skeleton hands.

my heart can't remember why she wakes up anymore,
because every time she beats, she beats a dead horse.
she decided she'd rather drown than be found cold in the ground
but the waves might teach her a thing about the beauty of consistency.

my heart was so cold
i drew a bath to pull the warmth to its surface.

i threw out the scale
and wrapped all the mirrors in cotton
so i didn't have to look my insecurities in the eye
and remember their hands that begged for change beneath my skin.

i didn't want to hear their voices
pulling at the emptiness in my stomach
so i covered my ears,
because walls are the only way i learned to defend myself.

i sat on the edge of the tub
and hands pushed me to the water,
hands pulled at my skin and asked for more.

so i gave every whispered "i love you" my mother said
and every knuckle i ever bruised,
every lie i told myself to fall asleep at night
and all the truths i never came to terms with,
all the words carved into the soles of my feet
and every footprint that reads "you are nothing," "you are nothing."

but the water washed away the lines like a baptism
and the warmth ran up my legs
reminding me there was blood in my veins
and my breathing was voluntary.

but there were skeleton hands
wrapped around my heart like a cage,
and i've heard it's hard to kill the wishes of a dead man
and even harder to pry love from his fingers.

and the bathwater couldn't reach my bloodstream
with the bones resting in peace
beneath my rib cage.

so i thought about how many things have hands:
death,
clocks,
police officers,
and frost,
and how many of those hands close instead of open.

and i felt the skeleton hands,
the knotted fingers,
give way
and the water warmed the blood,
and the blood listened.

i heard my heartbeat in my ears louder than the voices:
"you are living,"
"you are living."

and my heart was so warm
my body sings "love," "love," "you are love,"
and i'm starting to believe it.

my hands are broken.
my hands tell a story i wanted to forget,
but even hands can be forgiven with time and warm water.

and i thank the clocks that counted down the seconds til now.

stereotypes and bridges.

today, someone told me that depression is not poetic.
eating disorders are not romantic.
self-harm is not artistic.
and crying yourself to sleep is not sentimental.

bleeding on a page won't sew my heart back on my sleeve.

the untouched food is not symbolic
and you can't eat enough pages of the bible to coat your stomach.
the toilet bowl is cold and unforgiving.
i could write about tracing my collarbones with my fingertips
and i could write about how the mirror will always look with dagger eyes
and i could write about how i'll fuck you no matter what you say to me.
"but i no longer need you to fuck me as hard as i hated myself."

the words don't make the medication go down any easier.
i still have a hard time swallowing because of march
and no matter what font i type the letters in,
the emptiness is not beautiful.

don't tell me it's beautiful when my chest doesn't work right.
i just want to write about blue birds and yellow skies.

here's to living.

these are the ways you make me feel

these are the ways you make me feel.

the world is drowning, and the last key is on my tongue.
the phrasing of your words reminds me of home.
fingers on my spine turn out my rhythm.

these are the ways you make me feel.

your hands are sandpaper, and my chest is pine.
every pulled whisper on rewind.
you're counting change, asking god for more minutes
and i'm tapping the time.

these are the ways you make me feel.

i start looking for you in religious texts
and my eyes see in color again.
i'm not buying tool kits in the hope of screwing my head on straight.
the world's no longer turning.

these are the ways you make me feel.

hot baths.
heart attacks.
alliteration.
forgetting punctuation.

sea salts.
1950's malts.
cliche rhymes.
keeping up with the times.

these are the ways you make me feel.
these are the ways you make me feel.

i want to be

but mention "death" one more time, and i'll tell you the truth.

it makes me jealous.

because i want black nail polish and black shoes, but more importantly, i want to see a casket from the inside. i need more than one key to lock me in, but i don't want to keep the cold out anymore. i want to keep the cold closer to my heartbeat.

i want to hear your footprints above my head
and i'm thinking of you with a runny nose and chapped lips kneeling in the snow.

at first i'll be laughing about your breathless prayers and how you never knew what to ask for. but then i'll repent for all the cynics out there. just in case god's gonna pull me out of this box someday and drop me someplace worse.

sometimes, i want to be the reason the sun stops rising for you. sometimes, i want to break all the hands who touched me, i want to starve myself because they called me fat, and i want to be the reason you cry yourself to sleep every night. i am why you start drinking. i want to be the black that makes the rest of the colors brighter and the backdrop of every thing you decide to change about yourself.

sometimes, i'm selfish.

i want to be every time you said "no" and why you won't go out tonight. i want to be the first teacher who told you that you weren't special. every pet you buried in the backyard and every fingernail you ever chewed. goddamn it, i want my face to be stained on the back of your eyelids.

i want to haunt you like a bad ghost. i'll come back in the form of every girl you meet at the small town bar and every shot you take to drown your thoughts in. hell, i'll be the thoughts that learned to swim and the devil that taught 'em. i'll be everything that keeps you up at night.

i want to be the thing that finally kills you.

we're glass and sand

and even though you're rubbing me just right

i'm rubbing you just wrong.

baby, i want to be your muse. i want to be every word you write about and every letter you type about and i want you to forget what day of the week it is because you're so damn busy living in the curves of my name.

while i forget to think about you, my name is carved into your chest with my favorite pen.
and the wound bleeds black.

the wound bleeds black.

you've got

it's dark outside, but it's darker inside.

i can see the inches i've grown pushing at the foot of the bed
and i can see the inches between who you are and who you were
in the bad habits you've picked up on the road to november.

there will come a time when you'll forget whose bones are buried in the backyard
and the cigarettes will pile up in the kitchen sink.

my mother's hands will wear the nursery rhymes thin
and the grass will fade to gray.
the world will be rewritten in black and white
and the pull of the moon will keep the men from their lovers.

but you've got forget-me-nots for eyes
and instead of lines in your palms,
you've got fortune cookies from chinese restaurants.
and you're proud of them.

you've got police tape wrapped around your smile
and a therapist wearing construction orange.
you say "maybe" instead of "yes,"
and "no" instead of "maybe,"
and your heart isn't as steady as it's cracked up to be.

you've got february eyes.
seeing eyes.
looking eyes.

and you wear these glasses to frame them,
but i know your lips have always had the camera's focus.

you always manage to bring sex into a conversation,
and you pull men to the water's edge like a siren
before you push them on their way home.

listen, you've got typewriter hands.
calibri font hands.
"watch me" hands.

you've got "give me" hands.
credit card hands.
atm hands.

you've got an ampersand kind of voice
and we're all waiting for what happens after the word "and"
but you've also got an ursula kind of voice,
when she steals ariel's boyfriend.

you've got a mean streak tucked beneath your blonde
and i've always wanted to be the thing that kills you,
but you pray to him more than i do
and his eyebrows lift as your lips move.

his eyebrows lift as your lips move.
my eyebrows will never lift as your lips move.

listen, you've got a lot of things,
but you'll never get me.

