it's back.
I thought it was gone,
                but no it's back.
it took me only a couple of agonizing moments to remember that when you touch yourself like that, it leaves scars that you can't erase.
                 my mother sat there by the kitchen counter, dumbfounded like I had just slapped her across the face,
I wanted to yell and scream
I T S N O T Y OU R F A U LT
but it's not true is it?
that's the only reason is shower with the door locked, and I guide my lovers hands away from my thighs.
that's why I like kissing people in the dark,
so they don't see my past on my skin, rather than hearing it come from my mouth.
so my old friend is back.
                                           i wonder how long she'll stay this time.

sometimes I wonder about how many poems were possibly written about us,
and how we'll never get to read them.

i need a pack of Marbs, stat.

my stepfather told me to stop smoking so much or I'd get a hole in my throat and I wouldn't be able to sing with my pretty little voice anymore.

i said *******.

it got cold. it would.

the clouds it seemed, ate the sun. and goosebumps came along with the absence of the warmth,
and you touched them gently,
like my skin was some fragile thing, that you did not want to break.
like you were blind and the bumps on my skin were Braille letters,
and it spelled out a secret only the tips of your fingers knew how to read.

Sometimes I am so sick of this town.
I am tired of the way the young people twist and pull time to make it seem that they are years older than what their life conveys, and use large words that they only know half the meaning of,
and oh, "darling" "lovely"
we'll maybe I want to be called *******
"Wild" "untouchable" "agressive"
         "Manipulative" "weird"
                "Fire filled crazy eyed brown haired ***** footed mess of a girl"
          I don't want to be "lovely"
I want you to tell me I am insane, and say it to my face.
I am bored of everyone buying so many large books that they will never read, only look at with some false, faraway nostalgia when their friend comes over with their favorite vinyl.
I don't want to be "sunny"
I am not "happy"
Or "a nice girl"
I am a confusing like a labyrinth of contradiction,
And my emotions move inside me like a hurricane.
I have no time for big words anymore, or long poetic musings.
I want you to scream profanities at the top of your voice, filling your lungs with every bad word in the book.
I want you to etch bold letters in illegal places, I want your words to be direct, quick like fire. Tell me exactly how you feel.
I want you to be clear, straightforward, I have no ******* time to be called "lovely" and asked if I want a cup of tea.
I want *****.
and I want it now.
I don't want to be asked if I am awake at two a.m.,
I want to be asked if I am alive.
If I'm being rude, I want somebody to hold my face still and talk to me while looking at my eyes and say
"You're being a real ******* *****, quit it."
Instead of some *****, with hurt rotting inside of them, digging an early grave due to the inner decay of unspoken words.
I'm tired of people feeling obliged to say Bukowsi was an ***, but a good writer, "but oooh Nerudas good"
I'm sure Neruda could have been a **** too.
Stop pretending to like Shakespeare and really strong coffee and stop trying to force yourself to read really long confusing poetry.
Life isn't supposed to be a metaphor,
It's a ******* moment,
So seize it,
You don't have time to be complicated and fake.
Be raw and real. Be vulnerable and strong.

You are young,
                       You are at the prime of your life,
                      So yell off the ******* rooftops,
And scrape your knees a little bit,
And rebel a little bit,
And get a black eye sometimes,
And get angry a little,
And kiss people with soft lips sometimes,
And tell people exactly what you feel when you feel it,
And make mistakes,
And get drunk,
And do weird things sometimes,
               You are ******* young,
            Stop pretending.

we are nothing but skin and bones

filled with fact and fiction.

i'd never thought that I would lose my virginity on a small couch in my friends living room.
but then again.
i'm not one to think about things, just rush into them like a stubborn headed hammer, breaking things along the way.
id never thought that I would run out of the house with purple, naked feet crushing the ice underneath me like small bones, in the middle of a black December silence.
and it was nice seeing a 2 am silhouette at the end of my road, cigarette in hand like always, your breath a steady stream of white, drowning me in an ocean of nicotine.
and I was high and you were drunk,
and I slipped and kissed your wine tinted lips,
and our skin made a forest fire, as we tangled ourselves in the crackle of a wood burning stove,
and the silent tread of snow on the sleeping town.