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.

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.

 

0

dont worry im not fucking suicidal

they’d be so surprised,
if i answered the door with
blood dripping down both my hands
and bloody handprints on the fucking walls.
they’d be so suprised,
really they would.
they’d talk.
they’d say, but we didn’t see this coming.
i’d lie, you know.
oops, haha, silly me,
just an accident with a kitchen knife,
you see, i was a cooking a big pot
of what-the-fuck and god-this-sucks
and what do you know,
slit both my fucking wrists,
totally an accident.
they’d believe me.
because pain is something we hide
in the closet underneath last years swim suit
and the pictures from our fucked up high school
years.
i’ll chug a bottle of some cheap shitty wine,
the whole thing if it doesn’t slip
out of bloody fingertips.
but if it does, we’ll pretend it didn’t even happen
white wine, what wine?
look at the time,
you sure you’re okay,
that’s their favorite line.
clearly, i’m not fucking okay.
clearly, i need help because
this blood is never gonna come off the walls
and they’re white,
so obviously it’s going to stain,
oh, you got that other thing,
that’s okay.
i think i can get these stains out
if i cry fucking hard enough after you leave.
i think i’ve got more bandaids,
underneath the bathing suits.

0

thirty.

she was gone by the time i was four,
then there were others,
that came and said, i will be your mother
but they forgot me when they put
their mother-daughter outings on the calendar.
almost good enough, but not quite enough
to get an invitation to the beach
or the shopping or coffee to talk about the day.
good enough for advice, but
not quite good enough for time.
this should have faded by now,
this feeling of being forgotten,
you’d think by thirty you’d be finished”
with childish things like belonging
and motherly love and girls nights.
but here i am, writing some shitty poem
about what it feels like to see your
sister and her mother travel to the beach
and share jokes and shopping and time,
while you sit on a couch, wishing you had a mother.
she was gone by the time i was four.