Soft sounds of trucks in the distance, driving over bridges,
Wind hitting windows.
The cold sits with me and rubs my arms,
kisses my fingers
reminds me my ******* are mini heaters.
The glow of my face in the black mirror.
Light shapes dance on my ceiling,
I’m tapping away, numb from feeling.
My hands have long lost sensation,
I just hear the patter of my thumbs.
I don’t know why I don’t want to say anything.
I don’t know why I’m counting my breath.
I’m content with this temperament.
I’ve been way up above lately.
I forgot what it’s like to be present and satiated with nothing.

Voices exclaiming in the distance,
It's 1:44 am.
I wish you didn't feel so righteous.
But maybe you are right,
There could be better things than this.
And though I love you
And I could be drunk,
And feel empty in the morning.
I can't help but feel what I'm believing in is like what the world finds
Wrong.

I stare into you, you into me.
And I see a language that isn't written
in the books that you read.
Or even in the words that you had conceived,
and hid away so carefully, to be unbelieved.
In your stare I am told a story, and reminded of a need,
that I also find within myself, for these words to be freed.
And in those eyes I found that these lips came to stutter,
when I asked you how many confessions could a gaze ever utter?
After a night of staring deeply into each other,
you replied, "Many," and made my heart sputter, murmur, flutter,
and then dip into the gutters, and sit in a messy clutter.
Daddy, you made me melt, I swear this isn't butter.
All for a second, I knew, you knew and we knew one another,
and I wished, you wished, and we wished to be called, lovers.

The things you say linger in my head a bit longer than they should.
I remind myself that those echoes should be taken with a grain,
and cynicism will keep my resolve alive.
I tell you I don't believe you when you say you've missed me,
while I'm stifling the excitement inside.
You're pleading when you ask if I am leaving you
and I put your mind to ease, even though all you can do is sleep.
You say you want me to stay but your offerings are modest-
lazy yet earnest, you kiss my forehead and doze off again.
You approach everything in life about the same-
except those of which don't seem to work the way you want.
Should I disappear for a while?
I worry I might be replaced.
I'm not quite good at all those games-
but I'll watch you play, you'll tell me the stories so maybe I'll stay.
I'll curl up on your sofabed and be your cat for the day.
And when I do leave, I'll wonder if you'll hear me pleading too,
You might think if there isn't distance I couldn't miss you.
That's not true.
That's not true.
At least I think- but take it with a grain and see me again.

The bills were balled in their pockets,
crumpled tickets.
They talked of golden promise,
like it were glass-
you could see right through them,
easily broken.
Distorted vision buys only sadness.
Spending money is becoming a problem.

started to look to satan
after waiting for a lantern
he seems to know the path
to colt 45's and perique tobacco
ripped stockings and poison apple.
slipped wine in my bourbon
to mimic classy, safe and happy.
listened to nothing all night
through my laptop speaker.
palermo droning while I felt her
soft and slick, melting and spilling
film me, but fill her first, lucy

I read my poems over and over,
become convinced that my heart is bipolar.
Find me laid out on the four corners
my limbs in each state-
picking a new place
to escape you and my fate.
But if you were to go- you'd probably
get a phone call from New York
saying you just missed the funeral.

Cursed questionable platform,
but at least I know you're awake.

The sea of fans churn to your voice sounds.
I am the part in the song where it strains,
to hit the note that makes the ladies swoon.
Over the moon, I float,
swishing your lyrical lies in my mouth.
I don't see a thing but the blackness,
and you, the star.
And I can't reach you,
but I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.
The music is only a street we run on,
our feet pounding against pavement
like a war drum.
And I feel your sprints in my chest,
you're heaving.
But I can't reach you,
and I can pretend to know you
chanting your words
like a false prayer.

He doesn't like to skip pages
- I'll try to abide.
People like to talk,
- in books, I confide.
I wonder if this is legible,
or too riddled with pride.

Despite all of our desires,
the anger I feel
cannot be quelled by smashing her face in.
There isn't a possible way
she could feel the pain I'm in.
She did not build two years-
loyal and resilient.
She did not fret over the moments,
or condemn herself for the sins.
She does not feel remorse
at least on the surface.
She will be a non factor-
after I finish writing this.
No more checking on her,
ignorance is.
No more cringing at her comments
on those photos of his.
No more letting the desire
to separate the two *****.
The toilet should **** her in,
and keep her down where she should live.
No more watching it spit back up.
Jiggle handles and don't give a ****.
Goodbye hammers.
****** face.
She's now gone out of this place.
My sweetest is revenge,
is to let her go.
Let her reign
and not let her know.

