Calories.
When I was 6 years old,
my mother told me I would consume
too many calories.
I would consume them by the hundreds,
by the thousands.
I was Godzilla and they were the people I dominated.
When my parents left one another
I had to fill myself with some other source of affection.
And the insulin rushes were tremendous.
When I was 11,
I had to see the doctor to be in fear of getting Diabetes,
and being grossly overweight.
At at age of 15, I was over 280 pounds
of walking disappointments.
I had always believed my stomach carried my happiness
and the fat under my chin kept my head high.
But after being rejected for so long,
I snapped.
I always had an attachment to food,
a sort of inseperable bond.
But I remember looking at myself in the mirror one night,
completely disgusted, tears welling in my eyes,
and I puked from the anger I felt inside of me.
So don't tell me the calories I consume today
don't burn more
than the bleach Amanda Todd drank,
or that the more hollow my stomach becomes,
I am not able to better hide my sorrows.
Do not dare tell me eat something,
because I've craved biting the bullet for the past 8
******* years, and carbohydrates
has caused more sadness in my heart than anything else.

Do not tell me other teenagers do not cut open their arms,
to let calories out,
because they are scared to Christ that someone may judge them,
if they eat an apple.
Because the first woman that ate an apple, ****** humankind.
And by having a sip of your Iced Tea,
or a french fry, might just dissolve the earth from beneath us.
Why we hide from nutrition labels,
and run from anything with a number greater than
ZERO
on it.

I was taught that happiness comes from a nutrition label,
and how many servings one consumes,
not the smile on ones face,
or the good in one's heart.

Calories have ruined my life,
and I will never forgive any nutrition label for that.

“I have my mother’s mouth and my father’s eyes;
on my face they are
still together.”

-Warsan Shire

You are still outside
of the roadside convenience stand
offering apathy
for a price
the tag for clearing bad memories
can be considered expensive
smearing everything in view
the confusion is
narcotic
getting hooked is like fishing down
at the pier
the pier you have thought of
throwing yourself over
time and time again
the clockwork is a revolving temptation
that reminds you
your days are numbered
and you’re not very good at math
so dig the change out of your pockets
scavenging for a fix
throw away the receipt
and pick up your feet because
“I’m giving up” isn’t worth it’s 4 syllables
so sell it
and purchase
“I’m not done yet.”

She reminds him of his favorite novel; the way
her spine cracks under his fingers
erratic in the notion of love
He swears he has never been so deeply in love
and that the way her eyes light up when she
smiles reminds him of the parts of himself he loves
No more does he avoid the mirrors in his house
ominous of the future she one day tells him
there won’t be one
There isn’t any air for him to breathe
he swears she was the last molecule of
oxygen to pass through his lungs he is
unsure of whether he can
go through a day without writing about her
his fingers bleed all the reasons
there isn’t anything to bring back his smile
Ostracized from her palms, he
forgets the way he laughter could melt his heart
He swallows liquor in an effort to remind himself he isn’t
insane but simply lost amongst a
multitude of fishes in a vast sea
So deep he could never reach the bottom
intricately designed so he is never able to reach the surface
neurotic in his decisions he
curses to the moon , wondering if he will
ever forget about the writing he scrawled onto her body with his finger tips.

Dear Darling, I have been haunted too many nights
By the cries and screams of those
That closely resemble myself.
Their pitch pulls at my fibers,
Slices my arteries, and beats on my ear drums.
I wake up in a cold sweat, with the fear of God in me every night.

Dear Darling,
These scars are leakage of my fears.
My blood is poisoned with the idea of regret.
Sadness encompasses and clouds my thoughts,
Creating a pessimistic view on positive situations.
Numbness pains my core, and spreads through my veins
As a cold slush.

Dear Darling,
I have not slept a full night’s sleep in over 8 years.
I am not scared of no beast,
Nor animal,
Nor man.

Dear Darling,
These monsters inhabit my mind,
and plagues my eyes with sights ungodly even for the wicked.
They close my throat,
And guide the blade to my arms.

Dear Darling,
They have stolen my sanity,
And I am in fear of what they may soon accomplish.
I don’t remember how these scars have gotten here,
But they cause my hands to shake,
and my knees to collapse
as I guide my finger tips over the scars.

Dear Darling,
Save me.

And as the stars themselves
keeled over
and spewed forth
innocuous belligerence,
the high
and wicked
and genius
and lonely
chewed on the butts of cigarettes teething their aching egotistical gums and the wind swept
through the gaps of their ribs
and it reminded our unholy entity
of wind chimes.

"You're so much more to me than you may think."

It caused that pit,
in between my rib cage,
to split, and pour out reasons why I'm a mistake,

You classified our argument as a falling out,
but in fact I began to fall for you,
and the pavement of your harsh reality,
broke my fall,
and crushed every bone in my body.

