a list of

things that would hurt you if i tried to explain them and i’m done with that. hurting you.

(alternatively: things you’ll never understand about me even if you tried. this may breed resentment.) 

the verge

what counts is i am not a victor- i am losing
but i’m writing it all down, all the chasing, the confusion 
all the bruises and the ruins
she can’t love me, okay- moving
on means going faster
(i avoided a disaster)
and i’ll stay up all night 
writing lines to make it matter

fuck your cat

you and your stupid cat are the bane of my existence. actually, scratch that- the cat’s fine, which is the whole issue here.

become the ceiling

the floor is sinking. that’s all there is to it. the carpet falls into the earth and us with it, clutching at air.

salami

hand me the pen now it might be too late
lower the drawbridge, open the gate
remember that night we drove down to the lake
remember those times you didn’t show up

tip the scale

i’m not allowed to always feel safe, i know this, cherish it in that weird itchy-sweater-i-can’t-bear-to-throw-out-yet way. this is fine. we can’t always be picnics and long skirts and things that remind me of the better times, the nights i had no expectations of myself or you or anything, really.

blocked

i’ve got a bad case of writer’s block- all i can think about is you
there’s no plot to that

there’s tension, loaded silence, every damn thing i’m gonna do
when i get you alone,
sure
but where’s the juicy violence?
your glock 19, your coke habit, your homicidal ex-lovers? 

February ’17

There are only two things to do in this town- bone or spend your parents’ money. Sometimes the two aren’t mutually exclusive. 

summer lovin’

you were stupid in the summer, sporting too-short dresses and twirling around like i might catch you with my camera.

re: her

I asked her, “are we out of the woods yet?” and she said she wasn’t sure of anything anymore and I said that doesn’t answer my damn question and a chip bag crackled and the connection was lost.