things are bad bad bad

why am i always so sad: an autobiography 

the creases on my knuckles are stuck with settling dust and the ends of my hairs are whispers

i want to be (with you)

i want to be (without you)

i want to be (i want to be, i want to be)

you’re too nice to hurt me

so you visit me every couple of months and insist and vow you haven’t forgotten but i’ve hugged people who i never intended to know and i know when touch is noncommittal and this is (it is!)

so maybe we should stop circling sequoias and make peace with our axes, maybe i should let you kill this tree with kindness, maybe i should strip away its bark myself (it’s already started to rot)

but maybe i should run away and have you circle, circle, circle

all i needed was for someone to slice open my spine 

but you won’t even pinch the veins on my wrist

(hurt me, hurt me, hurt me)

happy things happen to sad people

everyone was born dying

sundays are cabinet door shadows and the ringing cries of the steely eyed silver blades slicing avocados (they’re indifferent now, i’m indifferent now). 

they bleed green, i listen to the whirs, hirs, irs; deafening.

i am a pair of hands, a left foot, right foot, breathing chest

i am moving fingers and sedentary wrists 

i am half half half

i think i missed you once when i felt incomplete without your muffin top hair and beady blue eyes (i guess you meant something to me once, twice, thrice)

i think i missed that all american smile and the way you would talk like you were walking the walk (i guess i tried to be you for so long, i lost myself)

and now i’m talking to you in the atrium (it’s more stomach than heart) and i want to go back to laughing about lunch and pencils and lockers and science but now the only thing we have in common is our guidance counselor and that’s not enough because i’m grasping at smog and you’re singing in the rain and we are much much more than just a stop light apart

and

i don’t miss you or your sandy skin or your blacktop hair

i miss myself because i knew myself and now i know nothing

in that rushed goodbye outside my house i saw a glimpse of everything i wanted to leave behind. and for a second i thought that maybe if i believed hard enough the puddles of water would turn into a trench and i would slip (oops) and fall into the depths

away and away and away

there maybe once was a tether here but you’ve gnawed the rope to it’s breaking point and i no longer see you (i see segments of you; like in the cuffs of your jeans or in the hem of your dresses or even on the sides of your ‘library bookshelf’ shoes) but there is nothing to see anyway

sight is overrated

i wish i was more dedicated to my self destructive nature

i am so easily distracted