So how can anybody expect me to be preoccupied
with the idea of evolution,
when all I wanted was to evolve
into something worth keeping around.

Your eyes devastate me.
They split my veins,
and burn my trachea with all the bitter regrets I hold to myself concerning you.

I wish I could talk to you straight,
but you and I,
we're more alike than I'd prefer to believe.

We both hide behind metaphors,
sarcastic personas.
witty comebacks,
sly sayings,
and smiles that mask our true feelings.

Crunch my toes in an effort to rise to my lips,
steal my breath, and
grasp my waist to keep me from falling.

When you said you could never go anywhere with me emotionally,
it broke me.
That tiny piece of myself I had left,
that sliver of sanity that held onto the idea
that you would stand by my side,
unlike my regretful family,
disregarding family,
and ashamed shadow.

You left as I tripped on my self esteem and pride,
in an attempt to hold your hand in public.

For Christ's sake,
your  lips are the sweetest thing I've tasted,
and I've never enjoyed kissing,
because it's sloppy,
and pointless,
but with you,
your lips are medication that keeps my heart beating.

You were my sunrise,
and sunset,
and I'm sorry if that's corny,
but my harvest clock revolved around you.

I'm sorry I wasn't enough.
Just please ,
please,
Tell me the truth behind your egotistical walls that you bare up in an effort to keep the daring out.

In the 6th grade,
I read a book about a man who climbed Mount Everest,
and I've been dangerously daring ever since.

Let me in,
and kiss me as if you never wanted anything more.

I guess I'm not enough.

When I was 9 years old,
I witnessed a girl with rivers of crimson,
Seeping from her arms.
She had a blood stained sheet,
Tightened around her neck,
As I heard her bloodcurdling screams,
She locked eyes with me.

I felt her eyes.
Dark and cold, and no emotion behind them.

And when I stared in the mirror at 4:38 in the morning.
I felt the same thing.

It has never left me as it has infused into my cells,
And has branded every thought,
Every sense.

I am unsure to be afraid or comforted.

Someone previously described me as damaged,
not broken,
but I have pieces scattered everywhere,
I have carved reasons why I am useless,
I have swallowed for solutions.

I've never felt so alone.
At least I know I am damaged and not broken, right?

Standing at a towerous 6 foot one
I bared the strength of my ancestors.

Tell me how I sweat determination,
Bleed desire
and dream of Success.

I've isolated myself from distractions,
lust, and the sins of this
dredging world.

I bear the weight of the universe,
upon my shoulders,
back strict, and
knees taut.

Yet when I find myself staring into your eyes,
they buckle,
and my throats tightens.

I find myself,
staggering.

She tells me I taste like too many apologies
I remind her I am a notebook full
of archaeological love letters
There is not footnote to this story tale
there is the script and no sequel to follow
I am falling into the well of woe
searching for my fingers
in an effort to assemble them
contorting in such fashion
formatting this jest of speculation
into the peering ideology of self appreciation
She reminds me of the day
she smiled and felt it rattle my bones
I have not ceased to read dictionaries in a n effort
to find the right words to ***** on your shoes
to get you to smile my way once more
she is filling my glass with the words spewing from her lips
and I am drunk on her laughter
ringing in my ears like a telephone calls
from a gravesite
telling me
it’s time to come back

She said my lips reek of nicotine
finding the curvature of them
****** and demanding,
she swore they compelled her for a taste
she swore she loved me
with her fingers crossed
her lips traced my jaw,
marking the incision
I swear the poison seeped into
my jugular
my arteries are corroded
my veins are highways
ridden with ***** needles and broken pipes
my liver left my stuff on the outskirts
of my pancreas
my stomach flipped
and is being strangled by my intestines in an effort
to swallow your goodbye.

I've been stuck in this demonic haze
of a drug addicts dream
I've been living the same nightmare for the
past 17 years and my bones
can't stop creaking
like the door you stormed out of
I've been choking on your name
ever since I first heard it
and my trachea continues to tighten
why would you hold my neck tighter
than my hand
you are the back alley robbery
i can not get enough of
I just want to drown in your ecstasy
until i find my very pores
rushing to the sound of your voice.

The last time I saw her smile
I smelt the turmoil
burdening her shoulders
I tasted the stiff sense of self reliance
and swore the moon swooned at the way her lips curved
Freckles aligning in such a fashion
synonymous with the stars
and I wouldn’t mind piecing together
the constellations on her face if given the chance
Jaw incredulous
surreptitious of individuality
and full of ****
she is archaic for a taste that
won’t leave my mouth
i wouldn’t want her too anyways
if her palms were magnetic
i wouldn’t mind being the tin man
i’d like to record her heart beat
even though I know God is playing it on repeat
I haven’t seen her smile in a while
and I swear the moon sips scotch thinking of it
as if a post card from a time
when the sun would come around for a kiss
or two
she refuses to swallow her pride
shouting obscenities
and she doesn’t realize how much of a different story her eyes will tell
but I will continue to scrawl them onto the walls of my heart
like cave paintings that she will never see
but I can only hope that she
will smile that smile
that I haven’t had the pleasure of basking in for a while now.

