“I will create as I speak”
“Perish with the word”
peanut butter vibes
“If I were rich, I’d be an alcoholic.”
“tell me something more beautiful”
I don’t want to be your girlfriend
I just want to take your picture.
I’m just a doll
feed me, I’m pretty
“You can tell me to shut up, you know”
“…but if you stop talking, I’ll stop laughing.”
(suddenly, without warning):
“you’re one of a kind.”
“This is a relationship. I mean, it is something.”
I can Houdini myself out of any situation.
or so I think.
I think I can escape the weight.
Mother, thank you for taking my burdens
all this time
but I can no longer lay them on you
I’ll be the mother figure now
adorn me with flowers.
I can understand why
you couldn’t bear to face the woman in the supermarket
who wore my perfume
we started out sweet like wind chimes and spring rain
then ended up lurid like Hannibal and Clarice
you were my favorite friend
but I’ll never love the likes of you again
“Am I cool?”
I guess I’m not 17 anymore.
wearing my middle school perfume
I don’t fall in love fast like before
or at all.
except for that Olympus OM-2 I just snagged on Ebay
she’s a beaut.
And now I can take more pictures of things that don’t remind me of you
heard you got a new girlfriend.
got you off my back,
got you off my blade.
I heard you renewed your twitter.
you’re a fucking reptile.
go tweet about that.
Is that true love?
I’ll just watch from here, thanks.
Press my face up against the window.
Is that your soulmate?
I like my solitude too much to participate
Maybe next round.
I’ll leave fragments of myself in their parlors and on their doorsteps
until my Wesley Crusher comes around.
But I’m in no hurry. I’m still a sap for it, but I don’t need to cave.
“Tornado Warning in this
area til 2:30 AM CDT.
Take shelter now.”
Give me that Shakespearean love.
just a bunch of pompous, cowardly bastards.
out to save themselves
pretending to be rehabilitated basket-cases.
vague to seem deep;
they say one word
they mean an article,
or the opposite.
Being around them makes me feel so disgusting
They’re full of mayonnaise
I can’t wrinkle my nose enough.
I show them something real,
and they run with their tails
between their thrifted corduroys.
“I don’t mean to sound cliché,
but it’s not you,
“I’m so sorry,
I thought he had his shit together.”
“It was his drug habit.”
“He did act strange.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Maybe he has feelings for someone else…”
Shut the fuck up with your theories.
He was just a boy. a child.
I don’t wish anything bad upon him, or her,
but I want them to sleep on, drown in the intensity of the situation.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt so low,
drenched in sad and miserable self-realization.
Not pity. Not depression.
Why didn’t I just study?
Why didn’t I move out?
Why didn’t I escape?
Why didn’t I stay in that country,
so far away from unpleasant notions?
Why didn’t I incarnate as someone’s pet, someone’s dog?
I still have hope. Idealists always do.
And I always get a taste of what I visualize.
I see an apartment.
And a tall man. I can’t see his face because it’s spinning.
He has dark hair, and reminds me of my grandfather.