blev formet og mast og presset ind
i en cirkel forklædt som en ramme,
der gjorde det vanedannende at være
en udgave af mig selv, jeg ikke kunne
genkende
så jeg kendte ikke nogen, og følte
mig hjemløs i min egen entré
gik ture ved din opgang, og læste
dit navn op indtil mine læber blødte
af savnet fra dine nøgne fingerspidser
og blå øjne, der kunne få mig til at
smile med tårer i øjnene
jeg var altid elleve år gammel
i undertøj på din højre side med dine
ribben op ad mine egne
lænede mig så meget op ad dig, at jeg
glemte at trække vejret selv
om det så var på marmorgulvet i dit
køkken med ømme ankler af berøringer
havde kun klaustrofobi, da du ikke
var her
jeg var kun et menneske, da jeg
elskede dig
havde kun hjemve
da jeg holdte
op igen

What makes it so easy
to write personal works
from the heart,
the soul,
the inner workings of my mind
that then you, strangers,
read at your own will,
like, and comment?
Things I cannot even bring myself
to admit to those closest to me
or even yours truly.
The fact baffles me each time
I start typing.

Cigarettes and I have a
love-hate/hate-love
relationship.
Each drag is like voluntarily
placing my lungs in an inferno to be scorched.
The strongest people I know have
wasted away
because of that cancer-on-a-stick.
I especially hate how
they taint the tantalizing taste
of my lover's lips.
Yet, on rare drunken occasions
or when a thick layer of red coats my lips,
I crave the **** thing.

Here I am, trying to convince the world,
trying to convince you,
trying to convince myself, that
I am fine.
A three-word sentence that hides the pain;
not from oneself but from watching eyes.
My troubles stack one on top of the other
forming a skyscraper that burdens me.
Each day it grows bigger and taller
until it collapses
as did the towers on 9/11,
as it does right on top of me.

There is more romance in a simple coffee stain
than there is in a single bone from my body.