I swear ,
I have never meant to hurt you,
But my hands are knives
Unsheathed
And I swear it was
Never my intention
To leave you
But my feet started moving
Before my mouth
Could speak up
Because my voice box
Can’t stand up for itself
Because it’s a paraplegic
And shoelaces tied
Or not,
I will still fall every time I look into your eyes.
Jesus Christ,
My knees buckle more then my belt collection,
And my hands shake more then maracas.
Because when I said you were everything I had,
I sold everything for you.

I am here alive flustering
in the aroma of abusive fathers
abused mothers
of one night stands with someone’s name
you can’t recall
With a cigarette between my teeth
i remind myself
its to kick a bad habit
you are a bad habit
i’ve felt my skin cells relapse
underneath your touch
I’ve felt them sob in sobriety
often found with a glass in
my grasp i continue to
drink my liver
lucid of any transparency
because there are no
stutters in your stride
and no stammers in your sentences
for christs sake
i hear your laughter echoing in the hallways
my ears are bleeding
and my cup has gone dry darling
i can’t seem to stand
because your goodbye knocked out my knee caps
and this sobriety will **** me if I come back.

I miss the nights,
shoulders hunched over the soulless luminescence of a screen,
eager for the tapping of buttons
to proudly displays
imperfect works of art.

For writers are not naysayers,
nor speakers of the truth,
not speakers for the people,
or those that govern the people,
we are individualistic shortcomings ,
aspiring to be wore more than a few syllables,
or a clever punch line.

We are the lonely,
the distraught,
the happy and sad,
we are the people,
for in each of us is a writer,
dying to aspire to more than a few words.

We demand recognition.

We crave love.

But we receive neither,
for here we are at late hours
of the empty dark night,
hunched over the luminescence of a soulless keyboard,
eager to **** the expectations
of anyone aspiring to be more than a few words.

We were a walking cliche,
unoriginal straight from the desires of beauty
to evolve into prosperity
that was doomed from the start.

I went from this awkward mystery,
to a playful, loving,spontaneous boy
that just so happened to say things that at the moment
sounded beautiful,
but beauty isn't always a dull blade and it can
still cut for years on end.

It started with the first letter.
written on a Walgreens card,
and it soon turned to Eskimo kisses, and we'd cuddle,
until it was too hot and sweaty,
and I would write notes, and underline in my favorite novels,
then I'd give them to her to read.
I was never comfortable enough
to eat in front of her because the butterflies
she gave me, filled my stomach.
And when she kissed me,
it often felt like her lips ****** the air out of my lungs,
or punched me in the rib cage, and
I couldn't tell the difference because both would leave me breathless
and in pain.
I'd talk to her in different voices, like
Batman or Count Dracula,
and I'd tickle her and then we'd play fight,
and it was so cliche but I loved it,
and I told myself from the start not to get attached to her,
and I didn't for the longest time,
until one day she looked at me and I knew I had ****** up and
I couldn't just detach myself because sewing yourself
to someone isn't that simple.

****, that was long and unnecessary.

The moral of the story  is,
it was all cliche which made it that much easier
to fall for.

I've tasted you at the bottom of bar glasses
your 'i love yous' reek of cheap scotch
and i am a recovering alcoholic
i refuse to taste the disappointment of your fingertips
you're still swallowing the night that the gun refused to fire
and I swear I can still hear the gun shot ringing in my ears
i wonder if I tied my own self loathing to my ankles if I would still be able to swim
in the ocean that is your love
or what was
There aren't enough narcotics to help me forget about your laugh
911 operators recited your suicide note to me
and I've heard my name enough times to want to drain my body
the bags under my eyes spell out
remorseful
and the tears on your grave aren't mine
but just know im coming home to you

Every morning,
I would sip the wine cupped in your collarbones
drunk on your laughter
stuttering and stammering every time you’d smile
I sit in AA meetings like a child in timeout
waiting for you to tell me it’s time to pick up another glass
I am stuck suffocating on the aroma of all of the skeletons
in my floorboards
they murmur of you with every step I take
it makes me spill the vulgarity sloshing in my cup
and with the whirring of regret in my lungs
choking down the bitterness of your departure
I am reminded that you
are the warning sign on a cup of coffee
scolding hot and irrevocably ****
here to drown out the drought of liability
stuck within my pores.