I am, I am.

I’m not who you think I am.

I’m not fists and I’m not hands.

I’m not broken houses

or faded paint

or crooked shutters.

Not missing fillings

or empty medicine cabinets

or crumbling hip bones.

I’m not a hurricane like I used to be. I’m too far inland and all out of heart. Hurricanes get tired in Utah. Hurricanes run out of reasons to flood houses and tear down power lines. Call it passion, call it anger, they run out.

I’m not cracked sidewalks or exposed tree roots.

I’m not the vacant apartment.

Not torn wallpaper or property damage.

I’m not a police report.

I’m not the unopened book at Barnes and Nobles. My pages are worn, dog-eared. There’s tear stains and grease stains. There’s notes in pencil, crayon, and three colors of pen. 

Man, I was loved.

I am not a cigarette butt

Not a Vegas whore.

Not a one time use, get your money’s worth.

I am a diamond that your wife wants to wear every day as a symbol of forever.

I want to kiss her finger when she drives the kids to school in her pajamas.

I want her to put me ahead of her bra on the priority list.

I want to be a symbol of promise.

You will hang me on your wall,

nailed to a crucifix,

and look at me every time you walk up the stairs.

I want to be Martin Luther King’s speeches and Shakespeare’s love stories. I will be as idealistic as politicians and speed limits, and as realistic as emergency rooms and death dates.

I’ve been unwashed hands and the priest who rinsed them. I am a Bible and a centerfold, Vegas and Provo. I am a nudist colony and General conference. I am a god and a devil, sinner and saint. I read the Book of Mormon and I support gay marriage.

I am duct tape. I may not be cement pushing a building to its feet, but these days, I congratulate myself on holding my limbs to my torso, my brain in my head, and my heart in my chest.

And damnit, I am metallic. I capture the light of the moon in my fishing net. And that’s all I’ve got. I want to prove that I can still shine after the devil’s had me in his boxing ring and the gloves are out.

I lost the fight, but I’m winning the rematch. Hell, I’m so glad to still be swinging that I will donate all the prize money if I ever get out of here. Listen, I am the good guy. I am the lead in a successful indie film that got an eighty percent on Rotten Tomatoes. You’re cheering for me. You’re taping pictures of me in your lockers. You hipsters are listing me as your celebrity crush and I have haters telling me I’m overrated, and I like them too. At least they’re talking about me.

And I’ve got two black eyes, but I’ve still got this silver lining tracing my bruises. Baby, I’m reflecting this light above me. Gotta make room for second chances and holy water. Because honey, I’m the crest of a wave. I’m the foam on the sand. I wash off easy and I don’t stain your clothing. I’m forgiveness. I’m translucent. I’m forgettable.

But I keep looking after the train leaves, after the leaves fall, and I never forget the lines on your hands. I may have been fists. I may have been teeth, but I’m not anymore. I’m offering myself next to a spoonful of sugar so I go down easier the next time. I don’t weigh down your backpack. I just like to watch from afar. I like to see your smile more than I like to see you understand because honey, your smile is beautiful.

Listen, my rhythm is not as blue as it used to be. My nails aren't as sharp and my words don’t cut as deep. I can even make small talk now. Please drink me in and remind me what it feels like to be wanted.

I’m tired of spelling out love love love on the keyboard thinking it will find its way into my bloodstream. I’m stuck in high school. I write love love love on my arms and I hear love love love on the radio, but my heart doesn't beat any faster and there’s not a face that comes to my head.

I try to whisper love love love to my house, but it’s not loud enough. Remember, I’m translucent. I don’t stain your clothes. But I’m not loud enough. And that has always been the catch.

a list of things i am afraid of

• alphabet soup.
• animal shelter advertisements.
• the name "abcde." pronounced like a smoother version of abs city.
• the fact that i will probably name my kid something far out (i'm thinking viva. how sick would that be? viva).
• buttered bread.
• unbuttered bread.
• barbies and disney princesses.
• being the date with half her side forgotten from the group picture.
• cat hair.
• dialectics.
• double thinking.
• double zeros.
• disappointing my therapist.
• dropping out of college.
• that i want to drop out of college.
• dying too early.
• dying too late.
• energy drinks.
• exclamation points!!!
• eating too much.
• not eating enough.
• fire alarms.
• four espresso shots.
• flax seeds.
• forgetting to grow up.
• forgetting to get a job.
• forgiveness.
• forgetting to fall in love.
• forgetting how to fall in love.
• falling in love with another writer.
• getting really mad and killing my sister.
• gradients.
• grandparents.
• graphing on excel.
• the fact that i can't graph on excel.
• hurricanes.
• my heart.
• he who owns my heart.
• iceland.
• going back to inpatient.
• that i probably need to go back to inpatient.
• jail (duh).
• jelly (or jam). whichever one doesn't have seeds.
• jalopenos.
• jack-o-lanterns with funny faces.
• jerry jones and the dallas cowboys and their 6-1 record.
• not being able to watch football in heaven.
• words spelled with "k" that should be spelled with the letter "c" instead.
• light up frisbees.
• life.
• lies.
• liars.
• that i'm a liar.
• mcdonald's meat.
• meeting alpine, utah.
• moving on.
• not being able to move on.
• mother nature.
• macklemore (i dig his style though).
• neutrality (maybe that's why i don't like switzerland).
• nuclear bombs.
• utah state getting bombed.
• never playing tennis again.
• that i never want to play tennis again.
• having nowhere to go on thanksgiving.
• going home for thanksgiving.
• not enough.
• too many.
• oppression.
• operations.
• tongue twisters.
• out of breath.
• picking up the phone.
• pocket dialing andrew from my music class.
• petting zoos with bears (there's one in logan, not kidding).
• never living up to my potential.
• that this is my potential.
• q-tips breaking my ear drums.
• rust.
• razors.
• rusty razors.
• ryan gosling.
• spicy foods.
• switzerland (i'm sure the swiss are nice people).
• sex.
• never having sex.
• having too much sex.
• liking porn too much.
• shaving.
• snapchat.
• saying sorry.
• sharing.
• suffocating.
• tomorrow.
• time.
• too little time.
• talking too much (fuck it).
• television.
• unhappy birthdays.
• utility bills.
• 37.
• underage drinking.
• uni.
• the voice tv show.
• william wilson.
• william it was really nothing.
• winter.
• xboxes.
• xenophobia
• names that start with x like xinhua and xavier (is xinhua even a name? it showed up thanks to autocorrect).
• "y," the last letter in the word mercy, pounding it out on the keyboard relentlessly.
• yiddish.
• zombies.
• never finding my zen.
• zits.
• canadians calling the letter "z" zed.
• zero gravity.
• zero friends.
• zero.
• zero.
• zero.

