I am quite empty 
these past few moments 
like each and every thought 
I've had 
is dripping out my nose 
and onto the bathroom floor 
a kind of domestic rage 
pooling at my feet 
with bathwater 
and shampoo 
its draining 
to be drained 

you said my name 
and a window slammed shut 
because I am trying 
to be strong 
not kind 
but I am also buying yarn 
because your ears got cold 
and I want to knit you a hat 
so bear with me 
as I stitch up wounds 
and frown instead of smile
because too many times has a 
good thing turned 
bad 
but you said my name 
so soft 
that I thought I imagined it 
and I am knitting you a hat

sadness always hits me 
like a screen door
with broken springs 
all at once 
and I hold myself together 
ands its not quiet 
or beautiful 
it is like cleaning up paint 
with a toothpick 
and bystanders watch 
as I try and try again 
to put it all back in the bucket 
and I am somewhere between laughing 
and crying 
because I am cleaning up paint 
with a toothpick 
and its not working.
and I am thinking 
about the moments between seconds 
and I am thinking
about the green cast I had on my wrist 
and I am thinking 
about paint stained carpet 
and I am thinking 
about how much I look like my mother 
when I wear red lipstick 
and thats why I never do 
and I am filled with apologies 
and pleas for stain remover 
or a mop 
or a new carpet 
and I am thinking about Shakespeare 
and Van Gogh 
and Paris 
and Magnesium 

i wish so badly to be 
ethereal 
a specific type of beauty 
defined by silk sheets 
and a mysterious expression
but instead i am 
waking up with bloody noses 
and forgetting to put the caps 
back on tubes of tooth paste 
and the place in my tongue 
that used to be laced with gold 
is now covered 
in scribbled calculus 
notes 
that i spit out 
along with a question as to where 
you parked the car 
and you are telling me 
to trust you 
and I am saying that 
i have trusted no one 
since a branch broke under my feet 
and i fell to the ground 
and you are saying 
please go to sleep 
and I am saying that the color 
of room is no longer 
beautiful
and you are saying lovely things 
and I am getting 
the paint cans 

have you ever had sour 
cherries? 
they're an angry fruit 
that stings your throat 
and boils in your stomach 
prone to scrunched noses 
and tart pies
and being gathered 
by girls with blonde pig tails
promising delicious desserts 
reaching high into branches 
that have so often posed 
as castle balconies 
or crows nests 
leaving splinters and broken 
wrists 
as a parting reminder 
of the whispered secrets that 
were held hostage by snow 
and blossoms 
in exchange for 
fingers stained red by cherry juice 
that would find its way into 
the cracks in our finger nails 
and the lace of our dresses 
that were often decorated 
with mud and bark and bad dreams 
and missed dance classes 
because the shoes hurt 
our toes 
that were needed to grip 
limbs
that would push us 
that much closer to the 
sun 

There are a finite 
amount of minutes that 
I am allowed 
so you are making a sandwich 
and I am telling you how 
when awful things happen 
I pretend they didn't 
and you're drifting asleep 
while I whisper 
about the voice in my head 
that tells me you've 
never cared 
and you're trying to pick out a movie 
while I tell you it's been too 
long since I broke a bone 
and I'm worried I've gone numb again 
and there is only a finite amount of time 
I am allowed
so please 
let your hand linger on my neck 
for just too long 
and don't pull away just 
yet because 
I've missed my butterflies

there is a very certain 
divinity 
to humanity 
ok ok
maybe we are less divine 
than we are naive 
and angry 
but there is a 
power that comes with 
knowing nothing at all 
and a certain 
religion 
in self destructive behavior 
a satisfaction only 
calmed by 
watching the ground 
come fast 
god is no more than
that little voice in your head 
that whispers
jump
as you peer at the ground bellow
we write books 
filled with drawn out explanations 
to drown out 
the pieces that revel in the 
tragedies around us 
the pieces 
that so easily catch fire 
and burn villages to the ground 
and we say over and over again 
we are good 
we are good 
we are good 
when we really and truly know 
that purity is not 
to be good 
it is to be unaltered 
and at our core 
we want to break what 

I run on energy drinks 
and loose change 
and an almost empty gas tank 
and there is newspaper 
in my closet 
and empty picture frames on my floor 
and more and more 
I am uninspired by the 
sky above me 
I arrive on time 
to places I don't want to be 
and tell jokes that rub my 
past self 
the wrong way 
and I will light a candle 
for everyone who has 
mispronounced my name 
and then burn my house to the ground 
and it is spite 
that fuels my will to 
succeed 
and the voice in my head 
that says 
you take yourself 
too seriously 
that slows me down 
and scary movies make me laugh 
and I like it when photos are 
blurry 
or when telephones
have a curly cord 
i wish i could pull off
red lipstick 
but i was made to wear 
pink gloss 
and smudged mascara 
there is a war 
on the tip of my tongue

To Do: 

• clean the bathroom 
• pack a lunch 
• find a stone the color of your eyes
• figure out where the garden gnomes keep going 
• finish questions for chapters 1-4
• wish on the fish at the bottom of the pond 
• recount the exact happenings of Monday morning
• pick up milk
• hide from the ghost in the attic (learn its name) 
• try and predict this week's weather 
• forget the fears of Friday night 
• vacuum bedroom

I have my fathers eyes 
and tendency toward resentment 
and my mothers hands look 
just like mine 
but my nose is my own 
shaped by unkown allergies
and blood stained tissues
and my mothers 
fear 
was placed underneath my
ribcage 
before my first breath 
because I was built 
from the inside out 
and I am sorry 
that I don't have answers 
and only questions 
it comes with the 
blonde hair 
and each time I 
look into his eyes 
and see anger 
I know it too 
lives in me 
for we are all made of bits 
and pieces