i wanted him to miss me
and i mean, i guess he does.
i wanted him to miss me like
how i miss him.
i miss him like how i
miss the stars in the day.
i miss him like how i
miss being a kid.
i miss him like how i
miss disney songs.
i miss him.

he reminds me of how i
am mature but also how
i am a kid. he reminds me of
the stars, and i how i wish to be
near them. i just miss him.

he walked past me this morning
and we shared that knowing look again
but i guess he doesn't miss me enough
to tell me a decent hello.

His eyes
Pressed into her with the pull of polarity
A haunting indication of an impossibility too beautiful to protest
He looks
With a longing he has hidden deep in his sock drawer
So no one can tell him he’s wrong or irrational
A locket only to be worn round his pulsating mind’s mannequin
But she wears on her sleeve what he’s trying to leave
And dressed like a nightingale
In feathers so free
Her eyes with a fire that waves like the sea
Closer they crawl
Past night’s shadowed humans getting drunk off doubt and betting on beauty
Past the scratches on stools once straddled by sorrow
And Isolation, his lover
Who lost her last words somewhere under the covers
That they shook out in morning
To shake off the mourning
But the streets crave a sweep
For the ashes are thick and catch on their tongue
Reminding the runaways to stop feeling young
And as they both draw so near
With the friction of fear
And the whip of a wish
And a harsh hit of hope
For the call of a kiss
Her hairs stand on stilts at the nape of her neck
An impatient frenzy that’s waiting on deck
But the lights left her lonely
A bubble-bruised brain
And he left her only
The promise of pain
As he grabbed another hand and rushed out the door
She smiled a sadness that left her lips sore
And gathered her hollows
And the last of her trust
And took to the streets with the ashes and dust

i am taking back
    my father's name
and holding on tight

your name
     is a leash around my neck
identifying me
as part of something
that does not exist

it is stamped on paper
and recognized
      by the state

it is seared into the minds
of everyone i know
for the rest of my life

a brand

a mistake.

it must be easier for you
    wrapped in the name
of your father
free
of my presence

of my name.

i cannot thank you
for any of this.
not any of it
because
i was so wrong.
so
so
wrong.

and nothing will ever be the same again.

i miss you.
i miss those late night texts asking if i was awake.
i miss hearing you play the piano.
i miss the way your hand felt in mine.
i miss you.

i miss the way you joked around with me.
i miss how we always got so close, and i always pulled away.
i regret doing that because now i realize
how much i miss you.

i miss you
and all that you do
and all that you are
and what you will be.

i miss the videos you'd send me
or the thoughts we'd share,
or the stories we'd tell
in times of despair.

i miss the sound of your voice
on a hot sunday night
through the phones speakers
everything felt just so right.

i miss you
and all that you are
and all that i am
regrets leaving you so far.

My son told me that I had a worse singing voice
than Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Townes Van Zandt and John Prine
all combined.
I just smiled and said "Thank you, son".

r

She hated being asked to describe herself.
Why do they care?
She never saw a point in sharing her point of view.
Their description is all they will care about.
She thought that she was funny and friendly.
Everyone else thought that she was easily looked over.
She was constantly called boring.
She started to believe them.
She knew she was bland.
She knew that was a problem.
The color red is exciting. Maybe I'll add that to my skin.
Patterns covered her flesh and purpley reddish scars.
She thought that it would make her less boring.
It only worked for a while.
Adrenaline rushes are exciting, not boring.
That is what she thought as she jumped.

At 2 a.m. In the morning
Demons come out to play.
Cannibals clawing at your door,
What last words do you have to say?

At 2 a.m. in the morning,
Only lonely souls are awake.
Fighting those stupid demons
With nothing but a blade.

At 2 a.m. In the morning
Have you ever needed somebody to talk to?
Have you ever scrolled through your contacts,
Finding no one you can tell things to?

2 a.m. In the morning
Insomniacs are wide awake.
For the pain that leave us "sober"
Is what that's making us stay.

At 2.01 a.m.
I bid my final goodbye
As I flung myself to those cannibals
Who are lonely freaks like me.

(C.C)