shapes of yr many most favorite possessions
people looming in the lintel browsing through the pockets
yr posthumous stare chisels down the bark

280 & Alpine
taking out the post
east alto, west alto
sandwiches and snickers bars

let there be pizza
where beds happily move
and there are no swing sets or cell phones
let there be pizza
eighteen year olds swinging from the rooftops to the pool

no music played to remember it by
yr handlers are too many now
lost in the green lasers and spotlights

there are only two hands to make this memory
the quiet dark does not take it, new mouths do not take it
old words tearing off the night

fireplaces are made to keep houses warm but mine only filled my house with smoke and coated my clothes with ash. sweaters that look soft are actually itchy when you put them on, and there is such a thing as coffee with too much cream and sugar, i’ve tasted it myself and that sickly sweetness wouldn’t leave my tongue for months and months and months until the flowers started blooming again. thanksgiving is a holiday without presents. and when i was using my fists to punch holes in the walls i realized that rooms aren’t actually rooms they’re just four walls filled with air, and that i need something to ground me.

twisted blue soul,

everyone says their blue for you,
not me,
not me.

they told me you were beautiful,
i can’t see,
i can’t see.

they said you had a twisted blue soul,
that can’t breathe,
that can’t bleed.

i didn’t believe those rumours,
gold.
can’t be,
can’t be.

the blue prints in the news prints shown,
that
gifted
twisted
bluest
soul,

ice cold shoulders,
bold.
why me?
*why me?