One for me
One for you
One for everytime I felt like a fool
Oh, there you go, three
Two for him
When he said
"Make it sixteen"
Three for every meal
Four for every song
That destroyed my soul
One for the "was" and the "wasn't"
Then two more
Just for fun






There you have it
Enough to **** the pain
*Enough to **** myself

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

The surprise
As the cake comes toward me.
The amazement
As I gaze at the number.
Sixteen. Sixteen candles.

The embarrassment
As people surround me and sing.
The disappointment
When I make the very same wish
That never comes true.

The wonder
As my mother stares at me
The sadness
As I know I feel
Without my father here.

We floated down the river with aluminum in our hands and the sun
burning our hearts.
Left the day roaming the streets in heels and shorts by the light of the moon.
Jumping off cliffs and laughing at the stars lighting up the sky.
How silly we were.
To have loved like we were sixteen again but with minds knowing that we're not sixteen anymore.
And that summer will end. Bills have to be paid. Work has to be done.
Love is not a priority unless you're sixteen.
But everything feels so real floating down the river in the Arizona summer.
Even dreams.