Stop trying to remember his scent, he smelled like summer and reminds you of the time he made you laugh so hard, you snorted out milk on that dead, hazy day.

2. Don't waste your day trying to decipher what colour his eyes were, it'll only remind you of the galaxies and constellations that you once saw in his eyes

3. Stop trying to retrace the shape of his mouth in the middle of the night, you'll choke on your tongue trying to taste the mint he devoured seconds before pulling you in for a kiss

4. Stop reliving the times you clasped hands together, the glass plate will fall off your trembling hands.

5. Burn this list, admit that the galaxies and constellations shining in his eyes were wilted, the one in yours are bursting with fire. Remember on the dead, hazy day his laugh sounded like nails running down a chalkboard. Remember when you kissed, the weeds growing from his mouth entangled the roses blooming in yours.

Realize that one day, another boy is going to come and plant daisies where he left behind thorns.

I never asked for flowers,
make sure to tell everyone that I hate them because they just die.

Why keep something beautiful just to see it die?

I never asked for much,
at least I never thought I did.

You made simple things seem like it was asking for the moon,
a simple phone call,
any sort of confirmation that you were still alive.

You gave me ******* promises and endless lies,
but covered it up nicely with a Tiffany necklace.

I hate flowers,
their beauty fades fast until they are withered away and dead.

I hate you,
the beauty of us faded, albeit not too fast, but it withered away and died.

Wet tendrils of copper and black stick to my head,
I refuse to let this rain bother me.

In my ears a string of songs play,
most of them sad.
I refuse to let the lyrics get to me.

New York City is a magical place.
I had made the mistake of forgetting that when I let life get me down,
when I chose to focus on ignored phone calls and unrequited love.

Not anymore.
Water has always symbolized life,
so now, as I walk these city streets in a downpour
I feel alive.

I’ve had all my affections poured out over pink skirts as well as pale eyes.
It’s easy to find that pogo sticks and pacifiers
can’t get a childhood
off the ground; where she stood smiling.
Over coats and undercuts are all to cover something.
Replace your teeth with gold
and when they don’t feel
like yours anymore
Then you’ll know.
Your tongue is bronze now.
Plaster’s coming off like a shuffle board land slide
All around this cage they keep us dogs
In, When we bite; its because there isn’t any tongue clicking
Or word bashing left to do.
The sun has found me,
I see it through
slotted bars, and the clouds
are in just as much hell as I am.
I see them with belly full to eyes full of wine.
I’ve been too long in burning this bridge.
It’s the buckets full ,
waiting to quench tinder.
It’s that I’ve drunken everything,
Flammable for miles.
Lock jaw and bite.
Bite down on the trusses.
Bite down and curse god.
He’ll understand all
Your tongues, and spastic fingers.
She says that I puke passion,
that these trees don’t grow in vain,
that fruit is god awful imagery,
And that I have to train every limb
so they can beat the stop signs with their falling pines.

I have never been one to trust easily,
or even to trust at all,
early on I was taught that people are inherently untrustworthy.

The few times I decide to trust,
to let people in,
they sneak inside of my heart and then rip it to shreds from inside.

Watch me implode!
I tell them with disdain,
but no one seems to want to watch me combust.

They run at the first sign of anything unpleasant,
hoping that the guilt will not follow them.
They want to be able to sleep at night.

I hope their thoughts keep them up at night.

Making love in the sun, in the morning sun
in a hotel room
above the alley
where poor men poke for bottles;
making love in the sun
making love by a carpet redder than our blood,
making love while the boys sell headlines
and Cadillacs,
making love by a photograph of Paris
and an open pack of Chesterfields,
making love while other men- poor folks-
work.
That moment- to this. . .
may be years in the way they measure,
but it's only one sentence back in my mind-
there are so many days
when living stops and pulls up and sits
and waits like a train on the rails.
I pass the hotel at 8
and at 5; there are cats in the alleys
and bottles and bums,
and I look up at the window and think,
I no longer know where you are,
and I walk on and wonder where
the living goes
when it stops.

As far as people go I would say I'm not the best.
My emotions are far too volatile,
and I'm much too fallible.

I often feel that I'm falling to pieces,
I'm too codependent so I wait for people to fix me
(which never happens)

My writing is too emotional,
it has no structure,
its only purpose is to make sense of myself.

I'm a mess,
I'll confess that.

At least I know who I am,
accept myself for all of my flaws,
and take another step forward.