I’m tired of hearing a ******* metaphor
everywhere I go
Love refuses to be beautiful and classy
she is a seductive ***** in the bathroom
of a doctors office
Happiness does not come in the form of a jar
or a boy
or a girl
happiness is the day when the breeze reminds you of your favorite song
and I don’t even like that song
but I am helplessly in love with you and refuse to believe
that you are incapable of anything better than greatness
so I refuse to stutter or hesitate when saying I love you
because ******* if the breeze speaks louder than me
I wouldn't be surprised if you get up and leave with it
Like I said
Love is a backwash of ******* and codeine
so this voluptuous strut
is more of a drunken slump with a dragging limp
there is nothing beautiful about heartbreak
so put down your ******* cigarettes

I’ve spent so many nights awake
driven by illusive insomnia
speaking to the moon
about his drinking problem
he’s convinced there isn’t one
habitual enthusiast
he calls it
he can’t say it without smiling
he talks about the sun
the way children speak about summer
midwinter
with bloodshot eyes
and a crooked grin
he plays the oceans tides like a piano
another ballad
unheard
he continues playing
long after I’ve fallen asleep
drinking down his pride
he reminds himself
drinks are on me tomorrow night.

she is the apology letter stapled
to the bulletin board of
regrets
that I haven't visited
in months
I have been apologizing
to the sidewalk
with fractured palms
too closely resembling the cracks themselves
i am reminded i won’t be able to hold her
she is the hot potato
i refuse to let go off
and my fingertips haven't
stopped burning
they aren’t enough read receipts
to return this jaw clenching
antagonist of
“what did i get myself into”
and I’m still confused as why I still don’t want to get out
I am doing jumping jacks in a gas chamber
i haven’t slept in days
the bags under my eyes
look just like the ones in your hands
the day you left
and I am reminded you forgot
to take me with you.

The wind reeks of broken words
and shattered promises
my mouth is full of every mirror
I have stared into
I cannot breathe with all of the glass stuck within my lungs
I am drying out the summertime memories
where the breeze didn’t remind me of
burnt photographs
and I am stuck in the subsequential
stutter of a back alley robbery that ends up with me ****** and empty
I am a poem that nobody wishes to read
because my words remind them of obituaries
I am an empty dictionary in which
there aren’t enough side notes in
i am the blank definition
to a smile that tastes like
bad memories
I refuse to add myself to the masses of one night stands
with previous versions of myself
I am tired of sleeping in coffins
or is it just a bed without you
I can’t differentiate between the two
All I am certain of is that
if you were a broken word
I would cut my tongue on your syllables any day of the week.

Fingers like scraped nails bore into my skin,
and while in a breathless attempt to rebut,
I found myself diving into a helpless hole
of madness that revolved around your touch.

While it burned and scraped for the futures promises,
the sweet sizzle and scratching left me craving more,
and I've never really liked long hugs and find myself
attracted to long stares,
because the intensity revolves like a tornado,
and the world is paused,
and Christ you have the most beautiful eyes I have yet to see.

I hate getting sappy, but
I'd love to be your tree.
But with no grounded roots,
and wicked wrangly branches
the stability is unknowingly nowhere to be found.

Sadness is worst than cancer,
for it metastasizes more rapidly than anything
imaginable,
so we must be in Wonderland,
where forever may be simply a second
and each forever fills you up more and more
with the cancer that threatens the life of every burden,
or mistake,
or habit, or anything that in the end is bad for you.

But stand as you are, for comparing you to something is rather
disrespectful
for beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
and I'd rather be blind than not see you once more.

You are my metaphor and my easiest comparison to abstraction.

I've been hiding
behind my shadow
convinced growing up
is just another thing I am
not particularly suited for
responsibility is a lesson
I don’t have the patience to learn
I've been skipping
every assignment handed my way
rolling joints with the eviction notices
and getting high on the worries
blistered on a child of the streets
fingertips;
fingertips that learned to hold onto
objects
tighter than anything that is alive
breathing is an apology you eventually
pay for with your life
so knock a button off your collar
and smoke this with me
as time passes us by
like another bullet that
hasn't hit us
yet.

A soliloquy
scribbled along the margins
of an expired receipt
the iron in our diet
substantiates our sense of humor
because gray and grayer
are two areas we've lived in all of our lives
the city never sleeps
and the streets
it's corroded veins
tainted with drugs
and the people that sell them
we are one and the same
in the deaf eyes of the moon
because excuses fall short
and actions make all of the difference.

