Alone No Matter

the dust settles and you can still see
the sweat on your face from last night. it doesn’t take much
to get you reeling again. and your heart is twisted
into something frantic and panting, just like it was
in the dark. my advice?
pick up your shit and run.
put as many miles under your feet as you can, and
only look back if you have to.

you have resorted to burning blank sheets of paper
because you have run out of things to say
but you still want to watch something go up in flames.
sometimes you just throw names
in the fire. and the smoke smells sweet
like chemical memories, but you can’t help
wanting to wash the soot off after you finish.
it is all just a coping mechanism.
a way to keep breathing when the past
is standing on your chest.

and you see women walking by in green dresses
and you wonder why you are still wearing black.
but it all comes down to the soles
of your shoes, I guess, and whether
they take you from point A to point B.
hell, yours even dance for you sometimes.
I suppose that’s worth hanging on to.

but the dirt in your eyes is hard
to ignore, even under spotlights and fog machines.
you are beginning to realize that getting a stranger
to buy you drinks in a bar
does not actually improve your self-esteem.
you still feel hollow at the end of the night,
even with a hundred lips pressed
against your body.

this is what starts the reeling:
the recognition that you are alone
no matter whose bed you are sleeping in.

and that sweat on your face is starting to look real ugly
now, isn’t it? so follow my advice
before it’s too late. pick up your shit and get out.
slam your feet on the pavement until you can’t feel
the hurt anymore. maybe this time
you’ll finally outrun
yourself.

No Competition

This is what you get when you put all your eggs in one basket:
he's fucking your best friend while you're crying yourself to sleep.
You can only imagine their twined fingers as they rise and fall
and you are trying not to wake up your roommates with the sound
of remembering. And now you know for certain that what you had
with him was only ever sex, and it was barely even that to begin with,
and you wanted to slow yourself down enough to stop seeing
rose-colored circles in his eyes and to stop making him
into something he wasn't, but you tend to pick up a crush
and run with it. I mean sprint.

It all comes into focus now.
He only chose you when she wasn't around.

And your throat is itching to scream that you are not interchangeable
with her. The two of you may share a first name
but you are not a fucking package deal.
Nobody gets a medal for sleeping with both of you,
although he certainly went for the gold if there was one.
And it stings now to remember when you were alone with him, and
he tried to make you feel special by calling you by your last name instead,
only he slipped up and used hers instead of yours.
You wanted to believe it was an innocent mistake at the time,
but looking back it's pretty damn plain
that when he put his hands through your dark hair,
he was wishing it was blonde like hers.

And you feel little now, like
a kid on a playground writing love notes in the sandbox to the boy
who's across the swing set pulling someone else's pigtails.
You should have seen it coming. There were too many bad omens,
but you had too many eggs and not enough baskets and you figured
it might just work out this time. What you didn't plan for
was the blue of her eyes shining just a bit more brightly than yours,
and the way her laugh tingles the spine while yours just sounds
like a punch in the gut. You are shirtless, writing poems alone
in your room again while she is texting you
to ask for his number.
And the grime of last night is still on your skin
and all you want to do is shower, but you know the water won't wash
away all the things you wanted from him, the things he never
intended to give you, and you don't want to look
in a bathroom mirror right now anyway.

It all comes down to this: you have always hated competing with her.
Mostly because you know at the end of the day
all she has to do is smile, and then
there is no competition.
You can't blame him
for figuring it out.

Eve After The Apple

Daddy I’m sorry I am, I tore my dress on thorn strewn branches, all these flower petals falling on my shoulders
I brush the cinders off my crooked teeth but no I wouldn’t tell you why, no I would not, oh and you’d love to hear me talk about my sweaty crumpled jeans wouldn’t you, wouldn’t you
That look you give me
That look, look, look
Look, I’m a teenaged slut and you’re taking out the trash

No no, it really isn’t fair it isn’t ever fair is it, I wouldn’t say it you wouldn’t hear it, and I guess I went and did something stupid didn’t I, didn’t I
yes Daddy I did blood stain my pretty white laced skirt
I’m sorry, I knew you wanted me to wear it for Easter but
it looks like I’m too gone for God now here and He saw the juice run down my chin and I just smiled didn’t I, didn’t I (only I wish I could say Mama 'cause a She god sure as Hell wouldn’t blame me for a little apple slice)

Either way I look too gone for God but not for golden idol streetlights and cigarette butts into ashtrays are my alters, yes
Cloudy little wisp of smoke me
(or maybe more like fat snake slithering through desk chairs and knocking over the Good China oh dear, did I do that?)
My poor knees, I think it's growing pains you said or it might be the weight of that secret I kept up between or maybe I spread them too far...
Oh yes and I’m sorry Daddy, Daddy, I did stain that white little dress, won’t you buy me a new one?