leather

i may forget the constellations carved into your hands
and the story each bitten fingernail told me

i may forget who said what
who recycled
who prayed
who had a more dysfunctional family
all the pieces of you are blurring together
and the polaroid's colors are fading

but i won't forget the way your skin folded when you smiled
or the way i lost my balance
as i tried to make up for my lack of height
and my lips have never felt as poetic as they did
when i talked to your skin and sweat
and i read every secret your head was afraid of

our histories merged on a subtle weekend night
dim lighting
no expectations

the memories aren't as painful to reflect on as they used to be
but the words still sour the recipe
and although the bad is sucked into the gulf stream
and the lines are softening
and the ocean currents are arteries dragging the gray away from my heart
i won't forget why

why we ended
why i don't love you anymore
why my heart sank further into my chest
and still feels a little heavier

the stripes aren't as thick from the sky
but they're still too close together to be comfortable

i'll forget your grammar
and the misspelled text messages

i'll forget your hair
and when you pretended to like an nfl team

i'll forget your handwriting
and the sound of your footsteps on the stairs

but i won't forget the way you made me feel
the spilled blood and the scabs and the uncertainty
your angry kisses that brought me to my knees
when talking to you felt like planning a war
but i never said the words that cut you to the core

i couldn't walk away because i was addicted to the good
even though it happened a lot less often

see, our relationship was leather
stretched and worn and sexual in nature
but leather doesn't hold you up
hold you close
or hold you together
leather doesn't get you through stormy weather

so i'm putting this leather in my dresser to look at later
but i'm not going to let it into bed with me

at least, not anymore

don't kill feminists

***Note: This is satire.

the boys are standing clapping

and the girls are sitting down

the pocketed words are heavy

the fish are gonna drown

my mouth is sewn shut

then his hand's on my leg

i want to cry out

but he said to behave

now he's giving me a meaningful look

and i'm squirmin' like a worm on the hook

next up, there's a girl on the stage

and she's saying just what they want her to say

but they can't hear her sarcasm

they can't feel the bite

i'm starting to think that this girl's alright

"i cut off my clit 'cause it's no good for me

can't cut off my nip 'cause it's for the baby

am i gonna get killed if i talk?

maybe

but that doesn't mean my eyes can't see

you fuck bitches

and you call yourself a man

picked 'em up off the street with a threat in your hand

covered their mouths so we can't hear the screams

just like that we don't know what it means
damn, you tricked us most definitely

feminism is not what we need

'cause women can vote

and spit out his seed

but a girl can't talk about her opinion

not her views or her vision

without getting death threats

but women are equal obviously

i mean, look at cosmetic surgery

freedom of expression is our message

because we have poor body image

by expressing ourselves, we try to look the same

big tits drive all those men insane

video games are no reason to pray

sure, women get kidnapped everyday

but they don't deserve a role in the game anyway

i can't save myself as they say

she's gotta get a lifetime supply of razors

nothing else could ever please her

lack of hair defines her

but his hairy ass is sexy

see, feminism is dead

it's getting to these girls' heads

burning bras in the street

when they're nothing but meat

can't they see bein' a housewife makes life complete?

they're man haters

they're baby slayers

they say their bodies are their own

but they're just prizes to be won

some are valued higher than others

but they all turn into mothers

they fight for their rights in the offices

but girls, you don't have penises

there sexual harassment is prevalent

and women only deserve 82 percent"

this society has no integrity

we don't have to listen to the patriarchy

you have thoughts in your brain and a brain in your head

believe me, you can think for yourself instead

it's okay to be shy

it's okay to be scared

uncertainty is something we all share

the crystal balls are shattered

palm reader's lost his touch

the psychic had a breakdown

religion is too much

you're stirring her a cocktail of an identity
with a side effect of drunken forgetfulness
but mister, just let her feel
mary, don't drink it in
it's not strong enough to last until tomorrow

and then you'll feel twice as desperate
three times as betrayed
and nothin' but another of his drinks
could make the breathing easier

it's a cycle
a vicious cycle
and he wants your voice stopped in a bottle
he watched "the little mermaid" too many times as a kid
'cause under the sea, they show a lot of skin

girls, don't listen to him
don't listen to them

the intro i never had

my name is lexi.

i was a 3.998 high school student who is currently failing two of my college classes. and i'm not planning on doing anything about it this week.

i used to lure them boys in and kiss 'em right in my sandbox, and i'm worried my seduction skills haven't changed all that much in the last fourteen years.

i'm afraid of tomorrow. because winter breathes in all of my secrets and the sun's tired of knocking on my window if i'm never going to open the blinds. but i won't come out because the bed is warm and the world is sad.

i don't shower every day even though my therapist thinks i need to fight my depression. the boxing gloves are too heavy for my hands and punches remind me of assault charges and police cars. the reminders weigh heavy on my forearms and honey, you'll learn i'm not so innocent after all.

i've outgrown pen names and pe lockers, but i'm still no good at small talk and i don't understand what's so fuckin' great about the weather. i'm never dating a forecaster.

i'm nothing more than a list of confessions waiting to be captured on a police report.

my parents think i'm stonewall jackson
but they can't see i'm building my brick wall higher every day.
i'm fueling the flame and i'm feeding the wolf.
i'm ignoring the recipe and i'm boiling revenge on the stove.
one brick for wednesday morning and another for urban outfitters.
half a brick for the half-truth.
the faucets won't turn and the medicine cabinet is empty.

two bricks,
three bricks,
four bricks for her.
take them, take them.

five bricks for the phone call.
six bricks for the silence.
wrong place, wrong time.
brick by brick by brick.

the cold shoulder's reheated in the microwave
but the tears are frozen in the ice box.
i'm digging red out of my fingernails with the kitchen knife.
more concrete. more plaster.
I'm screaming, "higher. higher! HIGHER!"

i can't prove whether the grass is greener on the other side. but if it is, it's because of all that fertilizer shit.

so pray for me when they lower my casket into the ground. and if you like me, pray before then. and remind me to recycle too.

because i've heard it's a spiritual progression.
the ones that recycle
are the ones that get to heaven.

maybe i'll stop counting the calories and start keeping my kisses,
starting with every line on my hand
and every freckle on my arm
and every time my mother smiled
and every school lunch she packed.