They said I was to be found drinking my own insecurities,
drunkard amongst men,
tripping tongue over formalities,
with a baritone greeting and a cup clutched in my talons
I sip and slurp and chug and swallow
the day I was told I was loved
like a child favorite television show,
but even they get tired of the reruns
and I’m constantly found slipping on whether
you meant to stay forever
but lost your way coming back home,
or maybe it was
the goodbye you left me with
that shocked the country into a plummeting recession.
I constantly found you pointing a finger in my direction
for I was the cause of your distress
your lack of trust
I was the handcuffs on a man with no arms
because there were always three fingers pointing back at you.
I took the lead out of the bullet and spent it
scribbling of the way your eyes looked in the moonlight
on bits of paper that I put into bottles
and sling into the ocean.
I doubt anyone will find them,
as the ocean engulfs them, and the depths seem to
sink deeper
as if the remorse plagued on those inscriptions
are the reason for a dwindling ocean life.

walking down back alleys
searching for consolidation
the wanderer takes the streets
the wanderer has no home
he follows the sound of
the deceitful racketeering
of the men sitting on his pride
choking it up
like a funeral service notice
2 weeks after the funeral
with empty pockets
and an emptier stomach
the venture undertook by the the swalloing of pride
every time
compromise finesses
his naive heart
and sun burnt skin
as the moon comes out
to steal our decisiveness.

My fingers,
they tremble.
But no more do they tremor then
my grandmother in her bed,
because the surreptitious secret that is held
in between her legs threatens her every second.
When I was younger I had wished to be an actor,
on a large stage, for when I saw a picture of her in her younger years,
I could have sworn she was in movies.
But now it hits me ,
that the only stage she will ever see
is 4.
And it breaks me,
and cuts holes into my chest,
likes the holes in my closet door from my outlashes.

I wonder if I could have cut holes into my grandfathers chest,
maybe his lungs wouldn't have filled with so much fluid.
And while it causes my hands to tremble,
it causes my lips to quiver,
because maybe if they didn't I would have been able to
put my spoon down.
Maybe the angry neighborhood girl
wouldn't have told me to down another bottles of pills,
but I did because the refrigerator was empty,
and the emptiness in my stomach
had spread to my chest.

I wonder if my cousins would have been nicer.
I always looked up to my father,
so by the time I was in the sixth grade and I could fit into his shirts,
I felt like a man myself.

Don't tell me my grandmother will make it to my graduation,
because she can't even get out of bed.
Don't tell me I didn't get to see my grandfathers face at his open casket,
because of a math test.

Why is it that my father spends more time in front of a television,
than having a conversation with me?
Why is that at 14 I had no place to call home besides
the bottom of a pill bottle?

God tell me,
why my grandmother not make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why doesn't my father remember my birthday?
God tell me,
why didn't my grandfather make it to my birthday?
God tell me,
why had I made it to my birthday,
that my grandfather never got to see me on stage,
because the day of the performance,
he was ashes,
and urns can't make it to performances?

God tell me,
why are my fingers gripping bottles of earthquakes,
and my throat is the pacific ocean?
Are these earthquakes the reason I can not find the courage to speak up
when spoken to?
Why I can't trust pretty girls, because the most beautiful
I've ever seen is laying in a hospital bed?

Health problems run in my family,
and I wonder when I'll be too slow to get away.
Because hide and seek is not just a playground game,
but it is played every day in high school.
And why do those with trembling fingers
find their throats to be the pacific ocean when gripping
bottles of eathquakes,
why do they find their necks perfect to swing by,
why they believe they must be native americans
because every day they open their arms to let the bad spirits out?


God tell me,
when will my fingers stop trembling?

You promised to kiss me at
each stop light we encountered.
Each one.
With each daring red light
we stumbled upon,
you promised to lock lips,
and steal the stumbling words
off of my tongue.
But dear, the drugs I've been taking
has stolen the red lights we came across
for it's kept me up for nights on end,
and stolen my sanity
like an alley robbery,
and theses voices that followed
the influx of serotonin
left me depleted and void
because all I want now
is to come across a red stoplight.
I need a second to breathe,
with the walls closing ,
I'm searching for a door which might as well be the pack of pills
or the touch of your lips
but darling I am a roadrunner and I haven't stopped since
my mother recommended I went for a run,
and my heart weighs me down , and the thoughts cause me to drop
my chin in the face of my father
because when you kissed me the first time,
it hurt more then anything I've ever experienced.

When it comes to negativity,
I never believed it was possible to stop,
so I kept going.

Ever since I was a kid,
my father told me to keep my chin high
and to never waiver or stutter
he then proceeded to ask me if I ever heard a gun hesitated
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
my mother told me to stand up straight
and flowers are the way to a womans heart
she then proceeded to ask me if your murderer would buy you flowers
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
my teacher told me that academics was key
and literature could change the world
she then proceeded to ask me if publishers published suicide notes
they don’t.

