if we must die,
let it be known that
you're only as great as yesterday lets you.
that the leader of men carries the hope of all men.
that the world is never the final destination of life.
that man is only a photograph of heaven.

if we must die.
let it be known that eternity lives in every face.
that the mind is all but a femur of the unspoken soul.
that you are only a footstep ---
and every footstep must wash so to leave room for other footsteps.

since we must all die,
let it be known that you once stood--

let that be known.

Funny how we woke up in the morning
and pretended that tomorrow never happened—
strutted naked in mirrors celebrating our youth,
laughing, knowing suns and moons couldn’t do the same.

We borrowed our arms from the fridge
and peddled bicycles with bad breath—
trading war stories ‘cause we knew
if we came back alive
life would still be the death of us.

we'll cover all the laundry lines
with hopeless dreams and dandelions
and dance barefoot
until our feet are dry

your sister looks so pretty when she's sad
and I think she knows it

Of all the things I’ve ever heard
(a song sung sweetly by a bird,
the hollow rumbling of a drum,
the trembling strings of every strum)

there’s nothing
like the way you sing
when you think
no one’s listening

there are so many
things
I don't know how
  to do yet
but I know how
  to truly love the sunlight
and I know how
  to build a fire
and I know how
  to care about people
just enough for them
to never really hurt me
              so maybe
being scared to talk to strangers on the phone
isn't so important after all


they say
that hair follicle drug tests are more accurate
than anything you can **** into a cup
   because your hair
   follicles
   store the history of
   everything you've ever done
so I want to rip out
a lock of your hair
but a small one, so it only hurts
a little bit
and I want
to put the hair in a metal jar
and bury it in the ground
   just in case one day
   they come up with a
   way to see everything you've ever felt
   by looking at your hair follicles
so I can dig it back up
                   and prove
that you felt
       something
for me.

There comes a point in summer when I begin to wish for winter. When I tire of sweat and lukewarm showers.

There is a day when I’d like every tree in sight to stop covering their pain, and expose the reality of grey and withered limbs.

There is a night I wish for twelve blankets on my bed, only my nose exploring the freezing atmosphere.

There is a minute I wish to replace sandals with boots, and tanlines with skin like moonlight.

There is an hour I’d rather you and I hid away, with cold toes and frigid fingertips, than go to the lake and sip beer with plasticine friends.

There is a second I spend wishing for grey clouds to cover the mocking sun, for bitter gales to replace a dancing breeze.

There is a month, I wish the grass would hide its bragging leaves, and the snow would come out and play.

There are a few hours I spend pretending, I turn on every fan, dim the lights, put on pajamas, drink coffee, and cower beneath one solitary blanket. Hoping winter spies me, takes pity, and make the hours-minutes-days-months-seconds his.