why a therapist will never askthis is the busiest intersection in the city of rats.why a therapist will never ask in Scraps More Like This
this is where i meant to catch the train but lost its tracks
because i was stuck in my own.
this is how i forgot to say i loved you like i meant it.
here is the waterfront park we stand before in the
winter, chilling to the bones to tremble like the
naked trees we stand between.
the boat we have never been on is called the moon,
which makes me smile and shiver and think of
the sun that hides behind grey sheets.
this is when i look at park benches like they are lost lovers,
seek the little messages carved into their skin-
"fuck" and "az+za forever" and "i am too lonely to
remember what the sky looks like."
i don't feel like walking is getting me anywhere.
i am unsure if it is summer or autumn,
like i have missed the equinox or am still stuck
within its parameters, immobile like an egg
stood on its hilt.
this is where i fall off the pavement,
killing an ant and his family.
this is where i cry and watch my tears
slide down the sewage d
humidity is a liari never told you goodbye.humidity is a liar in Scraps More Like This
the word froze on my lips,
but i think your eyes registered
it as though i were screaming.
my mouth said on stitched-shut
it was the nineteenth. june.
blue shirt, green shirt. summer
air and too much product.
i never saw you again.
humidity fooled me, it wasn't the first time.
for three, tipping to four months,
you were still there, the condensation
on the rim of my lemonade glass
told me so. you just wait, the little
beads the air sweated said, you
just wait until september.
the leaves began to fade from that
neon-green shade they clung to
so dearly. the edges browned, the
veins decayed. there was no bird
in my window anymore; the lemonade
lied to me.
winter was colder without you.
the snow was heavier and i catch the
bitter air with my face crammed beneath
the comforter, but i think that was what
i was going for; i couldn't breathe anyway.
you've got me realising
that i've never said a goodbye
don't cry as you fall asleeptell me it's no metaphor-don't cry as you fall asleep in Scraps More Like This
the black sky, of course,
but first the way i took what
mattered to her most
and cried with shaking palms
as i sank it into her
tell me, heart
tell me it wasn't you
i let go,
let slip back into
which yearn to bend you
and break you sharply
i can never dye my hair dark
it will be too like hers;
i should be like her
but why be someone else
i hate, she is not beautiful
just a canker sore
throbbing in the salted sea
take her away, take her away,
the tide is still screaming
and i throw it my every penny,
rusted copper scattering
in the waves
i beg her to go,
white cars and white clouds
and white skin and white eyes,
the psych ward is glowing
in anticipation of her arrival
hospital gown like a ball gown
she is wearing bleach in her hair
it is far past due
she is wild and hurtful and
a seizing mess, but
maybe some damned schizophrenic
will love her back
roamin'i named him charlie.roamin' in Scraps More Like This
charlie was the sort to sit on the concrete rather than the bench three feet away because it was ironic, his guitar case under his shoes and a cardboard sign on his lap that read, "roamin'." charlie was maybe twenty, with too many deceased train tickets and copper-plated coins turning in his jeans. i would bet the contents of his pockets that he couldn't remember where his hometown was anymore, what his mother's face looked like, or why he left.
i wanted him to hold his sign the other way, i wanted to see if there were more permanent-marker words scrawled on the back. i wanted it to say, 'drive me somewhere,' or 'take me to the west coast, take me back east.'
i wanted to drop my shopping bags and throw open my passenger door and tell him to jump in. his guitar case would go in the backseats and he'd kick his feet up on the dashboard and leave muddy traction prints along it.
i'd tell him to empty his pockets, see what he's got, make him chip in for gas money. i'd dr
hotel roomsdear,hotel rooms in Scraps More Like This
i would write you a letter but i imagine you kicking and screaming, jagged fists wailing black and blue on the yielding floorboards. the room is turning to black because the sun is setting outside my house, it is turning black because you are sitting on my chest, knees digging into my breasts, and you are a heavy weight on my heart. these red walls have ceased to be walls, and have become something far more sentient. i am within the body of my mother, watching the tiles of her womb pulse with blood and breath. i am a newborn without the ability to love, an old woman in my remembrance, and painted with the guilt of a teenage girl.
poets romanticise hotel rooms; they are not white holes of breathing and nascence, they are small and lonely and ratholes lined in brown and there is nothing beautiful about them other than i don't have to clean up after i fuck things up. i feel infinite in my loneliness, yearning for a sleeping form to watch under silent air. hotels are numbers; they fa