Ever since I was a kid,
I told myself to keep my chin high
to never slouch
and to pursue literature like a never ever ending footrace
and when I proceeded to ask myself if living was worth it
the gun wouldn’t fire
I bought myself a rose for each year I’d been alive
and I published my own suicide note.

The voices seem to roar
as a wave of angst
worries to be needle ridden highways
on a side turn on sanity
I wonder if beer can taste of saliva
or we simply kiss these bottles as if they are our lovers
and mishappens escapade and our tongues lie
like rogues and knaves reconnaissance of a time
where love was kept on a locket
in a locker of a suicide note
I wonder if smiles are a backyard gathering associated
with a time when bedtime kisses
didn't reek of alcohol
There is no preacher in the choir
and no smile on a dollar bill
so how many years do we spend
searching for things that aren't there?

I swear,
if you take me for my faults,
etch yours into my flesh and I will wear them proudly,
for I am yours,
even if you are not mine.

Carve your name into my lungs,
so they may expand to display the beauty  of your name,
and in an effort to show the world,
they will bruise my rib cage,
and you may take each of them and throw them away,
for you are my eve;
I could not wish for anyone else.

She kisses me as if I am her prized scotch stained leatherback book
There isn’t enough writing in the lines of my pages
no footnotes in this decree of insanity
repetition throbbing as if asphyxiation is
tattooed across my esophagus
only to resuscitate every apology I’ve choked on
too stuck on the goodbye in between my teeth
she tells me that my spine reminds her
of the ripples in a pond during a year long drought
there isn’t enough water in the shallow puddle of my soul
to pour anything into her cup
she breaks her knees crawling away to another solution for her thirst
she is driving on the highway passing every carcass
of previous versions of herself i fell in love with
i’ve been too busy chewing on her back tires
attempting to slow down the roaring engine
my ears are bleeding from every time
she laughs at another boy’s sense of humor
I am too caught up bringing down the skeletons in my closet
that have decided to hang themselves
their nooses are wrapped in every metaphor I have ever written
she is busy grinding my ego into a line for inhalation
getting high on my fault lines has always been a pastime for her
no baseball archive of happiness in her smile
only the hesitation before every time her lips crease like
a subpoena to an AA meeting that you can never leave
I attempted to soak every “I love you” I have ever dared whisper
into the nape of her neck
a spiraling contusion that is a novelist’s ****** desire
she is choking on every slammed doorway
she never had the courage to walk out of
she dreams of diving off of parking garages
to swim in the lucid concrete
she is convinced she is nothing short of a sore jaw
the bruxism caused from chewing on every
roadside cross written in memory of her
my fingers haven’t stopped bleeding as I continue to try
to fill every ******* scotched stained leatherback book
in the library that is my love for her
so while there may be short infinites
I will  write too many of them for the both of us to count.

I can not help but cringe from your touch,
But who am I to blame?
For after stomping on my assertion,
And spitting on my self esteem,
You left.
Like a whisper in the wind,
And my heart breaks my ribs
With every gentle breeze,
Expecting your return.

When I was at the ripe age of 7 years old,
I grew accustomed to sleeping cold.
The feeling of numbness and it's pins.
I learned my hatred was rather intrinsic.

Don't bother fixing me, it's rather pointless,
A pencil with no point, a coin pouch coinless,
Just don't leave for I may just break,
And I'm rather terrified of the oceans wake,
with the raging sea and chomping sharks,
our power outages with lines aspark.

I've grown rather cold like winter nights,
Feverish children surviving for the fight.

You wonder if she realized how poisonous her palms were
because when cupping your waist
you could feel your heart sitting in your stomach
and every inch of skin she traced seemed to recede into your flesh
There is no cliche
in drunken stammers and 3 am phone calls
where you sob and ***** out your feelings to her voicemail
how you soon learn to recite her quirky voicemail
she refuses to respond
you refuse to look at yourself
every mirror in your house is broken
and your knuckles are ******
but you can't feel them because your chest
is playing hopscotch on a minefield
you soon learn there is no "we" in future
but there are two "u's" there to remind you they'll move on
while you're stuck in the same place
sobriety now becomes a tell tale fable you spew onto your mothers feet
you write suicide notes like they're journal entries
and swallow liqueur like water
you soon learn reality is worse than the nightmares you face each night
every anxiety attack cripples you
tell me how your bathroom floor has been there more for you
than your own best friend
tell me you scribbled her name onto your razor blades
and think of every cut and slash as a kiss from her
you have a cigarette between your fingers at doctors offices
and funerals
tell me how feel so at home
at a funeral
tell me how you've gone window shopping for caskets
and your tears now taste like her favorite alcohol
she refuses to pay you any attention
so with scraped knees
a sore heart
and arms looking like google maps
tell me about how the time you saw her smile
and you knew she'd be the death of you
tell her to write your suicide note for you
because you're too impatient to wait any longer
tell a room full of your closest relatives and friends
you don't want your life anymore
tell yourself it was worth it

These hands ache and cry for your touch.
Nostrils repressed, because I've never smelt
Anything as sweet as you.
I can not taste the food I do not wish to eat,
For it is nothing to your lips.

