YOU TELL YOUR BEST FRIEND
THAT YOUR MOM HATES YOU
AND IT BREAKS YOUR FUCKING HEART
AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO
AND YOUR BEST FRIEND SMILES
AND THEY REQUEST THAT YOU DOUBT YOURSELF
REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE SELF-CENTERED
AND A LIAR
SO THEY CALL YOU A FAGGOT
AND ASK WHAT THEY SHOULD GET THEIR GIRLFRIEND
FOR VALENTINE'S DAY
AND YOU ANSWER THEM
AND THAT IS ALL THERE IS TO IT
YOU STILL HAVE NO IDEA WHAT TO DO
BUT, YOU ARE SURE NOW, AT LEAST
THAT YOUR HEART IS BREAKING
AND SOMETIMES YOU ARE SURE
THAT IT IS NEVER COMING BACK
slushsometimes i think my life is in reversed seasons
and now winter is being greeted by spring and
the ice i once skated on is melting and
shattering under my feet and
i’m going to be swept away
by the freezing water any time now
any time now
sweet tooththere was a light
and it never went out
and it's you
you, who skipped rocks on dry creek beds and puddles
you, who walked down the highway with wolves in your bones
you, who smiled, even as
armageddon whispered sweetly against your ear
gravity, as always, is working against you
trying to push you into the pavement
deep under the water, against my skin
where the insecurity ends and we unfortunately begin
never to sink and unable to swim
time eats away the abasement
where it's dark and you're gone
and i can't sleep
can never sleep
hell is awful bright, you know
but you promised you'd write.
wednesday, november 7thdon't i bother you?
aren't i some fond rash from childhood
or the scraped knee from your first two-wheeler?
aren't i annoying, the dumb, horny cat outside
yowling desperately at the trash cans and rats
looking for love, some craigslist moron?
and how come you don't hate me?
or berate me?
why don't you pack up and migrate
and i'll fess up
that i am a mess of stray glances
clunky headphones, red cheeks
and the most bashful smile of the century
tail between my legs
an awful kisser
and masterful misser
and five inches too tall
what a vain poem.something is wrong with the length of my hair.
mermaids are glorious with manes eight miles long
and they don't even have to comb it, god damn, the ocean
does it for them
and art nouveau damsels have eighteen-hue and broken glass sparkle eyes
spiral galaxies coming out of their scalp, and god,
that's hair. that is hair.
even the faeries are born with it
incredible fathoms like pastel creeks that pour infinitely out
and they have to pile it all up tidily and tie it with a cat's whisker
to keep it from ruining their citrus-sheddings wings
and i am a girl, and i hide in my hair
way in the back where the knots all ensnare
and i do not need a map to find my way there
through thickets and forests and shampoo and wear.
my hands are always cold.why do i keep stuffing ice cubes into my mouth?
they're freezing, and they make my teeth hurt
and the crunch is sad and bitter on my red gums
everyone around me is shaking their heads, sipping on
tasty slushies, arms linked, the full weight of summer on their backs
asking me, "why do you keep stuffing ice cubes into your mouth?
you silly thing. stop that. it's not good for you."
and i know it's not
and you know, i don't want to be doing this, either
but i can't stop.
winter, y'know. it just keeps on coming.
in my mouth.
and i swallow it down whole.
spitters are quitters.
sometimes when i read, i find interludes
spring and autumn, a cold drink, a warm blanket
and there's solace in watching porn
or sleeping through a good film and kissing
walking down the sidewalk, listening to a new album
popping ice cubes in my mouth
i don't even realize it
there's just a sudden, overwhelming
i avoid the stares of people around me, it's such an embarrassing habit
i'd awful love to break it