because it's not the calories killing me.
it's the counting.

you and i

in my mind you were hollywood unbreakable

like all the applauded before you

that ended up in rehab before their third movie

but i think i'm more like wednesday than i realized
with a "how do you spell your sorrow?"
and "how long have you had chronic depression?"
and "you can't possibly be at your breaking point until midnight"

and it's ten thirty and my claws are out.
don't ask me my favorite color
if you don't plan on sticking around until winter shows us hers

god, we'd play head games with loose change

today looks black
and i'm not talking about the weather
i'm talking about the way your feet move

you're forgetful
and i'm vindictive

you're eight glasses of water a day
and i'm a sorry cup of gas station coffee

you're dead in the future
and i'm blood from the past

you're a flip of a coin
a spin of a racquet
a throw of the dice
heads or tails
yes or no

and i'm the angry outburst tied at 3-3 in the third

you're an adverb
but i'm the verb
you decide how it gets done
but i decide what gets done

you're a wave
but i'm the ocean
you're the top half
but i'm the bottom half

you're voted "hit and run"
in your high school yearbook
and i'm a lost cause
i'm the black sheep
and maybe we're more similar than we realize

you were a high school cheerleader
two senior proms in your back pocket
front porch kisses
dad reading the newspaper under the lamp
and i was a nobody

we both cut off all our hair at seventeen
and our parents hated it
but you always tell me it wasn't the same for you

it's not the same for me either
you told me i was faking my eating disorder
you told me i was lying to my therapist
you told me i deserved to be hit

you have a story

i have a story

goldilocks has a story

even if the three bears were an exaggeration

and she always liked her porridge hot

and i always loved you
but sometimes i don't like you

and i know you feel the same way about me

eleven

call me useless
call me desperate
call me yesterday

but i want to talk about eleven years old.

before thirteen there was twelve
before twelve there was eleven
and she ran away at eleven

eleven came with emily morrin and shaved armpits
eleven came with doctors and diet coke

i read the sex scenes over
and over again
and i touched myself
not knowing it was "bad"

i read "the care and keeping of you" at night with a flashlight
because i didn't want my mom to know that i worried about pubic hair
i stole the body issue of a popular women's magazine
and i asked my mom for a training bra

i shaved my legs
even though my mom said it was too soon
and all i remember is the red running down my leg
like rain down the windows of a car
and i tried to stop it with my finger

eleven wasn't angry
eleven wasn't defiant
or opinionated
she wasn't elegant

but eleven was soft
she was wet grass
green turtlenecks
and little white lies

she was the edge of innocence
she held her mother's hand in maturation
even though she didn't learn shit

eleven was bold
and new
she rolled the "f-word" around her tongue
like hard candy
and practiced it over
and over again in her bedroom
where no one could hear

eleven was my cousin repenting for her fuckin' middle finger
telling me about "fuck you"
"fuck him"
"fuck her"
"'fuck them"
and i laughed out loud
because i didn't know what intentions could do to your tallest finger
making him more headstrong than your head ever was

i still played with dolls at eleven
and sometimes it was innocent
and sometimes it wasn't
and the sound effects were pretty realistic for a virgin kid director

i hit myself a lot back then
"wait til you have the house to yourself, lexi"
"don't get caught, lexi"
"you're such a FREAK, lexi"
would go take daddy's belt from the bedroom
'cause i didn't know how else to make the shame go away
"lexi, you are bad"
"you are a bad girl"
"you make so many mistakes"
"no one likes you"
"you are annoying"
"you are nothing"

and then i'd put on my pretty girl smile
happy girl smile
eleven year old smile
things are all right smile
things are great smile
answering all the questions right at the dinner table
and go work on my straight fuckin' a's
and i'd go to soccer
and i'd still feel like shit

eleven was new
eleven was bold
but in the end, i still felt like shit.

suicide pacts and divorce papers

mama told me we are all spinning starfish
we are all breathing in those colored bubbles
we are all white and black and blue and yellow
god help the caucasians 'cause they sunburn worst of all

but she chokes on the word "god"
and the truth spills out like vomit

god is dead
he killed himself

he couldn't handle the responsibility of all the phone calls
3:57 AM mountain time
3:57 AM and seventeen seconds
seventeen
seventeen seconds
he especially hated all those fucking prime numbers
one
three
five
seven
eleven
thirteen
seventeen
nineteen
twenty-three
twenty-seven
twenty-nine

and every time he looked at his phone he saw the number of voicemails
so he threw his phone as far as he could into a lake
and it was so deep
and so blue
that he almost felt better

but he didn't

he thought of you
yeah, you
kept reminding you
that you were a character in a book he was writing
and you weren't the book
you were the CHARACTER
in a CHAPTER

he referred to the bible as one of his bestsellers
so you looked
but you didn't like his writing style
and you didn't think you were strong enough to be a good character
and JESUS WAS CRUCIFIED, for christ's sake

you didn't like his plans for character development
or how every story has to have a problem
goddamnit
and he was tired of telling you over
and over
and over again
and he didn't like writing anymore if he had to argue with his characters
and so he killed himself

and i should be sad
but i feel like it's the only time i've been able to relate with god

i wish i could tell you i've been doing well in college mom
i wish i could tell you i don't want to die anymore
and death and i aren't on speaking terms
but we argue quite frequently dad
and life and i are the estranged married couple
and i'm cheating on life with death
and she knows it

sometimes she makes me sleep on the couch
but she doesn't dare bring out the divorce papers
she makes me a pot of coffee when i walk in the door
and she kisses me on the cheek
but her heart's not in it

i ask her about the kids
and she asks me about the boss
but we don't tell each other shit
and we haven't slept together in months

so my wife, she goes to my mom for advice
prob'ly cryin' on the phone
too scared to mention the sex
and my mom invites me to lunch
she's a good woman
stages a fuckin' intervention, y'know
and this is where i hear about god killin' himself

and soon i'm screamin'