I hear this dull echo in the pit of my ribs,
Where my heart used to be.
It's gone now,
After you tore it out with your first hello,
Squeezed it with our first kiss,
Soothed it after its over dose,
And crushed with your good bye.

I thought of you when I woke up,
And when I went to bed;
Before and after I brushed my teeth;
Whenever I moved, I thought of you.

That terrified me more then anything I've ever known.

The fact I had become so infatuated with the way you spoke,
Sang, Smelt, Dressed, Drew, Wrote, Laughed, Breathed, Lived, Ate, Smiled, Frowned, Sighed, Twisted, Turned, Loved,
And I know there are millions more of verbs to list
that I had become so infatuated with when it came to you,
but just the warmth that comes from hearing your name is enough to melt the glaciers.

I didn't love you,
But I knew in time I would have.

I’m back here again
at the same keyboard
tapping the same rhythmic keys
playing the music of the memories
I’ve been trying so hard to mute
the words are as reluctant as ever
my tongue trips on itself
catapulting itself into a house built on stilts
so while some stand tall
not all stand strong
be reminded
loneliness is a cruel mistress
with a codependency issue
and the impulsivity in the handwriting
begs for a silence
that speaks louder
than this letter ever could
so I stopped the run on sentences
stopped the paragraphs
burnt every last letter
and started a new story.

the inconsistency in life
is enough to make anyone nauseous
the roller coaster
without any seatbelt
serotonergic and
lucid
the ride is short
and rather disappointing
destiny is for those
that believe their future isn't a choice
it's an assignment
never on time
subpar at best
common sense is scarce
a drought in  unbridled undercurrents
the tide, a tug of war
between the disparaged moon
and lonely depths of the abysmal blue
lost abroad
found wandering the streets at daybreak
following nothing
but the wind
ambidextrously ambitious
and narcotically nostalgic
the passing time fills my veins with
impatience for better times
and better highs.

There aren’t enough stars in the nights sky
to pin each reason for the writing of this
whether its because im stuck in the city
of the stars themselves are twinkling in this bottle of
forgetful recollections
there is no apology after a gunshot
just a ringing
like a telephone call from a place where nothing is heard
no funeral service for the kid thats been walking around in his casket
for the past seventeen years
there are too many paper cuts on my thumbs
whether from love letters or suicide notes,
schrodinger's cat is here to torment us all
I wish an apology was in order
but this was meaning to be written since the first time
I smiled
and felt a crack in the lining of my heart
you dont need to tell me about how my heart feels like
abandoned roadways
that people refuse to drive upon
friendships capsized like the titanic
but there is no piece of wood for me to hold onto
just my own self loathing pulling down my ankles

I am stuck in the moment of time when
air refuses to fill my lungs
it feels a lot like drowning
above water
you see these conundrums
fill my palms like loose change
and I can’t seem to drop enough quarters into
the slot machine that is an attempt
at happiness
my smile put in his 2 weeks
8 years ago
and I’m still stuck waiting by the front door for him to come back
I’m still waiting for you to come back
like a postcard from a place I’ve visited too often
but never had the courage to visit a gift shop
I’ve been screaming at the man in the mirror
telling him to put on a ******* smile
like it’s a halloween costume
he is forced to wear everyday of the year
he can’t stand the arthritis on the clock
much too synonymous with his courage
he hasn’t had the ability to stand up to himself
since the day he fell of his bike
and tasted the burnt rubber on the asphalt
he can hear the earth sobbing to him off how the moon
continues to send him mixed signals
I can’t seem to swallow my pride
so I’ll fill up a bottle and sell it to the highest bidder
as if I am a ******* monument
of ‘ ******* it I should have said something’
There are too many suicide notes stuck on my fingertips
and my piano sounds a lot like a stomach full of butterflies
I can’t seem to differentiate between
mourning and morning
since the day I woke up smelling like a graveyard
9 years ago
I am a funeral soliloquy on repeat
and I can’t stand the ******* roses
and the ******* piano playing the butterflies that should have been dead years ago.

