The garbage in my room
Smells like embarrassment
It’s the hot Cheetos bag that sits in my desk
It’s the q-tips with earwax
The ideas that float around in my head
And my roommates toenail clippings

The garbage in my room
Clutters the free space
Taking up room that it should not take
The shopping bags and boxes
That held beautiful things
Now empty and cumbersome

The garbage in my room
Takes up my memory
Forgotten blog posts and poems
Fill the hard drive in my brain
Silly thoughts and quips
Only attempt to clear it out

The garbage in my room
Sits in the can
Thinking of ways to grow
Out of proportion
Waiting to spill out onto the floor
And start crawling up the walls

The garbage in my room
Needs to be taken out.

I am a dot on Seurat’s canvas.

You told me that I wouldn’t be respected if I used Times New Roman, well maybe I don’t write to be respected. Maybe I write in Times New Roman because I like to read in it.

I could write in Wingdings. Would that make you happy? Would that make me stand out?

I don’t write with words I don’t understand and I don’t embellish nature to sounds pretty. Times New Roman isn’t trying to impress anybody and neither am I.

I am writing about what is real and I am writing about how I feel and I don’t need your opinion and I don’t want to hear your spiel.

Did that make me stand out?

Our eco-friendly toothbrushes sit together in the cup on the counter but today I didn’t brush my teeth. The snow is great. Want to know why, because the snow doesn’t give a **** how anybody else feels and it doesn’t ***** its feelings all over twitter. The snow knows that nobody cares.

The snow never says “anyways” or “whatever” or “oh god”  and the snow doesn’t undermine what I have to say. The snow is cold and it *****, but at least it doesn’t question me. It doesn’t ask me if I need space. Nope. It just keeps snowing.

The snow and I are on good terms. It isn’t polite and it doesn’t try to be anything that it is not. It doesn’t cook barley with kale and it definitely doesn’t pretend to like it.

I spent my last eleven dollars on a plastic bottle of ***** sitting on the refrigerator.

It is right next to the ibuprofen and the giant salad bowl.

Last night we drank our plastic bottle of ***** in glasses.

ugh
you have me
all up in this
trippy tangle
of impulses
thoughts
walks
you make me want to have ***
scream
touch you
you make me so
frustrated
every time you squeeze me
in a big hug
kiss my
forehead
you make me wish
you weren't such
a nice guy
i have some other things
on my mind
love me
roughly

...please?

I yearn to feel your tree bark arms
the moss settling in-between
your ribs, puddles of
rain water gathering
above your collarbones
I wonder if you smell
like dogwood
or lilacs
or overgrown grass

the wrinkles on the backs of my hands
are starting to look like
roadmaps all pointing
to you, even though
I don't know where "you"
is
somewhere drying up
underneath the sand
brittle bones
and cactus hearts

I have mustered through
futile attempts at growing
a garden with someone else
the plants never bloom
or die with the first
breathe they take
But I have
cleared out this space
in my backyard
for you
It may just be an empty graveyard
overflowing with dirt
and ghosts that
haunt me
when I am weak
but it is for you
and me
so we can
grow

Your memory flickered
in my head,
like a candle light.
My heart is bruised,
and my words
have tasted bitter
in my mouth.
Rolled your name
over my tongue,
tasted like tobacco.
I ached for you,
like I ached for a cigarette
but those are two addictions,
which I must quit.
I took your pictures
all down,
tried to forget the soft words,
and sweet nights.
You stained my sheets,
like you stained my heart
with sweat and kisses and words
You will stay in my bones
for as long as I live

I think that
perhaps
I've finally grown tired
of finding new ways
to say that
simply

I am sad.

I went on our old trail today,
with beautiful people,
who I care about a lot
and I saw our initials on a tree,
and I remember standing there,
watching you carve it with your key
and the way you kissed me when it was finished.
I remember a lot of things we used to do,
sometimes I think I remember them better now
than I did then.

But I smiled today,
and I rolled down a grassy hill,
and I laughed with my friends,
and a boy called me beautiful,
and I don't remember the last time someone called me that.

I'd like to think,
I am making progress,
because today was the first time,
I realized life can be good
without you.

I smiled today
a genuine kind of smile
the kind of smile that is produced
when a flower looks up at you
but then guilt reminded me
that I am not allowed to be
something of such beauty
so I washed it all away in the sink
(back to normal)
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