You think you've seen her naked because she took her clothes off?
Tell me about her dreams.
Tell me what breaks her heart.
What is she passionate about, and what makes her cry?
Tell me about her childhood.
Better yet, tell me one story about her that you're not in.

You've seen her skin, and you've touched her body.
But you still know as much about her as a book you once found,
but never got around to opening.

The first thing that I noticed when I walked into the psychiatric hospital was how cold the floor tiles were.
You See, they took my shoes off because I was a thirteen year old, five and one half foot, one hundred and ten pound threat.
I made grown men think I was off my edge...and looking back on me, I was.


I mean, killing myself? That’s the ultimate game show bet.
“WHAT’S BEHIND CURTAIN NUMBER DEATH” I seemed to ask myself.
And also, what games would I have to play to get there.
How long do you have to hang to die?
How much blood would it take to bleed to death?
How fast does my mother have to be going on the freeway to make my jumping death quick?
HOW MUCH OXYCODONE DO I HAVE TO STEAL FROM MY ABUSIVE STEP FATHERS DRAWER?
Someone would have to be mad to even bother looking behind that curtain.


But like I said, the first thing i noticed was the floor tiles.

I was fifteen when you were sixteen, I knew you were trouble and that's what I liked about you.
My mother would hate it.. but we always got away with doing bad things.
Sneaking alcohol and stumbling down traintracks.
Tell me why I couldn't know you now? You don't exist in my world anymore.. your cashmere skin and eyes the color of some burnt thing. But yet so alive.
We would ride around in your mother's car, smoking *** like we shouldn't be..
Out after midnight like we shouldn't be...
having ***.. like we shouldn't be.
But we didn't care because as long as it feels right, do it, eh?
And oh did it feel right. I think you'll always be a memory to me.
One of the best memories.
The only memory I need, the only memory I have of you is warm summer thunderstorms and mischief. What did we know?
We were only in tenth grade... but like my mother says,
"you think you have it all figured out".


Maybe we did.

They all smoked in the garden
that night. Inhaling the chemicals,
the manic whirr in the lungs
of something toxic. Everybody there
wanted a piece. Their own segment
of you to cup in their hands,
taste whenever they pleased
as if you were red wine.
They wore woolly shirts
and stonewashed jeans. Bare feet.
Looking at you, a valuable gift
up for grabs. Voice like liquid gold.
Wishing you’d pick them
over the others, point a finger,
claim your prize. You had a hold
on their heartstrings and didn’t know it.
They said you were unattainable,
that you were hidden behind glass
and couldn’t be touched. Anger bubbled
between them, red kettle-hot.
Raised voices papercut the air.
I could understand.
You were glorious, untarnished.
A cleaner mind and cleaner arteries.
It was a rare and confusing thing
for them. Blonde hair, blue eyes
made their thoughts turn to flour.
You were sweet when all
they knew was acidic,
like a chunk of lemon
under the tongue.
As they squabbled in silence
we spoke. And still
they continued to smoke.

A bottle smiled at me today
I smiled back.

the fire you built
to keep us warm
is burning me to death.

.
          
           am i
 here
  why        
        pollut-
                              ing          
                                 the
                                 space
                            that
                    could
                 be
              used
                for
                 a
                        (better candidate than me)
                 ?

I am not easy with my words
I do not think, do not ponder, do not wait 5 seconds
I speak
I speak bitterness and enmity
The words flow out of me like blocks of cement
Like cannons, like bullets
Leaving wounds, leaving blood
I have found I am a lot like a body of water
The ocean for example is beautiful looking at it from the shore
But the farther down you go the darker and more grisly it gets
Or perhaps I am like a river
The problem with rivers is they look calm on the surface but underneath they're unpredictable, full of chaos and this is like most people
This is how nature proves visible in seemingly miniscule aspects of our lives
This is how nature destroys itself
This is how we dig our own graves
This is where the story is not so sweet anymore
There is a time and place for everything
There are words for each situations
Ones that fit the puzzle just right, leaving just enough space for comfort
I do not know these places, I do not know these words
I only know cement