Mine was carbon fiber
with Campagnolo gears
it had ramhorn handlebars
and I rode beyond all fear

Until I hit loose gravel
just around a bend
downhill at full travel
and I went end over end

Now I ride a cruiser
with a basket and a bell
it's got a loose cupholder
and riding uphill is hell

But it gets me where I'm going
and it's healthy for my scars
it makes me feel like I am soaring
when she is on the handlebars

I take my wallet out of my pocket
as I get ready to pull the blanket over me and go to sleep
I take my wallet out of my pocket so that in my sleep
the razor blade I keep inside
for convenience
doesn't slip out and cut me up
more than I would like to be.

I let that little bit of leather rest in my hand
and stare at it in the light from the worn lamp with chipping black paint
that silently stands over my computer monitor
lighting this small corner of the living room
that I live in.

My wallet is lighter
and there is a bulge missing
the bulge that I always kept at the front
in the same slot as my razor
after the string unfurled and my neck started to ache.

Yes, that coin is gone
that little Moroccan good luck charm that you insisted was special
even though there was another handful of identical coins in your cupholder.

It's gone and so are you:
it is no longer rubbing against my thigh as I walk
or hitting that hollow spot in my breast bone every time I take a step
and the line of blisters that formed around it when I got sunburnt while wearing it is gone.

And your words are no longer ringing in my ears
my fingers are no longer aching to tap my thoughts into my phone to you,
I have no tears in my eyes as I set my wallet on the little makeshift table
that my computer monitor rests on,
that your phone would rest on.

I only smile as I look at the string curled around the feet of the clock that you found
on the other side of those boxes
last time you were here.

I smile at the string that once held that coin
that I was considering putting the little plastic coin
painted the color of your car
and carved with the words "Washington's Lottery"
to prove to myself that I am a winner
that I do not lose at every aspect of my life.

But I realized the other day I didn't need to
I didn't need that memory of my success
because I can flip off any car even remotely similar to yours and feel no shame
I can walk down the road and watch you turn around in a parking lot fifty feet in front of me
just to avoid me
and know that I have won freedom
from all the pain you caused me
because these nights I don't have tears frozen  in my eyes
and my legs don't bleed.

I let my wallet rest there in the lamplight
and turn off the lamp.
I pull the comforter over me and wrap myself in that fuzzy blue blanket
that I once said I preferred over you to keep me warm
laughing as the words rolled off my tongue
because we both knew it was a joke.

But it isn't a joke anymore
the prefer the slight warmth that gives me
over the artificial warmth of your skin
since what's hidden because pumps ice through your veins.

I curl up under that blanket in the darkness
on that couch we almost went all the way on
and would have if my aunt hadn't been twenty feet away.
I curl up under that blanket alone
and feel for my now-flat wallet
smiling as my palm rests on the leather
and I remember the bulge that is now on a chain in my sister's bedroom in Sequim.

You have left me
and I'm happy for that.
I bring my arm back to me
and tuck it under my body
smiling because I'm alone
and smiling because being away from you
being rid of you
makes me smile.

spilled butane from a refilled lighter
heat lightning in the humid air
cigarette butts in a ***** cupholder

— not sure if this is still your number. part of me hopes it isn’t.

hand-me-down jeans that don’t fit anymore
bleach fume-induced headaches
burnt plastic setting off the fire alarm

— i’m leaving soon. i won’t promise i’ll be back.

overgrown grass from 8 days of rain
singed skin over a candle’s flame
rotting meat at the bottom a trash can

— death doesn’t discriminate. i know that now.

My fingertips were paper cuts,
when I told you I didn't love you;
you snatched your hand away.

My voice cracked like broken glass,
when I told you I was sorry;
you turned your head away.

The windshield of your car was cracked,
and inside we were shattered.
You said I'd never see you cry;
you lied.

My hands were shaking cold
when you took off the watch i gave you.
You said you didn't want it,
and then I checked the time.

It was 9:53 on a Tuesday.
It was supposed to snow,
but it didn't.

I couldn't change the atmosphere,
or lighten your heavy heart,
despite how much I wished I could.

You turned the engine off,
and I knew that it was over.
My heart was in my stomach,
and it was all my fault.

I took off the necklace,
you gave me for my birthday.
You didn't want it back;
I left it in the cupholder.

I didn't want to leave you,
but I knew I had to.
My words were sharp like razors,
and I couldn't take them back.

I'm sorry.
For tearing at your heart.
I hurt myself too,
I don't deserve your love.

You shook your head in silence,
before you left your car.
I wished I could curl up,
in the passenger seat and wait.

Wait until the morning,
when you drank your coffee,
and pressed your shirt,
and went to your car to leave for work.

I was tired, and you tapped the window.
I wasn't surprised but I hoped it wouldn't happen.

I took my things and left your car,
the warm passenger seat.
It wasn't mine anymore,
it never really was.

I said goodbye;
you pretended not to hear.
You waved, even though
I wanted a hug.

We said goodbye,
and I knew it was over.
I said goodbye to your arms,
your voice over the phone.
I lost your favorite movies,
and the way you did your hair.

The color of your eyes would
become just a memory,
and the curves of your lips,
would fade just like my perfume.

If I said I wouldn't miss you,
that would be a lie.
I missed you almost instantly,
as soon as I said goodbye.

I swallowed my pride,
and pushed aside my regret.
I needed to walk myself home.

I looked back to your house,
but you weren't on the porch.
I remembered sitting there,
just talking on the steps.
It'd be passed 1am,
but we wouldn't notice that.

You'd say goodbye,
then let me leave,
but you'd always call my name.

I know it'll never be the same.

Every step I took,
I felt you fade away.
I couldn't do anything,
to make you stay.
It was all my fault.

