Fill in the blank. You're so good at that.

"You find soullessness in everything you can. Where as I......"
You never finished the sentence. You passed out before completing the most hurtful thing ever said to me.

Incomplete.
Isn't that just my existence.

I want to show you how much soul I find in every waking conscious thought I have.
I just wish you were sober enough to recognize when I do.

I'm going to stop relying on you to take care of me.
I don't need it.
I don't need anything.

[I just want you to stop being so mean to me.]

We'd have this conversation now but you're passed out on my bed, in a fetal ball, in all your clothes. I'm going to undress you and call you "baby" cause you respond to that when you're at this point.

I'm going to do this one more time.

Don't ever accuse me of not being passionate about life.
I am not apathetic.
I am realistic.
I am [          ].

Tantamount

Two small girls faced each other in their bed and told secrets in cryptophasia, each looking at their own executioner, smiling at God’s wit. I imagine God herself took cuticle scissors and cut DNA up along the double helix, dividing the zygote, so that 29 years later she’d have something to read about over coffee. Like the most impractical joke.

And I wonder what that kind of passion for unification feels like. What it is to share so much of yourself with another person, down to a cellular level. And I think of God being so cheap for only giving them one soul.

So maybe that’s the reason, as women, they found themselves with a weight in their palms in exchange from their shoulders. And a countdown, because timing is everything. I imagine they started at ten...nine...eight…

Then through chambers bloomed lead and a simultaneous “pop” that absconded in infinite directions throughout Colorado, propelling itself through November’s brittle air, striking God’s eardrums like an egg timer. I wonder which sister kept the mutual soul, and which had really died.

One twin dead , one twin the suicide note, and never being asked again “Which one are you?”. 

Sea Salt

He promises
to bring me a cheeseburger
at 10:34 p.m.
My gut aches,
I haven’t eaten anything
since earlier this afternoon.
So I start putting away my books,
and taking coffee cups into the kitchen sink.
I shake out my bedding,
brush my teeth.

An hour later
I’m still waiting.
Changed my pajamas three times.
My toes are freezing.
My neighbors keep hitting the wall
we share
and with each knock
my ears perk up in this
really pathetic way.

Christ I’m fucking hungry.

One hour thirty minutes.
There’s this comfort I find
in really awful television,
but when I roll over
and watch it on my side,
an image of my pureed brain leaking
onto my pillow
starts to distract me.

I’m that kind of girl
who puts makeup on
to lie in bed all day.
I color coordinate my pajamas.
I run up the electricity bill
by leaving on the lights in my apartment,
so he won’t have to search
for the switch
when he gets here.

Two hours.
I have class in the morning.

Fuck,
I’m on a diet anyway.