the old man sits
every Sunday
in a fold up chair
under the blue sky
on the corner of 40th street
by the gas station
he sells the sun
from the back of his van
of oxidized white
and teal pin stripes
and rust under the wheel hubs
while cars buzz around him
and addicts shuffle past
he sits alone
chair and ice chest
on concrete sidewalks
weeds stealing upward
between the cracks
I remember when
a man was murdered
down the street
in broad daylight
on electric avenue
two blocks from where the old man sits
he sells the sun
but nobody seems to stop by
except me
I drive up
every Sunday
he greets me with a smile
he knows my face
he cheerfully walks toward me
paper in hand
keep the change I always say
and he bows, grateful
earnest
he sells the sun
and I imagine I'm the only one
buying

you've been on my mind
with every scratch of lead on paper and ink and ink
cut print moving on
you stay fresh in my brain like a stamp on a postcard
guts and guts and more

yet you learned to fade like they all do
you learned i can only need you for so long and that thought is just desolating
i don't crave your sympathy half as much as i'd like to think

but the nights are getting really ******* cold
and i'm empty the more i push; it's still what i wanted
and what i'm working towards
and what i'm not ever giving up on
no pills will be too tempting to me despite how much i hate myself

there's a fire cracking in my bones
and your smile's not growing

but i'm worthless
and i often wonder if you know the feeling

It's funny how you can live your whole life in the same place and never push forward. You'd think at some point the stillness would start to choke you but really, it's the people. It's you.

You are the problem, you outgrow your family and your friends and your love of watching the sun set rather than rise. You crave new beginnings, one-way train tickets and silence – only silence. Anything louder than the pounding of your heartbeat aggravates the creeping headache that your trusty ******* ibuprofen can't rid you of.

Somewhere along the line, who you are isn't enough.
-
Nursing new habits isn't always a good thing.

Granted, some provide you with a sense of self, a reason to wake up every day for a little while, or at least until the snow melts into the early spring grass. Some habits warm you up like a great big mug of coffee, like your favourite song, like brushing hands with strangers.

Some habits hold you down at 5am when you're still crying. At times it feels so **** good to finally have someone agreeing with you that you don't even mind what it is they're agreeing with. You're two souls in your head, shaking hands on the fact that no one would miss you if you were dead, done, disappeared.

But you don't make plans; don't need 'em. You don't grab a knife or a bottle of pretty white pills, and you don't open your second-story window to crush your skull on the stone-hard January ground. Your hour-long showers aren't ****** razor-blade cover ups. Your long sleeves don't hide scars. On some days, your mother remarks that you look very pale however, and in that moment your ******-up baggy eyes do hide some secret slice of you that you'd rather not share with "the living". The unconditional love makes you feel guilty for all the crying fits, the self-addressed suicide notes and the black black thoughts.

it's the emptiness
it's the hatred that builds up in the creases of your
smile, of the laughter you hide your disgust with

it's the appointments you tear from your organizer
the holes in your stomach
the sunburn on your shoulders; the redness of your nose

it's your incurable phobias
your cut-up legs
your bleeding nose
your teary eyes
your itchy back
your raw skin

swollen lips
bare nails
unkept hair
ugly voice
tiredness

why the ****'d you think spring would fix you?

i want to burn like mad
or beg, if that helps any

i miss having dreams where somebody takes my hand
and makes me believe in love again
lately the only dreams i've had were plagued with
dead romances
or worse, none at all

i feel throbbing in me
like i could give up on my heart finally and let it go
and what fun would that be?