The Lack Of

It's been so long.

Pull up your bar stool, let me tell you the story of a girl and boy who were in love.

Let me tell you the story of how she lost herself in him,
his ego,
his status,
his constant attempt at fixing her,
and how much it pained him (or didn't, can't really speak for the kid)

How he left her
due to issues that were out of or in her control depending on which
party
you were speaking with.

Let me tell you how
she felt.
Let me tell you how
she didn't feel
      anything, towards the end of it.

And tried to make up for that lack of elation
in constant sobbing and
days spent in bed.
-Right up until the minute he said
"I just can't do this any longer"

Let me show you how she salvaged how gorgeous she really is.
Tonight, I'm going to show you
exactly
what euphoria feels like.

Tonight I'm going to propel
the kind pining you've only
read in
poetry.

Why?
because I'm fucking good at it.

I Just Need To Get Some Sleep.

Pinpoint on the horizon. If I can't sleep in this apartment, if I can't sleep in this town, then I'll take any undiscovered dirt road to get to that place that isn't here. Where is my quoin of slumber if it isn't in his basement? If it isn't in the nook of his neck and ribs? And so, I grab my camera, deodorant, and that piggy bank I bought for him the day before he left me.

There's this tapping. A lepidoptera metronome. Moths are aimlessly diving into my windshield. Suicide bombers with dusted wings, I can relate. A glow from underneath the seat made by my phone that keeps telling me I'm never really alone. And his voice narrating the car scene that says "They're all just trying to get into her jeans".

Winding through aphotic composition and yellow paint, wielding the steering wheel over chaffed paths, where doleful women have worn through the crust and cement. How many daughters am I following? How many marred lovers have cast off and sailed through this chop sea of blizzard posts and highway? How many made their way back home; and how many walked plank?

An hour later I pull over and toss my body into dirt and red pine needles. Load my lungs with smoke and just stare up into the ink and salt. Lose myself in the cold and cricket chorus. Contrive myself in the thought that I could expire here. I could be vital here. And I can inhale, feel how tangible I haven't been lately, exhale, feel the universe implode and explode simultaneously. And somehow, despite the cosmic blight, I am serenaded into the deep unconsciousness that I've been coveting.

Morning.  I wake up in the debris of outer space. I could scream for other survivors but they'd probably just eat too loudly, walk too slowly, and bitch about their jobs back home. No, I'm content with being the only thing alive. I raise my arms into the blue and try to shake some dust from my wings. That's when my nostrils ache of "home"sick. The deodorant I grabbed...totally his.

The nice thing about being broken up with is that you were probably pretty satisfied with the relationship right up until the very last second. For you, it was fun the entire time.
If you're leaving someone, you've most likely been mourning them for awhile.

I had a lot of fun.
I just feel like I've been hit by a train.

At least we weren't born in North Korea.

Stage One

A thousand shades of hair

and kids all about your height

wearing death masks and new school clothes.

I leaked through torsos trying to get to you.

This Human Body brine.

Rooted crux

A stage where I watched an orchestra

casted with crow’s feet

liverspots

and dementia.

A maelstrom

made from limbs and gossip

pulled me under

and into the blue drink

I sunk.

On the concrete bottom

I saw you

copper quills suspended in cobalt current

and your swollen mask

you were pressing your face into.

I made you promise me

newsprint made a mistake.

and you recited back to me

overlooked facts of the scene and body

laughed because we were the only ones

clever enough to figure it out.

But when I asked you come back with me

you shook your head no

and I knew

under your death mask

I wouldn’t have recognized you.

If you can break from me, then break the name.

Tonight I:

                Spilled my guts out to Jimmy on a swing set and took a piss without our conversation skipping a beat. Got a free candy apple from a carny who swore there were no razorblades hidden in the core. Threw up next to some fat girls who talked about beating Amanda’s ass…whoever Amanda may be. Met a boy who asked me a 100 questions, who answered 100 and 1. Collected numbers with no intentions of ever calling. Got into a truck with strangers who took me home when nobody else could answer my phone calls. Danced in a park with my ex who named a star after me. Declined a kiss from a boy I used to be madly in love with. Got called a slut because I refused to put out.

Tonight I rediscovered who I was before I was a girlfriend.

Rediscovered my quivering voice. A crescendo. Heard a cry so clear I became weak.

Baptized myself with wet grass.

Hello Sunnie. Christ, it's been awhile. 

Untitled

Watched him rock the lime in his palms, 

    squeeze and release, 

pass back and forth.  

He’d undress himself in the streets, 

turn his back to me and slide out of his shirt. 

I told him I loved the way he smelled. 

Raw boy, unapologetic and transitory. 

Because he’s always leaving me.

There was a brake in the 

50 mile an hour night current, 

for the deer that capered into headlights over asphalt.

Blushed with death and adrenaline

hours later we stood outside an apartment, 

away from smoke and bash. 

We talked about leaving. 

He said he’d lead me. 

I wanted to see the colors of all those doors in that neighborhood, 

cracks in sidewalks, 

and silhouettes behind window pane. 

Honestly I could have used the sabbatical, 

I have no idea how old I am, 

or rather how old I’m supposed to be. 

Watched him take a piss and ask me one last time. 

Dreadlocked, grinning, his back caught in headlights. 

Yes, I could have used the break. 

But my boyfriend called me back inside. 

34A-32-36

"Maybe speed-balling IS the answer"
Victoria Secret shot me dirty looks.
I chewed on foil and asked-
How many calories exchanged for compliments?
For lovers who fell in love with a number.

My teeth singing,
her viscera dancing.
I took another bite.
She took another hit.

I winked
"eat your heart out bitch"
told my boyfriend I didn't mind [not] being so
drop dead gorgeous.