JUST BURY ME NAKED
PLANT MY BONES UNDER THE CONCRETE
I DON'T WANT A FUCKIN' HEADSTONE
WATCH 'EM GROW
WATCH 'EM GROW

you taste like we might get on

you taste like burnt tongues
sitting alone at a coffee shop
you taste like andy warhol made love to picasso
like that dirty chai you just finished drinking
you taste sleep deprived
and you added too many espresso shots

you taste like sin
like you have a weird fetish
like you've never read a word of the bible
because you were too busy watching porn on your laptop

you taste like home videos
you taste sad
you taste like i know you already
you taste broken

you taste like laundry soap
and deodorant stains on a black shirt
you taste like wednesdays
and 7:30 am
pack the kids' lunches
feed the kids breakfast
don't forget your coat henry

you taste like soup kitchens
you taste like my mother's eyes
you taste like rusty nails spilled onto the dirt
you taste like trouble

you taste like church
like you pray every night
and you swear as soon as the alarm goes off
you taste like you say the "f-word" a lot
you taste white like sacrament hymns
and messy like kids' coloring pages
you taste like confessions
and sweaty hands
and bloodshot eyes

you taste like i don't want to stop kissing you
you taste good
you taste real good

you taste like you pay attention in earth science
and you were pissed when you got a c on the exam
like you buy urban outfitters socks
and you read up on the company controversies

you taste like you're addicted to solitaire
and you sleep with your mouth shut
and something about that seems significant

you taste like you don't bruise easy
and you're not ticklish
but you taste like you wish you were
because you want an excuse to laugh more

you taste like you still buy cassette tapes
and you worry your mother
and you never downloaded snapchat
and a part of you wants her to be worried

you taste like long division
and lost love letters
and the guy that proved the universe is still expanding

you taste young
and hopeful
like you went through an awkward phase in fifth grade

you taste like i might fall in love with you
and i should probably ask for your number

crime scene

 

 

bloody hearts bleed bloody heart blood
bloody hearts bleed bloody heart blood
BLOODY HEARTS BLEED BLOODY HEART BLOOD

can they arrest someone for eyes that don't answer back?
can they arrest someone for heavy footsteps?
or a voice as soft as water?

i can't sew this hair back on my head
or drink this blood back to my heart.

i can't kiss the blues out of the bruises
or seduce my skin into joining her lover again.

i've never heard my bones so loud
as when you pushed and pushed
and the word "no" didn't seem to be necessary
but it was cast away like the semi-colon
which we never seem to use anymore
forgotten like the dust above the baseboards
yesterday's small talk in the corner.

don't put baby in the corner.

my bones said, "NO"
my bones said, "STOP"
my bones said, "PLEASE"
in english
german
and french

and i'm sure the neighbors heard

but you didn't.

you did this to me.
you broke me.

i'm your then-fiancé knocked out cold in the elevator
the cold look in your eyes
and the cold way your hands pulled me out

people give me one word to describe you
and i start with cold
but i keep going

you're beautiful
you're so beautiful
god breathed life into you
and got so worked up
he forgot how to count, love

but the skies will bleed
the ashes will color our lungs black
and stop our breaths
doing the dirty work for the devil
and the ashes will still love the devil
and i will still love you.

you can shoot me dead with your daddy's pistol
you can bag the flowers from the garden
and plant my heart instead
and the worms will eat my heart
and i will still be in love with you.

the world could flood with rainwater
and the whales could swallow us whole
and jonah will get the bible story
and i will still be in love with you.

it doesn't matter what sleazy motel bed i'm sleeping in
or what whore is sleeping in your sleazy motel bed
it doesn't matter what check i'm writing
what movies are playing
or who forgot to take out the trash last night
romeo and juliet will still be a tragic love story
and i will still be in love with you.

even if your cold heart doesn't know it.

tara you missed a few (types of kisses)

kill me kisses
hurt me kisses
fuck me kisses
fuck you kisses
quiet kisses
loud kisses
church kisses
disney kisses
prince charming kisses
break the spell kisses
2AM kisses
3AM kisses

lovesong kisses
nobody's home kisses
catch me kisses
caught me kisses
front porch kisses
kitchen counter kisses
spiderman kisses
butterfly kisses
underwater kisses
hungry kisses
sweaty kisses
salty kisses
sugary kisses

broken sprinkler kisses
broken marriage kisses
violent kisses
bloody lip kisses
they're watching kisses
don't leave me kisses
lonely kisses
yes kisses
no kisses
true aggie kisses

clean sheets kisses
dirty sheets kisses
car playlist kisses
cardboard kisses
ashtray kisses
storytelling kisses
apologetic kisses
forgiving kisses
you're wrong kisses
thankful kisses
lights out kisses
lights on kisses
electric kisses
naughty kisses
porno kisses

damned kisses
rip me apart kisses
fragile kisses
china doll kisses
tip toe kisses
slow dance kisses
football field kisses

back seat kisses
don't tell your mother kisses
leave your shoes on kisses
take your shoes off kisses
sandpaper kisses
wet kisses
shitty kisses
regretful kisses
manipulative kisses
i want your $ kisses
endure to the end kisses
hood of your car kisses
hood of their car kisses
caught in the headlights kisses

kiss me
kiss you
kiss him
kiss her
kiss them
kiss us
kiss kiss kiss

this is the part

this is the part of me that needs medication
the part of me that sees handprints as god's missed calls
and my heart as another thing god got wrong

this is the part of me that never picked up the phone
because i was ashamed
and words were a noose around my neck
and memories were stained on my sheets
like blood

this is the part of me that sings
but not on my birthday
and talks to your bones instead of your brain
because hard hears truth better than soft

this is the part of me that counts calories as sin
and woke up in a hospital
and cried because i lived

this is the part of me that shaved my head
and doesn't shave my legs
the same nightmare that slips in every night
like a whore into my bed
and i can't forgive my father

this is the part of me that sees his fist on every hand
the part of me that likes boys
the part of me that likes girls
the part that hears god
but can't find his voice
and my ears are ringing

this is the part of me that lies
and disappoints my therapist
the part of me that tells the truth
and disappoints my mother

this is this part of me
that part of me
this part of me
that part of me

please don't take my body
it's just going to disappoint you

sin's nothing but another grass stain
and he's just another middle finger on the shelving
and he's the beating chest under the floorboards
and he's another skeleton in the closet
and he's a string tied around my finger
and he reminds me of six times ten

this is the part of me that can't light a candle
without the want eating up my sides

falling down the stairs was another stamp added to the collection
and he licked the envelope just to end the chapter
but no matter how many pills she swallowed she couldn't end the book

and his face was just another melting on the sidewalk
so she cut herself just to watch herself bleed

one drop two drops three drops
one drop two drops three drops
one drop two drops three drops

and you watched her like she was an emo barbie

she fucks
and she watches porn
she fucks
and she watches porn
and she watches
and she watches porn

and she wonders sometimes if she's going to hell

be nice to her
she slept in her car last night
be nice to her
her legs are stained with blue
and her fists told the story
be nice to her
her heart doesn't beat the same anymore
be nice to her
she can't hear her bones
be nice to her
she hates herself enough
be nice to her
be nice to her
be nice to her

she missed her medication this morning

hair

she cut her hair.

she dropped the dishes one by one
and she heard the music of the floorboards
and she screamed to know she was heard too
and

she cut her hair.

she posted depressing statuses to facebook
and she didn't wear any color anymore
but her whole body read blue blue blue
and

she cut her hair.

she sat in the 800 hall for lunch
and there were rumors she'd been sent away
but if you asked her, she'd tell you herself
and

she cut her hair.

her hair was cut.

she cut it.

she breathed it in
and it filled her stomach
better than cotton.

and you saw
but you didn't see

and you smiled
without your eyes

and she noticed.
before you did.

you saw the headline
but you didn't read the paper

you saw the notification
but you didn't check your voicemail

you saw the movie
but you didn't read the book

you listened to the song
but you didn't hear the lyrics

you saw hair.
you saw it.

sometimes the monsters under our bed sit us down for heart-to-hearts

sometimes i wonder if we sing songs because we're afraid
or because we're not afraid
or if we sing songs to put the birds to sleep

once you left
i read
and read
and reread
wanting the pages to fill me
the way you did

there are a thousand paper days
hands are too far away for holding
and the playing cards can't be shuffled any easier
than your broken-hearted love

this is for the june we didn't eat enough
and the lip service that makes your jaw ache
and the music that is too loud for coffee shops

the walls are white
and the world is hopeless

sometimes scarves look like nooses
and fists are made for skin
the big bad wolf is at your door
and you decide to let him in

the bible has torn pages
and your bed is left unmade
three months broke your heart
and it's her you couldn't save

you're too tired to fall asleep
and the world is hopeless

the list is getting longer
and the pantry has stale bread
your head is getting heavy
as you remember what they said

i'm shutting all the windows
and keeping out the light
i'm not answering my phone
i've given up the fight

your heart is broken by a girl
and the world is hopeless

i'm stitching my feet to the carpet
there's a lead weight on my tongue
my heart's a cold ocean
but the knots are left undone

the walls are white
and the world is hopeless

the walls are white
and the world is hopeless

weekday lover (how do you remove ink stains from leather?)

you are my weekday lover
you are my mondays
you are the ink spilled into my left hand
the stubborn wart on my thumb
and the birthmark on my left cheek

you are the pack a day i never smoked
the price of gas
grocery lists written in pencil
and the blurred line between too little and too much

you are my left eye catching up to my right
the spikes in my blood sugar
the envelope with no address
and ken sander's after close

you are the story i never added to snapchat
the nights when forty minutes was too far away
a third grade game of tag
and the mornings when limits were only guidelines

you are the butterflies' wings stretched
and pinned
to the typewriter's keys
the reluctant pacing of a semi colon
and cd 2 of a book on tape

you can't decide between pepsi and cola
you wear the heart of a girl whom (you say)
you no longer love
but your lips belong to me tonight
even if your hands belong to her
and i love the way you look on a motorcycle

and i tell myself
this is a crush
this is a little crush
this is a phase
this is a hookup
but i remember your calluses in the morning
and the color of your eyes in the afternoon
and i'm reading genesis after the sun goes down
hoping to find your fingerprints in the dog-eared pages
and the italics

 i'm looking for your teeth on the sand
and your voice on the water
and i can't find your laugh next to the nostalgia
no matter how high the asking price

and i don't love you
but i think i want to

i'm asking myself how to remove these ink stains
from my leather jacket
and i'm piercing every part of my heart
to look more like a rebel
but blue has always fit my waist
better than black
and leather broke my wrists

i want to be your broken bones on the dresser
and the last prayer your father said
even if the sun never loved the moon
and grape juice is too sweet for august

you are my mondays
and my tiptoe kisses
and laughing on your kitchen floor
and my last "i miss you"
and an unanswered phone call
and the apples and cheese on your front porch
and an a+ tattoo
and i'm getting less suicidal
and my calls for help are fewer and farther between
and i'm going to college
but not the college you're going to
and i'm praying more
and we're not getting married
and you will never be my saturdays

but you are my mondays

bravery and bathwater (aka dear ed)

the sun burns off the fingerprints
and the smoke grays the memories
but the boy listened

and the bruises simmered in the pot of oil
and the eyes looked
and the fingers closed

because b is for this broken bread
and r is for my road to recovery
and ave is for avery
and the sun
and the moon
and the stars too

but you werent supposed to be my broken bread
and he was never meant to be my savior
even when he rinsed his hands with bleach
and the blood ran away by the spoonful

and his words were meant for the linen closet
instead of table number three
but i still licked the hand that fed
and begged for more

you are not my avery
you are not my sun
you are not my moon
but i am one of the many stars you keep
in your back pocket
and the light bleeds from my hands

and i hope you see it.

you are the bathwater to my matchstick
the bird to my wings
and i am drowning
drowning
drowning

one cup two cups three cups
one cup two cups three cups

and the bath filled
and the girl gave in
and she dropped her lips to the water
and drank
while she watched the fall of the matchstick
pulling from her hands

i hope you see it.

depression's got me in a headlock

i'm on vacation
so my mom told me
to write about the beach

this is for the sticky fingerprints on the car windows
and the faces you traced with your index finger

the ice pops that dripped onto your lap
the way your sister's hair curled
and the days when you didn't have to worry
whether your mom would love you in the morning

but this year the seagulls didn't replace
the crows on my shoulders
and the waves pulled me out
instead of pulling me in

the rain ate at the pavement
but you forgot how to
and the sun smiled
like you fucked her boyfriend

she was out for blood
and the clouds were boys
who had gone without their mother
for too long

my stretchmarks apologized
like ex boyfriends
but my name still wasn't safe
in their mouths

the sand were men at the bar
who didn't hear the word no
and the mermaids didn't remember me
since i forgot to shave my legs
and buried my eyes at the foot of a grapefruit tree

the sun cooks my blood
my swimsuit doesn't look the same
i don't want to go outside
but i can't say no to all the pictures
and

i want to run away
i want to run away
and if heaven called i'd answer
but i'd still leave hell waiting on the other line

my footprints are stuck in my throat
along with September receipts that hurt too much
to read out loud
and letters i never had the right to send
and my red hair was left on the highway
next to the roadkill

but i still have my ribcage
and i think that's important

i wished upon a star
but both were dead in the past
along with my 11:11 wishes
and striped birthday candles

you left me your god
but i never did more than initiate awkward eye contact
from across the room

i'm just remembering the boy who hated the sand
and the way his hand reached for mine
as we were dragged out of the water park together

i saw my body cold on the sofa
my hair sewn like fringe on a vest
the basting stitches securing my shins
and my mom blaming me for the stain ten years down the road

and no matter how high the ends of my lips
the voices didn't leave my head
and no matter how i tried to bar them out
they repeated the same lines

