too much

I love him.

Growing up

The beautiful things that sprout from hardships decay, more than reminds you, that life, though unpredictable, is a creature of habit just like you or I. It will forever do the same things; blossom and wilt. But in the wilting comes new growth, nurtured by your already tenderized wounds inflicted by life,all its uphill battles, and downfalls. But, in your weakest moments look down at your hands, the same hands that feed you, the same hands that ruin what you will them to destroy. Think of the possibilities you hold in those islands of skin. Allow yourself to inspire, and ignite the world. Remind your troubled mind that, though you may see pain as black and white, there is far too much beauty in the world, and there is far too much color to ignore.

I'm afraid

I climbed to the tip

of a tower in my sleep last night.

I dropped

arms out

I didn't wake.

I didn't wake this time.

Mom

My mom,

is the woman

that made me believe

men weren't always cruel.

despite their ongoing

failure

to love me.

She simply loved me harder

to make up

for what they lack.

Home

It's been a while since I've written home, I guess I miss the simplest moments I used to have there. There is an ugly couch on my deck, it smells like seaweed and underwater socks. I miss that couch. In my living room there are corners that are hardly covered in light, but there's enough to feel like you're not completely submerged in shadow. I miss that feeling. The wooden panels that separate Martha Stewarts house from mine keep me in a cozy cabin bliss. Lamps set on mismatched coffee tables that stand on stained blue carpet, who chose that color for carpet? Not me, not my mom. It's just blue enough to keep your mood at a standstill, it doesn't blend into the colors of my feet, which I appreciate. Too often have I gone into houses, felt uncomfortable, and to my dismay looked down, only to see my feet swallowed into a murky tan carpet. There are some walls made of stone, and although it makes a bumpy resting spot, in summers heat, it tends to soothe my sunburns and peeling skin with its cool touch. The bathroom, with it's 60's tiling, and rouge colors is the slut of all rooms. If my bathroom were a gender, she would be, without a doubt a burlesque woman with painted cheeks and would undoubtably show her ankles at all times. My backyard, with it's messy spred, a unique blend of "hand me down" trees, and clover sprouts decorate most of its entirety. But in rare spots there are daffodils, and misguided branches that have seen better, less moldy times. The oldest basketball court in the world remains standing in the corner of it, the hoop has become more of a tree with net than anything. The cement, like an old woman, is wrinkled and in some areas, withering away. On top of this cement, stands a disgusting pool that held beautiful moments for my family, in a less than beautiful time. Without air conditioning, and the scent of death hanging so heavily in the air, it created a sense of security, more like a sense of controlled security we were searching for in our desperate time of "after we die, where do we go?". In my moms room, formerly known as grandmas room the walls are such a light lavender it keeps you guessing until you put your own hand against it to see the contrast at work. Her bed is made up of gifts I had given her when she lost her mother. A comforter made of clouds and the color of sage. She rests there now, I can hear the shouting of "pretty people" on her television. Just once, I'd love for her to be on there with them, she deserves to be someones bedtime routine too. My room, with it's manic coloring, manic paintings, and emotional slurs caked onto cold walls. It screams "artist", and I swear to you, I'm not even close. My room is a direct reflection of myself, and how the world looks to me. Loud, restful, and intimate. In harsh times, I sit for hours writing my biggest secrets on the wall east of my bed. Sometimes, I lay awake at night, trying to figure out why some of them are secrets at all. They stare at me, like cartoon eyes in dark midnight. My mom doesn't know it, I didn't know it, but someday all of these things, will be a comfort I should have kept.

Image

Good lord,

you are doing

a fake mans

imagination justice.

If he made you in his image

who the hell made me?

Lovers spit

I'm thirsty

for your love

and my outtards

are calling to be turned in.

I'll wash you away

like a fine wine

in my clearest glass.

I need the satisfaction

of watching you disappear.

by my hand

I need the humility of knowing

you're gone

and I can drink you away

like lovers spit

like lovers spit

like lovers spit

on the tip of my tongue

and I'm tired of this

same old drunk

fucking me up

i'm thirsty for your love

but I know it's not the same old quench

It's sour and bitter and cold

and my heart grows weary of being this way

I'll drink you away

like lovers spit

like lovers spit

like lovers spit.

heavy like lovers spit.

Filth

If holding me

means

destroying me

then you held me all night long.

New years starts tomorrow.

I am a classical movie

I am Anne Margret.

I need subtitles,

because my olden day accent

is too thick to comprehend.

I have a box for my hats

and a purse to match

each glove.

And every time I fall in love

the duets I sing

with my

frank sinatra

are far better than any

auto-tuned bonanza

You've heard thus far.

I said goodbye

I didn't even hold you long enough

to say hello.