Twenty-one years of what exactly was I taught? I believed you two to be super heroes, or so I thought. Turned seventeen realized life's nothing but a thought.
I'm thinking I'm alive, but really I'm not.
I saw past materialism, chose to sin.
Now I hope I can be forgiven, look into the mirror I'm afraid of my reflection.
I'm not who I was.
I'm not where I am.
I don't know who I am.
I can't find where to stand.
     Miss the days when blankets were stronger than Fort Knox, and money had one meaning: to buy train stations, and  the chances we took were cards in a box and we didn't use our cars to hotbox but we matched a lot.
While momma was tryin' to teach me don't monopolize the TV that's just greedy. Noweverydaygoesbyspeedy and I don't have an effort to make myself peace treaties stuck in my self pity, wallowing like a wallaby with abstract gynecology Twitter-less no one follows me I hate my top eight. I've ruined the recipe but I still eat this teaming plate so I'm just left with a bitter taste.

We are purposed beyond ourselves

To know and to love,

But first we must understand

The eyes with which we see.

Teach her not feminism
but femininity

for as she finds herself
only then,
rapt in purpose

she will know
what is worth fighting for

she’s out there on the ice again.
holy night &
positioning the gas-tanks just right.

joseph is her father, and his father,
even if not by blood,
raised flame.

foot to throat, brother remains
in the city working.
he is building a rocketship
in the basement of his apartment
complex.

back to town and dying houses.
foreclosures and fences.
lake of fire.

lights: she lingers in lights.
something so true and alive about the revelatory
of color,
of the world when lit and hit by sun
or our artifice.

her lovers: one dead by heavy
lumber, the other rewinding videotapes
in chasms of the library.
she thinks on his lips.

her dog tracks wet prints
across the carpet and floors.

wish list:
        mittens
        huckleberry jam
        iphone solar charger
        explosives

Depression, a strange yet comforting company.

It seems i have a distorted way of thinking.
No matter how badly i want to be worthy of love,
I just feel so ******* worthless.
I probably am, since you broke me.
I've been trying to be who i was before you tore my heart out of my chest.
But i'm too far gone, past the point of just a mess.
Am i even a person anymore?
I guess biologically speaking, but the depth of my mind is withering away.
No longer caring about the fabric of my own existence.
Instead of my former seemingly carefree days,
I've been going through periods of pure nothingness, wanting to wish myself out of existence.
Periods of pure agony, and crushing grief.
Moments of immense regret.
And times of unspeakable anger.
All the good is being ****** out of me.
Maybe i never had any of my own.
Maybe i was just borrowing theirs.
I know i need a savior.
But it's probably not part of my fate.
I know, i'm always too late.
I just wish i could change my fate.
Or even just have a happy couple of days.
Why does it always have to be about love?
I guess i should have learned to love myself, back when i was almost enough.