the last stretch of daylight vanishes succinctly
like a violinist behind a fallen curtain
the dark rises and trickles overhead
‘unknown’ is what we know for certain
and i ask myself
“do you think he romanticizes
the wrong things like you do?
do you think the words are about you?”
in the morning, she gets out of bed, being pulled up by the moon
and sometimes it’s a little sad, but she makes it seem just fine
the wild strands of her hair reminds her of yesterday—
how the castles fell apart again after she had rebuilt them with her own two hands
Ladies walk home holding keys in caution
They’re told it’s illegal to get abortions
Every lady’s figure is subjected to judgment
Until the day she lies in a coffin–
Love had walked through the fiery gates of hell once before
Now he is being doomed to walk through gates again,
this time, that of departure
He does this briskly, brusquely,
as if the faster he walks, the slower the faucets turn on
when i tell you that i’m obsessed with writing,
what i’m trying to tell you is that i’m messed up.
by messed up i mean my hair, my head, my mind,
my life, my books, my desk and my heart.
i mean that i like to assume that something is wrong
when everything is perfectly normal and fine.
you showed me the best of a boy
the worst of a man
so you’ll understand when i can’t comprehend why
to this day i still haven’t found someone better than you
i’m seventeen now.
and when i look at the brow cut and shin scar that i have,
i remember when i used to feel pretty in my own skin.
when the city goes into REM and dims its many lights,
the twinkles above shine like no other—
beautiful, yet lacking life.
all my life, i’ve never been able to make out constellations.
put your hand on my shoulder more abrupt than anyone has ever did
stop me while i’m walking down the street
ask me to tell you things about myself that aren’t true
i’ll quit walking and gleefully tell you: