things you can't explain that everyone understands

the moonlight draped across your back

a silver shawl against the shadow of your body

the grass shook in the wind of your whispers

and i shivered as you snaked closer

for a moment, the world blued

and we blushed behind the darkness

one L

all mechanics have the same handwriting

it sags to the right and the A's are more like n's

wearing loose belts

and there's something about it that makes me think of you

and i can smell the gasoline under your fingernails

you wrote i love you on a piece of paper once

pinned it beneath a pen on the kitchen table

and your love was a jungle of capitals and lowercases

all sprawled against the white like a sloppy embrace

i collapsed on the paper but didn't hear your heartbeat

i think you've carved something into the walls by now

maybe on the cinderblocks next to your bed

when your hands are feeling idle and the lights are still on

counting the days, maybe the years

remembering the children you abandoned

but then

can you even spell my name?

the Hours, the minutes, the moments

tell the ones that need to know: we are headed north

at least, my heart is already there

she says my shoes are worn because i never rest

but i walk a thousand miles in my sleep

tracing brick walls with my fingertips

and though the city is dark i can see

everything

she says my hands are tired of being clenched into fists

but they've been tangled up in busy streets and

roads less traveled and roads more traveled

and my fingers cramp as the loose threads fold onto themselves

as i try to untie all the knots around my knuckles

she says it's not smart to go so far away

says i'll be sad and lonely

but she's talking about herself and we both know it

and i can taste the buildings under my tongue when i swallow

they slice my lip but i like the taste of blood

"you cannot find peace by avoiding life, Leonard"

vintage, skylines, lomo effect

I like scratching the paint off of barns and garages and feeling the thrill just thinking of the splinters that will inevitably bury themselves beneath my fingernails.

I know it should hurt, but I never feel anything. Before I know it, there's a neat little pile of ash at my feet, speckling my skin with freckles, freckles like someone took a filmstrip and held it to the sun, looked at everybody's black teeth and laughed as the sun burned orange and pink on the heads of all their friends.

I wish someone would take a picture of me when I wasn't expecting it and it'd come out looking on purpose. I like those kind of pictures that everyone else likes, distressed and antique and new, from the 40s and the now.

I like it best when the paint peels off in wide strips and it stretches across the rotting wood beneath, but it doesn't break. It's as moist as it was when it was painted on, and it lies limply against your skin, a few crumbs of it breaking off. But you can shake it around and nothing happens to it.

I wish I could remember the names of all the books I've ever read. There are some with crinkled covers and some that are blank and cold. I remember one, The Dragon Garden. But I'm not sure it even existed. I found it in the school library with "WITHDRAWN" bruised on almost every page. I wish I would've stolen it.

I'm determined to defy all the expectations I've created for myself at least once. I'm determined to chip the paint off someone's wall while they're in the bathroom, to scratch my name into a windowsill with a pen. I need to make a mark somewhere. I need to learn to live before I just start to survive.

ma, ma heart like a kickDRUM

when i think of everything that's coming, i feel all fluttery and excited. then i realize i have no idea what's coming, what's going, what's staying. what's leaving.

and my heart slows down and speeds up and swells and i think it's choking me. and i can't exactly tell if i like the song that's beating against its thin little ventricles, all dried and shriveled. i think i do. but it's one of those songs that turns and bends and flips and steadies without any warning.

bum

bumbum

bum

bum bum

bum

bum bum

SWF

when you promise God that you're going to hold things loosely, He wastes no time in shifting things around.

it doesn't make things any easier, knowing it's divine intervention. hell, what if it's not? what if this is some big, human mistake that is utterly unfixable?

all the lightbulbs in the room keep dying with an ugly pop and i find myself blinded and blinking in the dark. i feel an earthquake under my feet and i know all the plates are falling from the shelves with a sick shatter. and i can feel the shards snowing in my hair, gnawing at my scalp. i feel like all my brains will surely spill out and there's no way i can gather them all up before the lights come back on.

what next, God? I'd like to say I'm ready, but I really shouldn't lie.

felo-de-se

looking down, the cars and

people are just a silent film

everything below is moving and motionless

kind of like a funeral luncheon

when people socialize and pick at deli sandwiches

with cemetery dirt still under their fingernails

up there, all you can hear is the wind

whispering that it won't let you fall

and you can taste the smog but

this time you don't mind as much because

you're going to create more of it

when all the ambulances rush to your body

(or lack thereof) smeared on the pavement

and all the children wonder what you are

as their parents shield their eyes

they'll never forget you, the little ones

your feet have never felt more planted

and your heart has never been so still

as you spread your arms like an angel

wings nailed against the sky

and your chest falls forward

your eyes fall shut

and all you can hear is the wind

and the lines of your favorite song

someone turns the century and all the people scream

but the song in your mind only grows

and the peace you feel is suffocating

and you've never felt more alive

open your eyes

happy things come in prose

certain songs make me wish I had a car to drive really fast in and feel the wind through my stubby little hair. to watch the lights whiz by, charged with some silent electricity, splattering electric streaks all over anonymous boulevards and buildings and me, alone in the front seat. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but sometimes, certain songs thrust me into some clunky car that's headed nowhere in particular, the sun burning the dashboard and my feet as boy turns up the radio and rolls down the windows and tells me not to take a picture when he's singing along and i say okay *click* and my beach hair and my white shirt and my straw hat all threaten to blow away in the wind and, when i breathe in, i taste the heat and sip on my sweating tea and everything is ruffled, shifted,and nothing is out of place. solitude and i keep pretty good company,

but when we speak, everything is heavy

and i'm not driving to meet boy for dinner or to see a movie

playing a prelude to a memory

instead, i'm just crying to solitude

but he tends to ignore me

and he's simply not worth it

but i think i found you anyway

i caught you smiling at me

when i said something not particularly funny

you smile wide and long and i find myself

counting your teeth (twenty eight)

when you talk with your hands

my fingers fan out at my sides

and i hope you might brush them this time

you stand close to me

and i can feel your breathing

flutters like a moth

thin and light

your father has a twitch and a cane

and bright white shoes

your mother's a replacement

and your sister is adopted

i ask questions but you don't talk about yourself

you ask me how old i am

i say i'm sure i told you already

i say guess and you just smile again

and i just count again

one, two, three, four, five

why drive in new york

when the traffic chokes the streets

why have a license

when you can have a passport

canada's niagara here we come

why be the seeker

when the easiest thing to do is hide

why spend the days looking for redemption

when you won't be able to find it

devil's hell here we come