"you are nothing
you are nothing"

they shot me with their emptiness
and sucked me into this hole in their chest

the sun is still yellow
the frogs are still croaking
the boys are still shirtless
and the world might be okay

but i am not.

i forgot how to dial your number
and how to get out of bed in the morning
showers don't clean me off as well as they used to
and the medication piles up on the counter
untouched

i no longer worship the sun
and i forgot my religion
but read me a poem
and i might remember

the world might be okay
but i am not.

the world might be okay
but i am not.

just like everyone else

this isn't meant to be an apology
but it's more apology than love letter

i heard it's better to swallow your words
than lose the life on your lips
but it's better to open your mouth
than take nine to five
remembered by empty cupboards and sun burnt feet

it didn't work last summer
but i'm hoping we're both different now

i'm scared of you because when i fall
there's no one around to catch me

i have a crush on you
just like everyone else
and i don't know how to tell you i'm different
when i'm just another note scrawled across your wall in pencil
another drunken kiss
another borrowed book
girl in your bed
monday night
kill and run
kiss and tell

i don't visit enough art museums to call myself romantic
and there's too few postcards on my wall
even if I paint my nails
make a rain coat purchase
and invest in a tired camera
i will never play her drums

listen
i like orange lipstick better than pink
she smiled because you brought a faded hope
weighed with expectation and yesterdays
but they're dreams i never had
she never had the heart to call you out on the alcohol in your basement
but i will

the record player on your shelf won't make me a singer
i do not want your last name
i will never clap for the concept of your third tattoo
i don't know how to tell you this
but i look better with the lights off

just tell me you want me
because i see all these signs that you love her

teach me how to bring love into the equation
i promise i won't ever use your comb
and you'll tell me you like my terrible haircut
and i'll forgive the fact that her hair was my same color
and you always liked savannah best

we can't reprint the 50's
even if we change out all the clocks and drown the iPhones in the bathtub
you like your instagram too much
i won't cook dinner every night
i won't curl my hair
and i don't want kids

listen
i'm not gonna make you sound better than you are
or this is gonna go to your head
yes you're handsome
yes you're charming
yes you're artistic
yes you listen
and you wiped the vomit from my mouth with your shirt
but you suck at calling me back
and sometimes i feel like i don't know you
because you just want to laugh

but i want to get to know you
even the bad parts
and i hope you want to get to know me
because i promise there's some good

and i like you
even if i'm not supposed to
and i miss you
even if it's only been a week
and i'm yours
and i don't want to be his anymore
and i want someone who can tell me i'm okay

i'm just like everyone else
i'm just like everyone else

i'm sorry i'm not her
but i don't want to be

go buy yourself some advil

i couldn't write about him
because he was only a crush
and i couldn't write about him
because i'm not in love
and you are the only thing i know how to write about

you are a good-for-nothing
bring-me-to-my-knees boy
you are a good-for-nothing
give-me-a-disease boy

and even though you are the only one i know how to write about
i can't edit and photoshop the pitiful shake in your hand
as you knock back another one
advil's proven more effective than a handful of glitter and a squint of the eyes
but i've said too much already
i say i'm sorry
and these apologies are nauseating
i'm so goddamn sorry i care about your health
you no-good son of a bitch

and whereas i think to myself
that the way i am slowly killing myself is acceptable
no one ever blames the girl for keeping her monsters
the fact you're playing poker with your minutes scares the living shit out of me
don't call me when you find the first gray in your hair
i don't know what i will do if i call you
and your voicemail doesn't answer for you anymore
but whispers the words of a dead man

i hate you keeping your cigarettes from me
when i'm wrapped in your smoke and your sin
did you ever quit sophomore year?

i hate the broken bottles under your boots
you waking up next to her in the morning
and the smell of weed in your hair

you're not a privileged son of a celebrity
you can't get away with this shit forever
you once confessed you were working full-time
told me you replaced your mission plans
told me you can't leave her for two years
told me you have to look out for her
where the hell is your job now?
half-remembered nights are an honest change of plan

you tell me you're not drinking as much
and i know weed doesn't kill you
so get off my fucking back
but your tongue in their mouths
sloppy kisses
clumsy hands pulling at their clothing
kills
me
even though i tell you i don't mind
because my opinions aren't worth the unanswered calls
i expect too much of you
i'm supposed to accept you as you are

and you tell me to go on some dates
to kiss some more boys
as if that will make me less resentful
but sometimes all i want is you
i like a specific flavor of ice cream
and i'm tired of experimenting with strawberry and cookies'n'cream

all you are good for is handing me these broken pens
growing out of your chest
and i cover my body with words

but no one bothers to read them

p.s.

winter never hit his daughters

but they were never home to see
him drinking himself into a puddle and screaming in his sleep

wooden boxes and broken shovels

i held your heart in my hand
like a gutted fish
and he prayed like a street beggar
all he wanted was a cigarette and a porno
but i opened my chest and put him right back in his place
choked with blood
bars on the windows

and i was proud

i think i have a middle school crush?

your skin tastes like broken fences and cigarettes
your bitten fingernails are too honest
and i can't decide whose hair is longer

clean out my cuts with a knife
fill my silverware drawer with dead batteries
and let's bury the car keys in the backyard
so you'll have an excuse to stay home from work

let's run away to alaska
so everyday will be sweater weather
and we will cancel sundays in favor of two saturdays per week

i'm not ready to let you eat my heart just yet
i won't let you break my bones until you've heard them
memorized the way my hands stutter when the walls are quiet
but you can have my busted jaw
an old scale
and my favorite color

you're not mine
and i'm not yours
but if you help me find my mind
i will help you find yours
and i have a feeling they are swimming together at the bottom of a cold lake

i know the fingernail polish is chipping
and september is a fresh coat
and there's only one point we share along our lines
i know you love her and the bad news is
she's beautiful
but we are both broken killing ourselves paper and tooth growing
and we kissed on the hood of their car
and we both hated the movie
even though we saw it two weeks apart
you laugh at my jokes
you tried on my blazer
and we agreed on swedish fish and reese's

and this seems important

i know i'm only eighteen
and i drink starbuck's
and you don't know who won the french open
and even though i'm begging someone to bleed like me
we bleed differently
but our blood is the same color

and i try not to touch you as often as i'd like to
because i can tell you don't like it
but occasionally i punch you on the shoulder
like the answer to an inside joke
because i don't want to forget how to reach for you

