It's funny that I don't know who I'm writing these poems about.

Maybe I don't know how to function
And act normal around you anymore
Maybe when I do talk it's awkward
Or sounds like a machine, because
I have to keep myself from letting out
Too much emotion, to where you
Would know

I have been yours for 730 days, 17,520 hours, 1,051,200 minutes and you have never been mine; not even for a second.

Today I thought about how much I loved you.
                   I smiled.
And then remembered that you don't love me;
              not even a little.

Off                   comes my slip, socks, sanity and an echo
Goes                 up my spine.  
The                   men
Film                  my sinking heart  
And                  dive into the  
Filth                  plastered against my mind without a thought  
Of                      what moments define me.
That                  girl who used to wear a  
Shirt                  embroidered with flowers and had a mother  
Making             her a meal with love is now working the  
Room               with what's left of her.
For                    -ward motion depicts nothing
More                 than bones and memories never cherished.

Your thoughts start coming out
In low key lighting,
Sepia toned shots,
And distorted by a fog machine
Hidden in the corner.
You analyze it
Piece-by-piece,
Paint-by-numbers,
Cuts, takes, dissolves,
and throw the fragments up
in the air.

Confetti in the form of "art"
Left for anyone's interpretation.

My father is an old truck
Sunbleached red

Breathes broken bottles
A faulty catalytic converter throat
All the smoke trapped inside

But the nicotine helps his brain function

Cinderblock sturdy
But skinny
A single pillar holding the roof up

A man built in a time when you had to tell things it was time to die
Leave them in a field somewhere and forget about

How do you write a love poem to a car of a man
Built in a time without airbags?
A car of a man who crashed with you inside so many times
You learned about rebuilding from experience
From trial and error

And how do you forgive a man who can no longer tell you he’s sorry?

Trucks
Don’t feel
Don’t give up
Don’t hurt you on purpose

Sometimes something inside just breaks
And no one catches it
And maybe you crash
Break a nose
Black an eye

As far as I know
I am not a broken man
But I’ve learned where all the parts go

And if I am my father’s son
A mechanic more often than a car maybe
Then I will be fine

The truck is dying
And beyond repair

You forgive it for that
It is old and past its time

And maybe it can’t say that it’s sorry

But there is a field somewhere that you plan on leaving it
To collect weeds
And rust
And be forgotten

So you forgive it