0

Clockwork

Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Will 2009 percs get you high?
Instead of running,
I’m running from things.
Drowning in self pity?
Or is there something fucking wrong with me?
Googling,
—how much tramadol to get me high.
Google says,
—tramadol is considered an opiate narcotic drug.
Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Are you an alcoholic if you
are too lazy to go to the store for whiskey?
Do you fucking love me?
He says he loves me.
My brain says shut the fuck up.
—no you don’t.
It always happens like this.
It’s like clockwork.
Elation.
I’m so fucking happy.
Restless.
Want to get in my car and never look back.
Depressed.
Sometimes I’m angry,
and that brings shame
and shame feels like shit.
So does angry.
I feel so much.
Razor blades. Or wine.
Fuck.
Like, I’ve been here before.
I know how it goes.
I know it fades,
but right now I don’t want to fucking feel shit.
Unless it’s someone telling me how goddamn beautiful I am.
Talking to you, Cameron.
Think that’s gonna happen?
Fuck no.
Razor blades? Or wine?
I’m drinking the wine.
I’m drinking the wine.
Hey Google,
—does this make me an alcoholic?
Do you know what the serving size is for alcohol?
—Take a sip.
Can I talk to you about your substance use?
—Take a sip.
There are other
—take a sip
coping skills you can use
—take a sip
like deep breathing
—take a sip.
Razor blades.
Or wine.
Wine.

0

fuck.

you tasted like cigars and i loved it
i wanted to fuck you in the parking lot
it was magic and sex and cigarettes,
you bought me dinner,
we talked about the future.
we laughed and we kissed,

and i still feel like shit,
like i dont want to be a fucking secret
am i?
because social media says that I am,
and it’s almost friday,
so i just have to survive one more day at work,
and im fucking drowning
because they say you don’t walk in the same river twice
but this water feels familiar
like maybe you dont want anyone to know
that i love you.
do you love me?
because i think you do,

you packed my toothbrush and
drove it 200 miles away and unpacked it again
on your bathroom sink
and my shampoos in your shower
and my razor
and im wearing your boxers
while im writing this
and you drove 4 hours to see me on christmas
so you must love me,

then why do i feel like a secret
social media, you keep me hidden
its silly, it is,
right

am i just crazy?
is it hormones?
ive been here before and i felt like shit
because i dont want to lose you
but i dont know how to ask you
how do i say, yes, im fucking nuts
and i want to know.
this is a shitty fucking poem,
should’ve been a blog,
but fuck.

 

0

throwback. 5/11/2013

Sometimes the words find you and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they leave you stranded and wanting. Wanting to organize your mind into paragraphs and words and sentences and clauses and decorate them with periods and question marks and the like. Wanting to show the world a colored picture painted from twenty six black and white brushes. They refuse to come until they are forced, unbidden from their hiding places, to show the world what it has not known. To show the world what it has not felt. To show the world a thing in which it has not seen before. Until change pushes them into the open, the words will stay hidden. Safe.

It is in this moment, as I sit remembering a time alone, riding parallel against a train, that the words finally make their way to the surface. They choose to come, after much poking and prodding and faltering at the keyboard. They come, but they are neither moving nor beautiful. The taste of words that will not come, complete nothingness, is bitter on my tongue and I can feel the tingle of wanting that creeps down my spine as I search for the words that seem to be always evading me.

The longer I sit and concentrate on the words, the longer I force myself into the loneliness of that moment with the train, the easier it becomes to find the words that have tried to bury themselves. The longer I sit in solitude and darkness, the more the repressed memories seem to push and pull and tug at the words, driving them into the world that I and they too, are afraid of but must eventually face.

When finally, those words do come, they bring with them pain and perhaps in the end, some comfort. It becomes a miserable game of searching and finding and just so an unappreciative world might know, even for a second that I existed. It is difficult to discuss the depth in which the words are written; a code that will never be fully understood, perhaps even by its author.

To think, all of this because I kept the company of a train today and it seemed not to mind. It did not whisper to me words of wisdom, nor did it offer advice. It simply travelled along side of me and for a small moment, I was not quite so alone as I had felt. For a moment, the strange desire to find those lost words ceased. For a moment, there was no need to explain myself to the world.

Alas, the train was not destined to quiet longing in my heart for the words. It was merely meant to give me a moment of peace away from the things that I could not – cannot – control.

1

1-800-273-8255

in my make believe world,
i like to pretend that veterans
live in two story homes
with white picket fences
with dogs and barbeques
and families that make them laugh;
fast cars and trucks,
farms and peace,
the kind Dick Winters spoke of.
in my make believe world,
i pretend they don’t sacrifice
their sanity for
xanax pills and vodka,
beer and smokes,
PTSD and walmart,
living on the fucking streets.
i pretend they come home
and it was just as they left it.
friends are still friends,
high fives, tailgate nights
such a world, where war
wasn’t fucking easier
than living and coming home.
i pretend they don’t come home
and blow their brains out
in the lobby of a va hospital.
i pretend 22 is just the number
that comes after 21,
not the number of lives ended.
for the ones not existing
in my perfect world,
call  1-800-273-8255.
press 1 to talk to someone.

0

blank words.

The feelings are there,
but the words aren’t.
How can you share understanding,
if you can’t put it in sound?
How can you share
the things inside your head,
if the words come out jumbled,
and plain;
when what is spinning
around inside your head,
is kind of like seeing the sunset,
on a soldiers folded flag,
while his widow weeps,
and the world comes together
to mourn him.
It’s like that.
it’s beauty and pain,
hope and rage,
and how do you put that into words,
because even this,
just isn’t enough.

0

burnt cheese.

i say i love you.
i say it in that way that
gives you permission not
to respond;
like maybe its a joke,
or you’re just a friend,
or maybe you did something
nice and it’s just a thank you.
i say i love you.
aftertaste like burnt cheese
stuck to the roof of your mouth,
hot fire you can’t spit out.
i push down all those
questions like
do you love me too?
can you just tell me
that you want me.
just me.
i pretend like i’m not insecure
even though i look in the mirror
and i fucking hate that girl
with the shit brown eyes
and the fucked up hair.
i hate her so fucking much.
i know what they say,
i know what i say,
but it’d feel so good just to
hear you say it.
just once –
i love you.
i love you so much.
you move the fuck away
and here i am,
writing shitty poems
wishing i was wrapped up
in you like the night sky
says goodnight to the earth.

0

lies we tell ourselves on wednesday.

I sat in the water today,
staring at my Instagram picture,
wondering how long it’ll be
before I believe that caption

“love yourself so much,
that mirror never stands a chance”
but I’m like fuck.
Just fuck.

So I buy ten buck lace lingerie
thinking maybe he’ll tell me
he loves me,
but it’s just another disappointment

I look at that girl in those pictures
making weird faces and
I don’t know who the fuck that is.
Can that really be me?
Is she confident?
Or just fucking stupid.

Just fucking stupid,
probably.