you are a full moon
and I am the sea
I thrash and I burst
when you're close to me

It's a lot more work than you think you know it is
Living like this
Being her
******* crazy **** who's drunk 362 days of the year
******* dumb sack of **** living in a box
******* bad friend, lonely girl, *******
Gotta pull her while she kicks, objecting to society
"I'm going to **** myself"
Can't. Won't.
"I hate myself."
Not enough.
"I'm a good person."
Try harder.
"I'm beautiful."
Only for a minute.

The knife
has
a slowness about it.
Politeness, a kindness.
It has
a grace period.


The gun
absolutely
does
not.

Sometimes, one of us calls the other,
throws a small stone and listens to hear the reply of ancient echoes.

Last night was longer,
about Ginsberg, alcoholic tendencies, the history of us.

He was drunk to the point of almost-constant repetition and forgetfulness, which it seems he always is, I think.

But still, we talked,
because I don't mind.

The bottle makes the truth come swimming out his lips.

"You're so handsome now," I said. Because it was true, he was.

And always was, even back on Myspace,
on back decks.

Maybe I was born with something in me and its only goal was to implode. Maybe it's expanded so much it's bigger than my heart or any other ***** in here, and maybe now it's so large it controls my brain or it's causing me to collapse inward with it.
It's like a tumor but one that keeps you alive and speaks of bad ideas, *****, tormented secretive, painful, backward, muddly, inflicting kinds of ideas.

She set him on his mark

the bottle in his hand

Lips were wide apart

he heard her secret plan

She gave over the knife

a little kitchen thing

white skin turned red and brown

that's her beloved sting

She said let's go again

There was worry on his face

She counted to 10

He got right back in place

You are like a ghost now,

a ghost who's just tired of haunting me.

Love came easily to me

it was never sparse.


That's how


I touched so many others

trying to break your scarce heart.

My cousin's eyes
Your loud truck
The leaves falling in Marquette

My mother's hair
"4 Missed Calls"
The end of your cigarette

My new scars
Old Coke cans
The soak on your blanket

My love for you
Our Scottish blood
The songs in the basement

These red things
They haunt me
But I'm getting used to it

She thinks

she can wear those things:

Delicate.

Like nothin' *****

Ever happened.

you
are   beginning
to be                    
                                    gone.

i open your
door and i  expect
to
                                         cry.    
but  nothing            
                               ­      comes.

you
are    starting
to                        
                                        fade.

my love

you
are   beginning
to
                                         end.

when
I fall
to my knees
in
this emptiness
the loneliness
sounds
louder
to me