Everything smells like cigarette smoke,
and nothing smells
like the butterflies in my gut.

But strangers like the camels I smoke.
So I purge my nervous stomach
onto the blank canvas in front of me;

and I bathe myself in nervous applause,
while my insides
wrestle with the snake left in my belly,
never to be seen
by the audience, because
lovers don't like that.

I forget what I wanted to write about.

I forget because I'm cold,
and I'm on the front porch
of my parents' house while they're both asleep.
Because they know I smoke, but
I don't like to rub it in. Like,
"This is what you've taught me to avoid!
And this
is all I rely on!"
And that's all I hear.
And I don't want them
to hear that.

And I forget
what I wanted rely on,
but when I think about it,
it sounds like music notes in my head,
and there's no way you can hear the song,
because it fades in the distance
(on a minor chord)
when I toss the cigarette ****
into the ivy, where my parents won't see it
as a constant reminder of how
I fell so hard.

So you can't hear what I hear.
And I can't really hear it either,
but when I wake up
in the afternoon
on my parents' couch,
all I know is
there's something I should be listening to,
and maybe it's the wisps of my dream,
or maybe it's something bigger
I can't quite grasp, but,
I should hear it.
And I can't.

So, at two PM, I fall back asleep,
trying to hear it again.
Or maybe, I wake up,
and wander around wearing oversized clothes
and wait to put on deodorant unless
I go outside,
and until then, I eat everything in the house
until I feel satisfied
and I never will.

I've been paid to pour sticky-sweet
dancing-juice down the throats
of men who can't afford
a ******
but want the salt of Bourbon Street
on their tongues when they wake up.
I've stumbled up to my door,
dropping the keys and loudly spitting out a
"Shh!"
to myself, to retain some sense
of dignity.
I've woken up with an army in my head,
shouts muddled because their leader
has been shot, and all they can do now
is stomp around and
make loud noise and
hurt.

It never hurt as much
as being awake without a hangover
and having nothing physical
to nurse.

I want to move to Portland
because a boy who never loved me
loves the West
and maybe I need to be there
to discover what I don't know I'm missing.

Sometimes you just need a change
while still being wrapped
in the warm blanket of memories
only the quiet end of a friendship
can leave you with.
And Portland isn't New York or Paris–
it isn't an exclamation point,
it's an ellipsis,
and the boy and I died
with an ellipsis.

So maybe I need an ellipsis,
a warm blanket,
the comfort zone of a flight
that lands in an unknown city
that I've never seen before.

But I bet, stepping off that plane,
I'll be able to smell memories
in the crisp, strange Portland air.

You fell asleep, your arm
slung across my middle.
I stayed up with
a cigarette
and Good Will Hunting playing on TV.
You would shuffle around
in your sleep, but with every movement,
you kept your hand
curled around my belly.
Even in your dreams, you were
intimate.

I wiggled into a new position
at one point, and I
almost woke you up.
You startled–
mumbled something in your sleep.
Every word was
incomprehensible, until I heard escape
"I love you, baby."
And it was
brilliant– the innocence
that you sighed
in your slumber.

And I loved you.

The next day, you saw a bike,
***** yellow and
abandoned by its owner.
You straddled the seat and
rode in tight circles.
And all I could think was,
your legs are so skinny.
You were all
skin and bones, pedaling that bike.
All I saw
was you
naked.
More naked than you
had ever been.

And I didn't love you.

"And what my therapist says, is,
she says she thinks you're
****** up, too."

"Well that's great. I'm glad
she didn't bring you up."

"She didn't. And maybe that's why
she didn't
**** Me Up, either."

I don't use paper and pencil now.
My thoughts are too fleeting
to subscribe
to anything but a "delete" key.

You hastily slid my pink thong past my ankles
half an hour ago,
but only now,
when I can feel a stickiness
drip down the insides of my thighs,
am I finally naked.
It dawns on me that I want to tell you something–
something important–
I want to tell you
"I love you,"
before I can pause to wonder if I mean it–
but leftover ***
dribbles out of me
faster than any words can, and suddenly
I am empty again
and have nothing
to say.