I'm sorry.
I didn't want to say goodbye.

Suburbia greeted me with pale hands in my late teens.
She was a wasteland in a mini skirt; in its’ own right it could be called a Cave with Plato egregiously driving his brand-new Prius 90 miles an hour saying “this is really living as long as you don’t look back” and all you can do is nod your head vigorously because the twisted **** that had settled surreptitiously in your baby lungs was giving you daylight hallucinations. My endeavors didn’t end there when they should have.
There was something uncanny about the way streetlights gave you the eternal glare. Of creating ordinary neighborhood streets appear like you’ve been there before in a dream, in another body. In a dazed stupor the sounds of a television and a light coming from a garage is forgiving in your misguided attempts to be comfortable in a foreign space. It could almost feel like home when your repressed trauma keeps resurfacing while you’re trying to introduce yourself. Almost.
In these polite badlands with everything uniformed the people I met were always trying to stand out from the serene landscapes. Sitting in plaid couches I was giddy playing the nihilist. Rerun episodes of Portlandia playing but all I remember from that smoky room were brown pants that looked extremely crisp to the touch and I wanted to reach out my hands and see if they would crunch under the paperweight of my heavy palms. I didn’t but I’m sure they would’ve emitted the sound of potato chips being eaten in a frenzy.
When I wasn’t walking through dark rooms feeling through what could have been hallways, a family’s living room or the cool gates of hell I was meandering my way through drowsy parties where boys with the names like Dusty and Slaughter were prevalent. Each with their own bizarre story about how they stole their parents’ money one night and took off spontaneously. Driving all the way to Nevada with nothing but half a tank of gas and one pack of cigarettes. You could almost pinpoint their personalities by the type of cigarettes they smoked. Most of them holding different colored American Spirits. Had I been smarter I would have asked for a light and a smoke. Never mind that I was always deadly afraid that I had some undiagnosed lung disease and that asphyxiation was my biggest fear or that I had a pack of Marlboro black menthols in my purse that were over a year old. I found my corner sitting in a worn outdoors chair. The ones where the armrest comes built in with a cupholder. My beer ice cold sitting awkwardly sideways while I tried to consider why the host of the party was wealthy yet so hostile. My favorite party game was the one where I took hit after hit of joints being passed around until I was crazy glued to my chair and my brain started to feel like a lagoon that continued to melt into a Campbell’s soup I once had as a child. Everyone completely unaware of the horror that the house had become to me. Somewhere in the distance I was acutely aware of who I would go home with, why my ventures into the suburbs had sparked my intrigue in the first place. The only reason why I had endured feeling like a spider watching a **** film and why I had lost my virginity just a day before. I was a displaced specimen thinking about her ***** in a room of 30 people or more.

Snow piled high like browning ashes,
Sky-wide cigarette drops its withered body parts
Under the orange glow of deteriorating wired suns.
Stuff up my duffel bag head
While you're already unpacking.
It's cold and clear,
Reoccurring as in a habit.
So take a minute to fold it all up nicely.
Lost my luggage like a bungie-cord station wagon,
Dry wooden panels seas of cupholder beer
Split second glances at concrete blended jeans and t-shirts
In my rearview mirror.

I am looking for what's left of my broken heart
In the space between four and five thousand rpms.

There's a dark chocolate Milky Way in one hand,
And a noisily rattling gear shift under the other,
A steering wheel under my left knee, espresso
In my cupholder, and my right foot on the gas.  

As if tearing my way through the entirety of Virginia
With streetlamps illuminating tear-stained cheeks
And a voice gone silent from too much screaming
And eardrums dysfunctional from too-loud music
Can unmake the pain riding in my passenger seat.

I already know the answer, but I like playing dumb.

I know I'm just running; I know this is not healing.
But, for right now, it's helping. It's a local anesthetic.
It stifles memories of misplaced trust and heartache
And things that I know were not my fault but I blame
Myself for anyways. You. I blame myself for you.  

So here I am, world illuminated by insomniac headlights,
Looking for the face of God in a Christ-haunted world.

you’ll find specks of her under your fingernails
you dug her out of the bad days, the sad days
every single one of her mixed up catch me if you can’s
so she’ll be there
(even after you've scrubbed your hands clean)

you’ll find waves of her in the Pacific
and that water’ll taste like fine wine and her peppermint teeth
you’ll stop going to the beach
because it only feels like drowning

you’ll find traces of her in the pen marks of every novel you own
you never thought she’d read every one of them
(you never thought she’d leave either, did you?)
burn the books and buy a Kindle

you’ll find her curves wrapped around your steering wheel
static blaring from car speakers, it sounds like memories
but she’s not the crumbs in your cupholder
(you’d drive for days to keep her around)

you’ll find strands of her in your shower drain
oh how you loved her long hair
and the way she shined, unruly girl
can’t blame her, she’s conditioned to run

and someday when you can’t stop seeing her
you’ll sit there and think about her copper wire spine
(that stopped twisting itself over for you)
and sing about the way she lingers and lingers and lingers . . .

when we shared our last kiss
there was a can of orange crush in the cupholder between us
when it was over i looked away and bit my lip
i didn't know that you would break my trust

i didn't know that it was the beginning of the end of us

Dont forget the trip we had that night in Fargo North Dakota
Best friends like family slowly became enemies  among us
We vowed then to live more purely and never give into temptations
Or that time we switched seats and escaped a life sentence
Your sister Rosalie calling you with a cupholder filled with quarters
Don't forget the golf course and a beer being slapped by a God from your hands
But the truth is we are the one and only in our own lives
Through him, with him and in him the love will remain
You have two Gods now that rely on you for the worthiness to deserve forgiveness
I love and miss you bro and just wanted to text you a friendly reminder