my body is empty
it is exactly 3 30
i read a happy poem
and i began to cry

the open breeze
from my open bedroom window
stray hairs and i'm cold

but god, it feels good
to feel something other than
the smoke in my eyes.

I think they're playing poker
outside my window
the man in the polo shirt
is yelling about spades
as the little girl dances
in her sweet cotton dress
and the frail woman
finds her way to a cup
for her golden gin

I snap a photo
with my film camera.
in this moment,
everything is perfect.

There are no quiet alternatives to self-harm.
But--
everything that is loud is inherently angry
to me.

self-harm is not inherently angry
i am not
angry.

There are no alternatives to self-harm.
I am sad.
So I listen to Blue Moon
by That *******
named Elvis Presley.

you can lean
on the tennis court fence
and tell me
about your day, your week,
your life.

i can sit
on the tennis court floor
smoking bits
taking petty photos
of the sky,
as you say how bad it is
to be alive.

we'll find
comfort in loneliness
and when we
finally feel okay,
i'll snap
a new photo
of our sky.

the smell of lilacs,
taste of ash,
feeling of closed eyelids
on my weary body.

walking past,
smiling at strangers
as i lose myself
on the street i know best.

hints of heaven,
that's what i need
to keep me from feeling
the hell in me.

in the middle of the street at night, back on pavement
i can't count the stars, the city lights ruined that for me
(but that's is not the point, maybe i'll write about that tomorrow).

i'm here so i can think
similarly to a fire,
the brain needs oxygen otherwise it shuts down
maybe i should rather be giving it water

i carry a cigarette in my jacket pocket, just in case
i have some liquor in my closet, just in case
it is a precaution for the case in which i lie in the street

it is a bit like:
-having your mom on speed dial
-checking your bank account
-getting tested for ******

i used to play this game
as a kid, with my sister
"guess what color i'm thinking of"

she had been guessing for ages
and finally gave up.
"it's sintra"

she told me sintra was not a color
i argued for a bit, saying
"it's indigo but more violet"

"no, it just doesn't exist"
and no, it really doesn't.
my mind invented it

when i met you,
we were sintra
i thought it was real

my mind just. invented it

-how your world turns
-which way your eyes see crimson
-how do your eyes see gold?

-what's your favorite word?
-do you like it for its meaning, or only
for the way it rolls off your tongue?

soft entities
calm as moonless waters
smooth as porcelain
in the palm of a rough hand

a small fixation on lust
and a larger on love,
cold little fairies
shifting at dusk.

lavender skin,
cold little fingers,
leaves of gray,
flowers of light.

"these seats aren't
made for comfort"
the cop tells me
as i buckle the belt

as i sit there,
i see my reflection
in the glass
in front of me
and i hate myself

i wonder if they put
that little bit of glass
in that specific place
for that exact purpose

some people think that
mirrors are a view
into another world,
a parallel universe

i tuck a piece of hair
behind my ear,
look at the glass
and smile.

her.
she was all i cared about.
her big eyes
and little laugh
and the way it felt
to lay close to her
on a saturday night.

the way it felt
to not want to leave
on a sunday morning.

oh,
her.
she moved on
slipped through my
fingertips
beach sand and silk.

they love one another
and god.
let's talk about that.

he looks at her like mad
his eyes speak levels
of love in his heart
and he holds her close
every.
night.

she sits on his lap
and he sings her little songs
while she touches his hair
and his lips.

he was always there,
even when
i was the one musing
into her big eyes.

i stepped outside
for a breath
and walked
seven miles
to her house,
her window, her room,
her heart.

i couldn't speak.
and she asked me
why i was there, and
what happened?

oh,

nothing important.

the human heart
is the size of
a closed fist.
it punches
in my chest,
leaving bruises
on my soul

it beats out the
everylastbit
of love i hold.
show me how
i can ever
set myself free
from the idea
that, i, too
am bitterly alone.

i really need you
  here and now
    to touch the crook
      o f  m y  n e c k .

         you'll feel all
           the little hairs
             standing up.
               my body gives a
                 standing ovation
                   f o r  y o u r  t o u c h .

                      you feel like love
                        all over your body,
                          let me feel it
                            a l l  o v e r  m i n e .