Dear foreign lover of mine
it appears to be that you boarded
the first flight out of this ******* town
and left your bags under my eyes
I can’t seem to keep my head up anymore
with the weight of your burnt bridges
bruising my bones
I’ve been dreaming of you so often
it’s as if you’ve made a contract deal
with my conscience to torment me
in the darkest parts of my mind
For you see, my cheeks have begun to hollow out
without the weight of your name on my tongue no longer
and my tongue, a paint brush
in the monotonous catalog of blank canvases
refuses to add any color to this dreary
schematic on the obstruction of my smile
the velcro has been stitched tight
industrial grade and auctioned off
like a cemetery plot
I’ve been visiting them quite often recently
searching for some sort of comfort
my knees have begun to ache
arthritis on the bearing of the ship
headed straight for the water full of capsized memories
and drug induced hysteria
I am lost in the echo of the clamoring mermaids
chanting your name
and I am simply traveling with forlorn fingertips
and an apology for a shadow.

It is 6:48 P.M.,
and I am absolutely sure of 3 things.
1. It is 6:48 P.M.
2. The ocean is salty,
and 3. You are the most beautiful girl I've ever laid eyes on.*

You asked when I got off work.

So hours later, I found myself,
cuddled in close to a girl I haven't even known for 48 hours,
but felt as if I had known her a lifetime.

The movie was terrible,
like brussel sprouts to a toddler.
But the smell of your skin,
and the warmth of your fingers made me feel
like we were in some cheesy chick flick watching a horrible movie.
We probably were.

I told you I had a secret to tell you,
but instead I kissed you.
And you asked to hear more secrets.

I held your hand tighter then a grenade,
I kissed you harder then I've ever dragged a cigarette.
Your eyes, I swear they melt me.

I've fallen in love with the way you move.
The way you speak,
the way you breathe.
It beautiful in every aspect of the word,
and I'm a little impulsive and have trouble gathering my thoughts together,
and I know I shouldn't do such horrid things,
but they keep me sane,
or at least my belief of sane.
You terrify me with the way you stare at me, and make me feel like I'm worthwhile.
But I'm no different then the horrible movie we watched on a late December night.

You told me you never wanted to go further then just 'company'.
But you claim we were a couple in your head.
And now since I lost my footing when you knocked it out from under me,
I can't seem to stand back up.
So come and join me, because darling,
I've got a countless amount of secrets to tell you.

I’ve tasted death at the bottom of a punch bowl
synonymous with punch lines
bruised knuckles and hypertensive wrists
fingernails apologetic, but are never heard over the roar
of a bright metallic crimson
It reminds me hands are meant for building and destroying
holding and letting go
so tell me why you haven’t cut your fingers off
why haven’t you drank the water in the cup
that is either half full or half empty
when millions are dying of thirst
tell me how you’ve prayed to not become a statistic
tell me just how much of one you’ve become
there are no happy endings at the bottom of a scotch glass
no "I love you" as you are huddled mumbling insanity to the stranger in the mirror
tell me about the stranger in the mirror
there is no solemnity in solitude
only a feeling of the impending car crash of loneliness
I am tired of tasting these jokes that never make me laugh
but leave me bruised and remorseful
I am tired of hearing these ambiguous uncertainties of yours
I am tired of spiking my punch bowl and I hope you are aswell.

I’ve been chewing the asphalt for the past seventeen years
and I can taste every abandoned household
burnt rubber and misogyny
highways make it impossible for roadside conversation
accidents aren’t really accidents
so just know the scars on her arms aren’t from her cat
and alcohol is good at creating new problems
they never tell you in textbooks
that heartbreak hurts a lot more than scraped knees
and that a good bye is never actually a good bye
unless one of you is dead
whether in the grocery store
or on the side of a street,
the next time you see them
you will be reminded why the waves
continue to reach back for the shore
but also why you can never hold water
in your palms for longer than a few moments.

Stuck on the edge of a broken keyboard
typing and telling the stories
that have branded my skin
a different shade of moral
you see where I come from
abandoned alleys speak louder
than the busiest boulevards
people aren’t as friendly
as they seem in the pamphlets
it’s halloween year round
with the masks everyone
hides behind
every honest answer
is cut with a lie
and we have a habit
of getting high
on everyone else’s mistakes
but our own.

Intricate to the point where
elegance is a warning label
as if quality has always been inferred
the simplicity behind it all
could be considered
narcotically nauseating
the roller coaster
is one ridden too many times
the rhythm of the atmosphere
is elusive enough
to distract anybody from reality
and within those moments
you are in another universe
completely.

These monstrous buildings
that loom above us
cast a shadow
similar to an abusive father,
hand cocked back
as if the taste of his palm
will remind those he sways
of metallic bullets
and the forgotten stroll
the ****** streets
stumbling through lifeless puddles
as if a drunken Jesus
and the lonely seek solitude
and crave desire
and the life that fills the morgues
and graveyards
provides enough iron
for the worlds deficiency,
ashing our fingers as
anxious seraphims
pull out our nails
and staple eviction notices to joy
and mercy me
the trees fall to their knees
as if battered toddlers could speak above the screaming silence
at the table
of a broken home.

shes an alcoholic and I'm just another bottle