I should have bitten my tongue until it bled or sewn my lips with purple thread, and I should have I should have done a great many things but I didn’t
and I bet you look good with those hips in a circle Adam, oh, I bet
I bet you’ve looked looked good take a good long look because baby needs her spotlights, heaven knows
Okay I tripped over my own toes, I did, I skipped the cops and maybe I grabbed his leg but
The stars seem explosive when you’re drinking trees and toxins together from one jug don’t they, don’t they
And I just let my hair grow past the floor, let it grow right past the floorboards and in with braided flowers leaky pipe roots twisted and someone’s broken bottle glass, I did
Oh but Daddy I can’t twist it up for church now can I, can I

Bless me Father for I have skinned my knees on carpet writing love songs to the wrong end, I shouldn’t have shouldn’t have, and I got blood on my clean little skirt and I shouldn’t have, I know you bought me that nice white sheet and I promise I still wear my bobby socks with ruffles on the lip
Yes yes, they still match my saddle oxford shoes only I’ll have to rub that little red droplet off...
But Daddy oh I did, I brushed my skin caught little red droplets rolling down my leg drip apple juice right on my ankle and I tasted them didn’t I, didn’t I touch them to my tongue
Red apple rich sweet honey and I just skin smirk stroked and smiled didn’t I
Didn’t I kiss the bosom borne fruit, didn’t I
Didn’t I bite a dozen more
Didn’t I
Didn’t I

Good Advice for Bad People

Swear to yourself you will not
write another poem for that person,
the one who made you feel dry like ash,
and then open another document
and start writing.
This is what you will be left with
at the end of the day: a pair of
someone else's boots and a tired mouth.
I want to promise you
that it will feel fresher after dawn
breaks, but my promises don't stick
very well these days.

So have a little hope and then bury it.
Hold yourself down to the bed
and pretend you are not alone.
(You have to close your eyes very
tightly for that one.)

Just trust me: these are the ways
to cope when your fingers
are bruised, and you still
have a few sewing projects left.
Take the things you love, the things
you substitute for air,
and set them on fire. Watch them burn
down to nothing.
And the parts of you that still hurt
will burn with those things,
and there will be plenty
of oxygen left. Only this air
will be free of obligation.

Remember that there are no happy
endings for people like us,
only gray areas
and stomachs that growl in the middle
of the night. Give up on trying
to make sense of your reflection.
Let go of the notion
that you are a sweetheart. You
are not. You are a lion.

Be brave and stop
giving a fuck about the bridges
you burn. Embrace the fact
that your tears
are acid rain. Even your sadness
can hurt people.

Get sunburned.
Peel it off.
Become a hundred different people
with a hundred different sets of skin
by the time the summer ends.
Forget where you started.
And I want to promise you
that it will feel
fresher when dawn breaks, but
my promises don't stick
too well these days.

What I will say is this:
you are beautiful in your destruction.
Try your hardest not to be afraid
to raise hell.

No Promises

my bone-white fingers grasp at memories like straws

the little flecks of you that were left inside my skin

and doubts are cropping up between my smiling teeth 

like buzzards in suburban yards. I wonder what has died

to bring them here, or whether birds of prey are just bad omens

because someone told me once that I would endure

a hell of a lot more heartbreak before I found something

worth keeping in my ribs, and I must admit I am exhausted

already. so I have only written half a poem for you so far, because
I am tired of exploding like atom bombs in my lovers’ skies. trust me
when I say that when I fall for you, I will not land on velvet pillows
it will be violent and harsh and bones will break, and if you try to catch me
before I hit the ground I will only hurt you more. my knees are weak
and weary of carrying too much worry in my hips, and when I ask you
to love me you should know that I am twisting like jungle branches as I say it
my skin is tight with fear like saltwater in a balloon and there are
so many serpents underneath my tongue that kissing me
is a dangerous thing to do. part of me wants you to save yourself
the trouble and part of me wants you to stay, but most of me knows
that I am conjuring this all out of smoke and you were never in my arms
to begin with, except for one night. in all likelihood, it is the only night
we will have. we made no promises to each other. but it was a warm night
and I slept well, and your hand in the crook of my waist as we took turns breathing
felt like a secret I’d been waiting to share. I expect we’ll move forward
and I’ll blush if you ask me whether this poem is about you, and you will find
a mouth without serpents in it, and I will find someone else to fall apart with

but I imagine I’ll remember how, for a while, our smiles fit together pretty well.

Cups

I drink from whatever cups are left on the windowsill.
it has been long enough but I still have not discovered my own
water source. so I find my reflection in small places: little
circular faces peering up at me from day-old glasses of Coke
and halves of bathroom mirrors where I wasted all the smiles
I had saved up for you. instead I watched you walk up stairs
with some other girl, and she was careening into you hard
and her hair was much longer than mine. I suppose that is
a sign. her smiles fell on your face and you brought her
to your lips, and I can only imagine where it went from there.
I was even stupid enough to knock on your door, as if you
weren't smiling into her lips behind it. and of course I am still
sitting here in an unlit room, drinking from someone else's cups
and letting my fingers fumble over this old keyboard rather than
talking to you, or creating enough gravity to make you
careen into me the way she did into you.
maybe this is all in my imagination.
either way, I think the cure
is just some fresh water.

Little Craters

last night I caught a glimpse
of the little craters in your eyes
they gather the moonlight and let it pool
up along the edges of your lashes
and it leaks like silver tears
when you smile

and I am not the only one
who has noticed the shape of you
the way it curves and falls into itself
I do not know how many lovers
have found their own secrets
in the sway of your spine

but I would like a shot at it
if only for a few hours, maybe
I am too wide and too many things
and maybe my skin is too smooth
with no valleys, nowhere
for the light to pool

you have such good timing
and mine is always five minutes fast
we keep missing each other. and I could have
reached out and found my fingers in your hair
a hundred times, making little braids
but something stayed me

it may have been the blue light
and the shadows it cast, made your nose
into a mountain range I could not climb
it may have been the big of your hands
and my fears that my little heart
might drown in them

but with my eyes closed, I bathed
in the craters of yours, in the liquid
moonlight. you were three feet away
and I was dancing in your waters
and maybe tonight I will try
to find your skin
with mine