                               melt your love
                                let it wash over me
                                  in the yellow room
                                    as i lie in your bed
                                      i  n e e d  y o u .

the worst part about it
is that she lingers
like a sad sentence
in a car ride argument
that just
hangs in the atmosphere
until you get home.

my mom found a little *** of dirt in my room,
with a dead plant in it.

she somehow found a little leaf on it, still alive
and green in all its glory.

now, determined to keep it alive and growing,
she waters it every day.

the first sip felt warm,
t
  r
   i
    c
     k
      l
       i
        n
         g
    down my throat.
and that night, so did you.
a cordial reminder of your love
for me.
and in your closet, you kissed my lips.
although your breath smelled of *****,
your lips tasted like sweet honey.
i felt like i could stay up all night,
just talking.
kissing.

honey.

and now i sit alone,
reminiscing, perhaps.
the ***** tastes bitter,
and it doesn't feel warm
like it used to.
my eyelashes weigh tons
and my body feels numb.

There are sickly people in this mental ward,
their hearts ablaze and their bodies bruised
their fathers passed, ashtrays well worn

their hearts full of hope, their bodies blue
their mothers lovely, their skin still soft.
There are pretty people in this mental ward.

the first is the old sad looking man
he lives in the group home
i bet he’s supposed to have a walker
perhaps he refuses to use it
his body resembles a skeleton, and
he always goes through the sad park
the one that gives splinters
the one with far too much garbage
he follows the path all day,
usually pacing back and forth
i said hello once,
he did not hear me
(or maybe he just didn’t care)
i always see him, even in the cold
he is the most common of all

then, there is me
(the girl with the short hair)
she goes nowhere in particular
dark clothes, tired gait
i saw her light a cigarette once
although she never put it to her lips
she never really says hello
she just looks at you,
like “what’re you waiting for?”
she walks in the middle of the street
at midnight, all alone
she steals flowers from her neighbor
and carries them away
to the tiny house on the corner

lastly, there's the boy with the bike
he has autism if i remember
alex with the sandy brown hair
blue house, chipped paint
he never wears a helmet
i am curious if his parents mind it
when he leaves the house,
does he tell them he’s going?
he constantly talks to himself
he said hello to me once,
but called me by a name i didn’t recognize
he always bikes in circles
maybe he’s looking for something.

I am here and I am gone.
Sometimes I come in strongly,
sometimes I am nothing more than a whisper.
You see, my life is like a little red radio.
Shifting, yes. Evolving, no.

Stating my momentary pleasures in a hot seat,
moving with a quiet current of low mumbles.
There are numbered stations for my feelings,
controlled by that little red-silver tune dial
that chooses a separate mood for every moment.

Moreover, the volume dial,
telling me when to keep my mouth shut,
to be static in the air that the atmosphere rejects.
and sometimes, making me feel the stations
through a door slam or a "*******."

See, my life is like a little red radio,
always caught in between two stations.

“Do you still want her?”

(I still have a shirt she gave to me
I never wore it, nor washed it.
Yet it still haunts my wardrobe
Because it carries her scent.

She used my cherry chapstick once,
I never let it touch my lips again.
I like to think it’s a kiss to keep,
That I carry with me wherever I go.

I listen to the songs we used to like,
I hear them even more than we ever did.
The melodies remind me of only her,
And words are only ever about sad things.

I trace the lines on my hands sometimes
To think about when she did the same.
There seems to be a crevice in my palm
That has her name boldly engraved.)

“No, I’ve moved on.”

i remember the exact moment i knew i could not love you
but things are much more complicated than that.

igotothecemeteryandplaythisgametotrytoseehowlongittakesformetoima­ginetherottingbodiessixfeetunder

My fish is dying
So is my grandmother
The scales on my fish are falling off
I have had him for so long
I forgot his name

I don’t like to feed my fish
Or go near his tank at all
His tail is torn
I can’t look at it
He is in a lot of pain

(My fish died
I am not sure how to dispose of the body
He was in a lot of pain
I cried by his tank
His scales were falling off)

the meds make it
so hard for me
to focus
on anythi

he lived in the mud house diagonal
with short hair and quiet eyes
he divorced an april
bad intentions with a may
strange relations with a june
july never arrived

did you kiss him?

or did you
hold his wrist
pull him
stepping feet
behind the wall
in your basement?

did you move
so close to
each other
so that you could
feel his breath
in the space
between you?

did you stand
on your tip toes
and let yourself
look into his
dark eyes
like a pretty blouse
in the store window
to his soul?

did you draw close
to his face,
lean in,
tilt your head
ever so slightly,
and let your
lips meet?

did you make me
feel like my heart
dropped into
my stomach,
like my feet
might just
stop moving?

or, did you just
kiss
him