and i know i like to talk about death and mortgages too much
but i promise not to wiretap your room
we can watch some more comedies
if you think that would push the crows off our shoulders

i'd only tell you after a sleepless night
because rejection is the monster under my bed
and sometimes i want to be your lover instead of your friend
but you're a middle school crush
we're dandelions
and mid-twenties are the birds of paradise
orchids
daffodils
carnations
hydrangeas

i guess what i'm saying is
don't run away until i know your middle name
because i want to drink in your moonshine shoulders
and breathe in your corruption
and kiss all ten of your nervous fingers
and i want to hear you play the guitar
even if you're singing about somebody else

and i'm sorry if you wrote out our love story
you couldn't write about my hair
or my legs
or my hands
but say something about my eyes

they're my best feature

my left leg

my left leg believes in god
reads the bible every Sunday
and has a favorite color

my left leg prays
cries herself to sleep at night
and doesn't drink coffee

my left leg is skeptical
a "glass half empty" kind of girl
she hates when i wear a swimsuit

my left leg is all i have left of who i was.

don't ask my legs to love you

here's another shot of vodka to forgetting your name
and there's another clean slate that was your girlfriend
one more to forget i'm not her
and another three to kill the words "i shouldn't be drinking"

and you were never sorry
you were just bloodstained
you were just broken
and you thought that was the same thing
but it wasn't

it doesn't matter if the smoke of broken promises
overpowers the salt in our soup
i always preferred the smoked beef jerky over original
when mama took us on road trips
and i couldn't pluck "finding nemo" out of my eyebrows
and daddy stayed home to work his nine to five job

all i'm saying is it hurts we aren't on speaking terms
because the last time we weren't
our lips were too preoccupied with each other's
to say much anyway

i'm lightheaded
and there's nothing romantic about it
i'm lightheaded
because this is what an eating disorder looks like
you tell me he's currently unemployed
but you haven't looked up his record recently
i don't have to look emaciated
skeletal
a Holocaust victim
in order to prove that i'm walking dead

and you don't think you're asking a lot
when you ask my legs to love you
but you don't know my legs walked miles to the beat of yesterday
because they were in love with my ears
and my ears were in love with you

you don't know how many nights they stayed up
and shook for your phone calls
because even my heart had gotten attached by that point
but my legs
my legs were the only ones who weren't convinced

my ears were in love with you
my skin was in love with you
my heart was drowning in your blood instead of pumping mine
and you

you liked to fuck
you liked to fuck me up and fuck me over
but i didn't care
because at least you were hitting my skin
at least you were shaming me
screaming, "nothing but a whore"
"you are nothing"
but you were bruising me in honest lighting

my ears were mailed to your doorstep
and you got off on my blood on the knife
i will file your fingernails with a cheese grater
and bury your skull in the backyard next to my dead hamster
i will skin you and wear you
damn i always thought we'd suffocate together

sometimes i wonder why we can't even agree on a mixtape
or the color of the sky just before it softens into rain
and then i think god was trying to tell me something
before we got so far as to pick out baby names

i'm just a girl
i'm just a girl who makes promises to both god and the devil she can't keep
i'm just a girl
but i will pull my eyes out of their sockets so you'll remember their stain of blue
i should have mailed you my red hair in the sink
because pictures are worth a thousand words, but may be a broken thousand
i am biting off my lips
and i'm drunk on my blood as it tumbles down my throat
i am ripping off my tits

i'm yours
i'm yours
i always have been

cut me open with your pocketknife
my lungs forgot how to breathe any name but yours
just bury me in your garden beneath the roses
so at least i can see arizona realistically

and if you have any doubts
remember every part of me loved you but my left leg

blood sister

we bang music because two door cinema club fills the empty space
and the two years between us
better than my hollow apologies ever could

her heart hurts more than most but i wouldn't call her sensitive
not out loud anyway
because skin is for the healed
and shells are for the nervous
have you ever seen a clam, man
because casts are for the hesitating bones
because she reads what i write and likes it even if i say the "f word"

she listens even if sometimes it's only so she can top my stories with her own
of finding mom's lingerie drawer and walking in on the parents while stoned
she's a breath of fresh air but her exhalations are mass-produced in perfume bottles
she has a glass face but you have to look past the daisy dukes
the middle fingers
and listen to what she's tucking behind the laughs
the blues she pulls into bed at night
and the stars she plucks from the sky so she can save her wishes

she's a little high-strung and i think that's why sleep lies to her
and some may call them progressive because their marriage is anything but old-fashioned
but it's built on a bed of betrayal and empty pockets
her eyes are bloodshot in the morning
and their relationship is complicated on facebook

i want to tell her to love no matter how bad it hurts
but my heart should shut up and let my head do the talking
there's chalk on the wall screaming "write the poems"
but the blood and dead secrets are weighing her down
and she's too scared to pen anything more than her name

i used to yell when she used my razor
but now she knows i use hers
and she doesn't say anything
i don't know whether it's funny or sad but it's another crease in the napkin

i'm damaged goods
and our blood runs like the creek we used to play in
so she tapes each of my notes on the wall
as if to envelope her aching ashes up there
as if she can't handle all these hearts on her sleeve
and she's cutting them with butter knives one by one

she's taller than me
and her fingers are longer than mine
her fingers are thinner
her arms are thinner
her legs are thinner
she wears a size smaller than me
and i used to resent her for that
because ed told me i should hate everyone with whom i compared myself
and turned out the loser
because i was never supposed to be the fat girl

i used to hate her because she scored clothes with mom
because mom said "you shouldn't have thrown your clothes away"
it doesn't matter they didn't fit me anymore
it didn't matter i was trying to drown twins inside of me
it didn't matter ana and mia were only nicknames
and my old clothes reminded me of the girl in old photographs
who always tricks me into thinking i was happier then

sydney didn't like when she went to girls' camp
and the bitches would rather fit three in a bed than share with her
she didn't like it when there was a picture of her on snapchat
with the caption "slut"
even though she's kissed two boys

but she laughed it off
she laughed it off
she laughed it off

i bet those kids didn't know that she attempted suicide in grade seven

it doesn't matter she can wear bikinis and i can't
it doesn't matter mom likes her hair better
lets her wear shorter shorts
or buys her skimpier underwear
because none of those have to interfere with my loving her
or our coffee runs
cafe rio rendevous
barnes and noble dinners
facebook research
salt lake day trips
kissing lessons
4:20 screenshots
and our matching tattoos we're getting someday just for the hell of it

because it's okay for her to be herself
it's okay to wear a Vans logo shell if that's what it takes her to absorb the aftershock
turtles always took out the rabbits in the race anyway