I don't think you have the slightest
about the alarm that goes off
when your arm brushes against mine.
It says WARNING.
Be careful.
Just too close.
Like the lady at the museum,
who wore wild red curls,
that extended and gripped the viewers
who were centimeters away from the paintings.
"TOO CLOSE!"
So when you grabbed me,
and ran miles around my mind,
before I had to moment to find
the courage to say- "I think we're going too fast,"
My heart would have told you with every
song it skipped.
My spotify woud have told you that I was not ready.
Because every second I spend alone
is occupied not with thoughts of you-
I'm sorry.
You're new.
But thoughts of the many daggers that have be thrown
into my bones.
And you're not him, thankfully.
But I'm so very sad about that too.
I know your shoelaces will stay tied.
I know you're in it for the ride.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry.
Thank you.
For keeping him off my mind for few moments.
I'm sitting in my room,
thinking of how many kisses he's consumed.
****. ****. ****.
Why did he fit the bill for me?
You're beyond that entirely.
Why don't you fit the bill for me?
Am I only drawn to beatings?
Have I tasted so much defeat,
that I can't ever allow myself a victory?

I'm lost and I'm scared and I'm sorry you are there.

He ****** up.
He knows this.
There was no amount of pain she could have caused him
to make what he did alright.
The more time he spends remembering,
the more he wishes he could forget.
He could never tell her how far it went.
Some might think she deserves to hear it-
but he knows she values her ears,
and she'd probably never believe him anyway.
So he thinks she deserves to be spared.
He still thinks about her,
on colder nights likes these.
Wondering what it would have been like to spend it
with a bit more ease.
If he never left her,
if he never did what he pleased.
It might have been boring,
but at least there was peace.
It might have been unfulfilling,
but at least there was nothing to prove.
It was easy love- what they had.
She put up with his tantrums,
cradled him like babe.
He wanted more,
and he didn't like her lies.
So he made up his own.
He knows he never could go back.
But he still thinks of her,
on colder nights like these.
He sees her name come up-
and wonder if she could still make him smile,
when his heart hurt. Like she used to.
She probably would.
But she deserves far better than him.
And he deserves to learn.

Small hands are squeezing organs,
from my stomach to my esophagus.
It all feels horrible,
like a spell was done and worn off again.
Manipulative magic, I’ve been here before.
But never with you.
I never thought I’d find you here.
Choking on the breadcrumbs of your alibi.
You were never good at hiding tracks.
The trails always led to the same place,
And now I’m doubting everything
from the color of your leaves,
to the sound of the wind.
Working off a sweat,
this relationship gave me baby weight.
For you it was whatever, so I roll them, you say “Baby, wait.”
Candy glass houses for your candy ***.
Sugarcoat everything you’ve omitted.
I disbelieve everything you’ve admitted.
Fire poker mumbles over the phone.
You’ve been lying with the witch
(‘s)is tongue still off limits?
I won’t step into the fire for you.
I’ll be out of the woods, soon.
Pebbles of wisdom instead of bird food.

Was it your final flight?
Entrapped in leather armor
you pierced me hot and dizzy
excruciating and unforgiving.
****** for haram invasion,
when we plowed through
your nesting grounds.

Splattered amongst the visor
your sisters died in vain
but you, you left a mark
had me faint on the bike
falling backwards, alarmed
almost victim to your kamikaze.
Only soothed with more poison.

Swollen sordid pretense,
will it die away?
Though not the predominate,
I feared amputation
from your martyrdom.
But your irreverent venom
only plagued me for a weekend.

There
Fresh page
Devoid of lines
Yesterdays writing shows still
But only in faded reversal
And with every new word inscribed
The past becomes that much more illegible
Unless pen is dropped page is turned back
Or if tears are spilt all over todays entry
Upon remembering the concerns worth writing about the day before
So fill blank spaces with ink and dont stop
To read the woes of previously recorded thoughts
Until the book runs out of pages
Or your hand is too tired
Pen out of juice
Then you can
Read back
Again

Find a good metaphor to die on,
in a poem at 3:24 am.
Alone in my own bed watching some cheesy
Hulu special with attractive people
who got their start in Disney.
I think about another failed relationship.
My eyes feel dry, so I wet them again.
This is real. This is healthy.
This is hurt.

