Snapchat me at 11 pm
Are you drunk for courage or for remission?

"I like you"
"You're beautiful"
"I want to *******"
You say, "call me" and we talk until 3am because I think I like you too and mostly because I know, we know, we're both so lonely.

It seems like you only talk to me when you're drunk but my mind tells me it's better than being ignored, like after Halloween when you couldn’t look me in the eyes. I thought it was the kiss and I still don't know if you remember or if you just pretended to forget. I remember, because you don't forget cinnamon liquor - like your skin, warm and bright.

I left town last week and you snapchatted me saying you missed me, at 3am again, in my new bed. You're leaving in August and I'm scared. Because I'll miss you too.

I just wanted to take time to say, thanks you. It means a lot to know you guys would take times out of your lives to listen to me rant and complain about how broken society can be and about broken relationships and other random things. So I just want to say thank you a lot. It means a lot. Just know life gets better and you may think life is very hard but it gets better. I have a friend I've known for almost a year now who helped me learn that life gets better. This is also to thank her. She showed me that being okay includes not ditching everyone and that nobody is perfect. I noticed that people are actually perfect. They all are made up of billions of cells. Each cell making a very unique human. No humans act completly the same. Nor do humans completly understand each other's emotions, or even at the very least there own. Nobody knows theme selves. Well anyways, thank you guys. Again life WILL get better! ❤️

When you told me I was doing great for a woman my size, I passed you off and told myself that "compliment" had good intentions.
When you called me sweet cheeks I ignored you. A woman like me is used to men like you.
When you told me the stair master made my *** look bangin, I was both honored and appalled.  My *** may be my greatest feature but ****** comments have their place and the gym is not one of them.
When you asked me for my number, you were rude, acting in a way in which no gentleman should act. I told you no. And I meant no.
When you called me a ***** loud enough for the whole gym to hear, you were only making yourself look bad.
When you came up and wrapped your arm around my shoulder and told me you were going to take me out for a good time on friday night, I was terrified and suddenly praying for a **** whistle.
When you insisted I promptly informed you I was lesbian, and to let you down gently, not my type.
When you called me a **** I took no offense, that word has become meaningless. Then you told me it must be a phase, that I just hadn't been with a man like you. That you could change me.
When you said "hop on this **** ****" I was done with your games. I pushed you aside and when you ****** my shoulder back you were the one to end up with their *** on the ground.
Dear namless man at the gym,
When you said you could help me through my phase, you were wrong. Being gay is not my phase. Being straight was.

in the penguins luck the furnace begins
at reprograming the news. Picture frames on 2 x 4s , three
photographs and glass bottles in the most decadent of matrimonies.
Three-hundred million dollars.
And the race riots show 'em who'll take the dampit from the mound of
Soot stained elements, canvas, trash bags, electric guitar riffs, giraffes, bingo, the drip-drop on the drop cloth. Easing into the new processor.

She who settles the wages of crickets with ether and single-barrel vanilla buckshot and maple. Incisors and cynical stereotypecastes and the shadows of the other mugged and loose canonical charades the worser and worsening play their ad keywords at in the sketchmakers many movements her dactyls fine and her fingertips many. Sweet lines of breathing and setting.