and this is why the sky never ends,
and valentines flowers last only a week
before rotting and
why we step in puddles
with new shoes on and why
the only memories we can remember
are the ones that make us sick
inside, and why so many people fuck,
but never love, and this is why
late at night, beneath the covers
as the light bulbs cool off, i feel nothing
in my soul except the ceiling fan.
i have a picking problem. and maybe a drinking problem and eating problem. i want to write, but then i also want to read and sleep and eat and cry and dream and drink and sit up in my bed listening to the neighbors sneeze in between sentences. i sneeze, too, when i’m in my room for too long. a secret about me is that i transcribe other people’s conversations when i have nothing to write. i’m thinking about getting another tattoo. if i could get high off of pop punk i would probably do that now.
Do you know what it means for a city to twinkle? In the apartment complex 45 degrees away there is a man sitting with his head in his hands and a guitar on the bed. There is a woman pacing in her kitchen of fine china and an abandoned living room with the sportscaster yelling at no one. There is no game to be cheering for anymore, the game is over, the clock starts over in military time. Someone salutes the telephone behind my walls and the fridge groans, having to appease the stringy mango no one wants.
I am quiet. I am watching the city breathe into the night as if it is not supposed to know that I am here. When you’ve spent too much of your day speaking meaningless words, soon your voice trails off, too.
could really use some of these right now
i’m trying so hard not to do drugs. the night is quiet already. it’s like they taught us black means silence, means death. i don’t know death. my cavities are uneven and i’m scared they’ll change my smile. but i don’t know, to smile. i was googling my memories to see if anyone else would be interested; instead i remembered the ex-militia diver who asked me on a date exactly eleven times and bought me a coke to prove he was serious. i drank it all because i missed being wanted, but then he gave me his sunhat and love was this warm, tender thing i had become so foreign to. i left a little before midnight on the go-fast, mother sky winking above me, upside-down.
someone to draw mindmaps with. someone who will buy me bootleg bubble gum. someone whose mouth doesn’t have to taste like honey. someone who knows i am often broken in the months of november, january, and july. sometimes august. sometimes too warm. someone who prays too hard and ties the shoes of prenne in < 5 blinks. someone who will close the door on their way out, and let me lock it.