Why’d he do that?
Self doubt creeps in like the black of night
slipping into my room while I count the hours
like I used to count his freckles,
or was that the one before?
I tried to feel longing.
I don’t want to be in his musk.

I don’t want to wake up the same.
Maybe I’ll wake up and he’d have never
done what he did.

But this was necessary,
at least valid.
The push I needed-
blessing in disguise of sudden
Loneliness during the holidays
while everyone I know
is with someone else
Happy or not.
Happy?
It’s not a constant, right?
I’m okay. I’m cleaning.
I’m painting. I’m flirting.
I’m hurting.
I’m certain this is temporary.
And I’m observing the resistance.

My ******* are hardened.
I’m not aroused- it’s just ******* cold.
And my human space heater
is out of service.
Need a new one.
Or a blanket.
A heated blanket. I’ll just get
A blanket.
They’re less disappointing.

I worry that if I had disappeared that night,
I would never get to hear the cotton sounds
of your voice
in my ear
whispering
"stay."

spent.
you groan.
you deplore the feeling of trying
only the smallest amount more than you deplore
staying still.
spills.
the clutter.
the mess, it gets the best of you each and every time,
it rhymes with destruction
that suction of the blackhole
that has become your home.
spread.
across beds.
you're only a little sliver and you stretch your arms wide
to cover everything your pride
will allow you to, and you dry-heave
and **, in your emaciated pose,
you're thin but...
spry.
limber, even.
you've got some years ahead of you.
your bones only ache as much as you brought them to.
your vision is clear and reading hasn't taken much from you.
those two portals to a weary soul
help you carry a stance with promise.
they'll make you speak.

If I can get over what you create,
and how you smile-
I would be just fine.
I would be just fine.

So many little ***** hands reaching out
for an empty watering can.
The pipe always seems to be closer
than it looks.
I shut my eyes tight sometimes and
let my fingers find a rhythm
or lose myself to the whirr.
I forget to meditate, or write things down,
I browse IG, fall into pattern of searching
for familiar names.
I find deals online and shop away the panic
Settling in, it’s replaced with commercial
anticipation- instant gratification-

Jesus ******* Christ I can’t even type
with my headphones on,
this car is always the obnoxious one
I never learn.
It’s the closest to the stairwell but I guess
I always hope that people would consider
That roosters haven’t even crowed yet
And maybe whisper?

They’re supposed to keep you warm, while you hold things when it’s brick out.
But mine never fit right.
Sliding about but if they’re tight they’re too thin,
If they’re thick I can’t type with them.
When something fits like one, it’s supposed to be perfect. Sleek- form fitting,
Perfect match.
That hasn’t quite happened yet for me.

I should just hide my hands in my pockets.
I need to feel things, anyway.
I always lose them, anyway.
I sure know how to choose them,
Heat-tech and fingerless, mittens
and insulated.
What’s a middle ground?
Dirt is healthy, anyway.
I rather just see the ghosts, anyway.

In class,
all I wanted to do was to go home
to write poetry.

Now,
I sit here, done with the lectures,
but I've only written notes.

My mind won’t shut up.
Count the breaths and listens to sleepcasts
like it should.
Am I bored with being happy?
I clung to creativity as the lifeline in my desperate years
and now it sits in the corner of my room
as one of the many things that spark joy
but isn’t instantly gratifying.
Dissociating is the only push I feel to write,
So I guess I haven’t been quite out of sorts
for a bit.
I have to be up in 5 hours.
I should sleep.
I feel my heart unbonding from the things that keep me.
I don’t see the damage quite yet.
I broke the empty Pyrex bowl that held my lunch earlier.
Right before I got on the train.
Right inside my cloth lunch bag.
I was embarrassed. And i smelt of chilli.
So i tossed the whole thing in the trash-
im heading for the hills.
I’m running.
I can’t be that invested in anything and i know it.
Wide awake and it’s almost midnight.
I don’t want to be the reason I slid right
Back down that shity spiral.
In the shape of sadness.
In the shape of discontentment.
Why is disco in that word?
Go to sleep now.

You know when you dont care anymore?
When you don't have emotions to spare anymore?
Yeah, that.
Whatever.