strange men.
Sometimes, I come across a dog,
paws wet with snow,
the man yielding it lurching back.
Men do not love easy like dogs do.
They have their standards, or their mothers,
but dogs only need five seconds.

One mile deep,
he says.
It could be 100 miles deep,
and I would still want to jump,
feel how rose rocks kiss ripped skin.
While my uncle suffers from vertigo,
we look over the edge,
and I must be the only one thinking
how god loves these ridges
and how he seems to ignore me.
I am trapped behind national park barriers
and the canyon stays untouched.
Falling as deep as it wants to.

My mom helps her best friend dump her mother's ashes in Lake Michigan.
She tells my mom how quickly this came.
How young she was.
When my mom gets home,
she tells me the air whipped the burnt body
takes a drag of her cigarette,
flicks the flame off her lips,
tells me she hopes to never get so old people are relieved when she dies.

I steal my mom's Reds.
Sit on the porch and pretend to be her.
It makes it easy that I have her nose.
I imagine dumping my mothers ashes into Lake Michigan when I am her age.
In my mind,
she is not burnt young, or hoping, or 54 years old,
her ashes tumble into the dark with the rest of the mothers
who's daughters sit on porches
taking their ashes and their stains with them.