Break the window,
fake the claim,
run away and,
start the game.

Call the cops,
take my name,
look me in the eye,
and win the game.

Smoke will never help forget,
but, taken back a single lapse,
can make a mist, turn you black
rewrite the story: that and that.

I wrote a letter to you today;
burned it and my thoughts away.
I coughed and coughed and stole the rain,
a few more and I'll win the game

Coughed again, one more time
stole the clothes all strewn the floor,
stole the clothes, yours and mine
a little less now, for a little more.

Try and try
to play the game
of memory
to lose the pain.

Bring it back.
Never now.
Never then.
Never how?

Took one more for just-in-case.
Took one more and forgot the place
we met, we kissed, we fought our first
we laughed, we cried, we saw it burst.

Forget the burst, it's the game.
The smiles, the tears: both are pain.
And so I cough again and smile
and make it feel a long long while

Memory is a game
I lost
long ago.

So tell me
your
story,
your tale of
woe.

"A face
unmatched
with any name;
a scent of
years
in history;
a scene
I once
consumed with eyes,
a scene fades in,
then
slowly dies."

Memory is
a game
that
no one wins.
And everyone loses,
loses
in time.

I kissed a woman today
for nine hours.

It felt
like nine seconds.

Who knew a bandage
could feel this
good
being ripped off?

I smiled at the moon
for the first
time
in two months.

Laughter led to sleep.
Lips led to hips.

I read her like a book,
and highlighted
all the best parts
for later.

When will I sleep again?
Why do I dream of Them?
Why can I feel Their grin?
Bless Them,
for They have sinned.

To an Alice that could've been: I toy with the idea of future memories, contingent to past moments. Let's pretend it fades in from white. Now, there she is, summer dress flopping up and down on the trampoline like the opening and closing of a sunflower umbrella. She is a chronic smiler. And when her mouth isn't smiling, you can bet her eyes surely are. Or maybe her 4-year-old dimples. Anyhow, you can always be sure to find it buried in some characteristic of that face so round from laughing and so familiar to her mother. She charms, she brings joy, she shows the love of love. She makes the moon shine and my sun rise.

To a Dakota that could've been: The fading once again comes to clarity. There he is. In some statement of fashion not yet fit for an eighth grader. He doesn't care. He would if his father didn't wear it. Look at him: screaming at his mom for space, for some angsty, undefined sense of freedom and individuality. He's inherited more than the tie clip.

To a Becca that could've been: You always were and always will be. There is no fading for you, only a dramatic finish: the curtains meet in the middle and sway for a few seconds while the audience continues to clap, continues to cry, continues to wait for another Act. There is doubt to whether or not the lights will return or whether the curtains will open again, accompanied by such fanfare as to be sublime.

To a Darko that could've been: Don't wait for me, please. You can truly be fulfilled without me in your life. Don't wait to grow your hair out. Don't wait to try acid for the first time. I won't be there to hold your hand, I won't be there to physically hurt you when you make me feel worthless as a parent, and I surely won't be there when you see your mom cry for the first time. You'll cry too. And I'll know why.

Make me proud, Dakota.
Make me smile, Alice.
Make me remember, Becca.

Make her happy, Darko.

Explain to me,
mother,
why it is that
I can breathe
easier with his hole in my chest?

It is about
time
that I realize
I've done this
to
myself.

It is about
time
that I realize
I
should give up.

The waves crash against my thighs.
The waves crash against my pelvis.
The waves crash against my stomach.
The waves crash against my chest.
H
hA
haR
harD
hardE
hardeR
softeR
softE
sofT
soF
sO
so what? so what if I drown?

Let the reaper eat my stomach contents.
Let Him drink my spinal fluid;
let it trickle down his fleshless chin.

Recycle my eyes so that I may
see.
Recycle my heart so that I may
smile.
Recycle my brain so that I may

forget.

Nothing's funny when you're bleeding.

They have asked me why.
And so I put my knuckles to my chin, my elbow to the hand-carved table, and try to remember how to speak to another human.
I say,

for the trees have no eyes
the wolves have no brows
the stars just but glimmer
the moon only bows

yes, the rocks do not hate
and bugs will plan not
and i can't quite recall
a butterfly ever shot

my horse does not cry
the river carries whim
while birds cannot judge
especially Him

well, the sun only loves
and the music is mine
forever revolving
forever in time

I say,
society gathers in the meadows out there
so why drown in busy despair
a life reflecting not a mirror, but
an image that truly does not care