maybe you can feel me,               the clunk
the clunk in my chest                    in yours

the drop in my                                 the drop
diaphragm,                                       of your hand

maybe you can see it,                  your eyes
my eyes open as open                 seeing as
                                                              mine
                                               

maybe you can hear it,               is
the hum inside my                        from your
                                                              mouth


maybe you can think me            as I
                                                              think
                                                              you

tired, but empty so

I'll lay at odd angles, in uncomfortable 

positions so as not to fall asleep. keep

hoping that maybe I'll make something

more of today, make

something, just make

something that makes today

a little more worth it, makes

me a little

more 

worth

 

today

pale 

speech 

can breathe                             in this

pick my breath from the empty,

carryit in your lungs, like it's your own

clear space in my own lungs, let you curl
hear my heart beat above your head

feel my breath quicken
and slow

my curved spine will cradle you,

hold my knees against my chest so you are 

warm, lift my diaphragm so as not
to crowd
you out

I have room, for you
here, I have
room 

This is not why I like your poetry. This is why I love you.

"Because poems look like pies through rose colored glasses and it's really hard to find a bad pie."

 - SH

I never want to talk over you.
I always want to listen, listen and perhaps respond.
but mostly just
listen.

MPDG

used to wish I was one of those
Manic Pixie Dream Girls.
you know,  like Zooey Deschanel or
Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's.

that bubbly, shallow cinematic creature that exists solely in the fevered imaginations of sensitive writer-directors to teach broodingly soulful young men to embrace life and its infinite mysteries and adventures.

most of the time the MPDG's don't have goals
or endeavors independent of the male lead.

I reject that thought when it pops into my head nowadays.
I reject that title.

I won't be a lubricator to your peace of mind if I haven't ever had my own.

a big fucking blur

like someone moving when you take the picture

in a constant state of co-existence in parallel dimensions, never in

solid form, particles

atoms - movingbeing

us

we're trying

the floor is covered in ash, we trudge
through to the kitchen to pour ourselves some coffee,
then to the bedroom to lay in the empty space there, left
to us - everything is - to swallow like a bad thanksgiving dish
you're too polite not to eat

our hands are never clean, our feet are always cold and
we don't have enough sense to put on socks. 

the faces are heavy, they give off sawdust smiles and
big red-marked cheeks from leaning too hard on other people,
we are craning over one another, reaching past one another, never holding
eye-contact

it's the emptiness left from the previous emptiness here,

it's awful here,
it's awful
here.

"Goddamnit, sonuvabitch!"

this is your legacy, basically.

"When the weeds are poking through your skull, then there's plenty of time for regrets." - Han Shan

There are two voices (among the many) in continuous opposition,
always finding their way into a mouth or two or three of the 
hungry tongues and teeth and lips of this place:

"Why spend time chasing when you are nothing but
a bag of bones prattling along the path to a concrete slab?" says the one. 

Says the other, 
"Yes but this is life, jump in! 
Join the fray - play. For the time - there is only so much."

and

everything goes.

like a church, without the echo.

my love is in this place, runs through it
like blushed cheeks, and wind
carries our laughter.

it helps to read (about) other people's pain

 it helps to cradle your own, in the crook of your elbow like
a catch in the throat, like pulling off a sweater's static cling and
stripping down to nothing but a a set of teeth for eating and
a set of eyes for tearing up when you feel human enough

don't don't
make anything
you're not willing
to see destroyed

"Fucking bummer.
Not having friends is."

get what you give, baby.

last dregs coat the tongue like
dead possums in the mouths of eager dogs, like
big-bellied fools asleep in garbage cans, like
no-tooth smiles and yawns mid-
sentence.

I can't breathe anymore
can't breathe anymore, can't be
can't be
can't be


any




more. 

pop all the speech bubbles.

on every situation ever in my life:

I am glad
and I am not.

"Why are you eating so many peaches?"
"Because if we are what we eat, I want to be peaches."

it becomes more and more difficult to suck the poison out of your life when it is slowly sinking into your pores, your body sipping from it's cup, when it begins to bond with your DNA and your skin turns from peaches to grey ash. when you scrape the bottom of your stomach for something but there is nothing left of you, only poison, only
poison.

(give) me room, a little more, a     little                   more

belly is bloated with falsity, my breath is barely

there, I am -holding- back because I have nothing to  

       

                (give)

                 to you 

             I have no-

                  thing to 

                         (give) 

I'm sorry, 

I'm sorry.

dear body (pt.2)

dear toes,

thank you for carrying me all the way home (like the little pigs you are)

dear ankles, 

you are not weak. 

I'm sorry I call you that sometimes. 

dear knees, 

knobby or not, you still let me bend without letting prying eyes see up my skirt. 

dear thighs, 

I think your stretch marks are like road maps. 

it lets me know I've been places. 

dear tummy, 

I'm sorry for the ridiculous diet of whole vegetables and sweets I feed you. 

I promise to try and eat like a normal person in the future. you're a champ. 

dear breasts, 

you're still mine. that is all. 

dear arms, 

still can't lift a car. 

but that's okay, because I can lift a guitar. 

dear fingers, 

I'm sorry I bite you. they are love bites, I swear. 

dear neck, 

the likeness of a swan's, you allow me to crane over crowds in theatres. 

dear lips, 

also, I'm sorry I bite you. you deserve more chapstick. 

dear nose, 

sorry I poked a hole through you. but if it's any consolation, everyone says you look badass. 

dear eyes, 

I'm sorry I don't wear my glasses all the time, but

glasses or no, you let the beautiful in. 

dear ears, 

I'm sorry I listen to music too loudly at times. 

dear hair, 

sometimes I think you're against me. 

but at the end of the day you curl like a cat at my neck,
the ultimate comfort.

you are never talking to me, see your
eyes cast down, looking like you're looking
for something on the ground, but it isn't
a blossom of spring, because it snowed
yesterday, it snowed all over our blooming
hopefuls.

you are never talking to me, shifting gaze to the right
because you are sincere about avoiding mine, you
are sincere about letting my eyes slip by yours
without a second
glance.

no chance.

you are not a good girl.