tracing the words 'already gone' into crumpled up sheets I couldn't find the sanity to wash your forevers out of
spitting up blood yet only tasting your name floating out of everyone's mouths like your name was anything less than holy
kissing every vein down your perfectly pieced body because god took lightning and ran down your skin leaving a road map to guide every blonde haired beauty to a one night hotel called your arms
running my finger tips down every part of your body you finally let the thunderstorms in your head touch long enough to leave a damage that left you on a search for a pain reliever that didn't scream her name

and you clung to me
the way wet jeans
stick to my legs
in hard rain
and we may have well been soaked
because that night
you cried enough tears
to flood this whole town
you cried enough tears
to drowned us both
it's a good thing we float
your heart was a storm
beautiful
mysterious
unpredictable
misunderstood
and let's not forget
potentially destructive
but i didn't care
i wanted to understand
to feel
to devour
every drop of your pain
every ounce of your shame
i wanted to show you
the sun inside you
i wanted to show you
the new day
that's waiting
behind your leaky eyes
and runny nose
and broken soul
but for now
you can cling to me
release you agonies
and i will never
let you think
that you are anything less
then gold
and i will never make you feel
that you are anything less
then whole
and i will never
let you sink
so hold me tight
and don't let go

Love people whose names you aren't afraid to speak at high volumes.
Names that can stain your teeth with melancholy as they paint over laugh lines of euphoria.
Love a name that tells you a story as it rolls off your tongue, syllables as sweet as children in summertime.
What is in a name?
Mothers, fathers, lovers, wanderers.
Love a name worth remembering.

I keep telling myself that if I lay here long enough something's gonna swallow me and it's not because my heads been somewhere else lately it's because I sleep on the floor. Even when I don't. I sleep on the floor. The mattress has holes because mattresses get holes sometimes when you don't have blankets to cover them and you're too cold to put the cigarette out on anything other than yourself or what you have to sleep on now. Last year I'd spend every day in bed with a little bag full of drugs and a map to the bathtub just in case I forget what I took two seconds ago because I think it happened yesterday and I take more. And then I'm shaking, not because I'm cold this time. I'm seizing and nobody is home because everybody leaves me for preachers or church or a campfire or someone prettier. This part is foggy. I remember again a bathtub, an empty hotel bathtub and my mother and I say mama did you leave the door open on purpose and she says I went to church. She went to church. She went to church. Bathtub. I sleep there. Even though we are in a hotel I sleep in the bathtub because I like the way my anxiety sounds when it echoes. I like to hear it. Play it back. Memory. Back to the only house I've ever lived in alone.  I'm seizing. I stop. I hear you. I somehow forget that it's 4 in the morning. It's my birthday now, nobody knows but it's my birthday now, teen years behind me but still a teen year drug addiction and you tell me to look out the window so I do. And the sky's on fire. I don't fall asleep again for three days but the sky's on fire. And so am I. And so are you. And I don't want to go back to the place I go to when I see the faces but I put myself here. I push and push and push and then I act surprised when something falls off the edge. I'm alone now. Even when I'm not. I'm alone.