It is so strange-
Being brought back from the dead,
Especially when they say that's impossible.
Scientists know nothing about love.

If I woke up in the morning and was blind, I'd be so grateful that I'd never have to look at this again

21 Years and It's Not Any Easier

I don't need to be a butterfly
But I'd like to be something worth aspiring to.
Either way, what I'm saying is
I don't want to be here
I don't want to be with you
And I don't want your number in my phone.

I also don't want theses marks on my back
Or on my thighs
Or on my forearms.

There's this girl who looks at birds and says
"I could turn them into a sweet pair of earrings"
And I want to be the kind of person who looks at beauty and says
"I deserve that"

I don't even know why I held on to you for so long

"I'm the best friend anyone could have asked for!"
You yelled at me through liquor lips and I nodded and said
"Yes, yes I know!"
And even though my eyes weren't as woozy as yours
I still felt my heart on my finger tips.
Only a minute passed
And then I was forcing your hand to my chest screaming
"This is where you are even if I'm not in yours!"
You seemed to like the answer so you smiled
And nodded
And said "Baby, we should go hang out with everyone else"
Only a minute passed
And there was Bacardi flowing from your tear ducts
With your accusatory hands waving in our faces
"I've never been able to trust anyone except you people!
You are all beautiful people!"
Not even a minute passed
With my head bobbing along to your heartbeat
And your toes curled cold around the back of my knees
And your voice falling low around the curls of my hair
"I don't trust you. I wish I could, and I want to, but I don't"
Seven hours pass
And you're on the other end of line
Calling my face awake from the puddle of salt water and drool
And desperation that has formed on the back seat of my car
So I didn't have to sleep in my lie filled bed.
"Morning pretty lady, ready to hit up brunch for some tots?"
And before I dispel whatever love I had left from my gut
Onto the forgiving asphalt beneath my (for some reason) bare feet
I can only think about
How I need to drink more on these occasions

I thought about a lot at one time and I got confused a little

When I grab the limbs of the trees these days, all the leaves suddenly drop. It's too early for fall to claim it's victims, so I resign my worries to the diagnosis of me. And that's alright. I'll just try and avoid holding hands from now on. I'm used to suffering in this sense.

---

When my mother drinks,
She asks me questions about purpose and reason.
Why was she raped?
Why do I remember it so well?
How do I feel about my father?
And I'm not sure what to answer
So I tell her that it all happened
And we are all here.
And I guess that's really the only truth
Because how I feel and the reason behind things
Can change from one day to the next.
So I tell her
As our tears meet
(Her's willingly, and mine so goddamed confused)
That things are.
And for me,
That's enough,
But for the Bacardi,
It's not
And I don't want to talk about this in the morning

---

I can't talk to people about things I don't know about.
Because that would be a waste of both of our time.
And I'm already short on friendship, so I wouldn't want to go upsetting anybody.
So I ponder a lot.
Which catches the few friends I have off guard.
"She's not one to ponder, because pondering leaves no room for smiles
And that girl there is all smiles"
So I try to smile while I ponder
So that no one gets the wrong idea,
Thinking that maybe I've got something on my mind that I'd like to share.
Because I don't want to share questions that I don't know the answer to,
Like if I was raped or not.

---

I place my fingertips to my eyelids and count to three.
Because three's that magic number
That gives you time.
One is for "Ok, you're making a commitment"
Two is for "This is not the time to throw up"
And Three is for "When you open your eyes, no one will be holding your hand"
And your job is to still be alive when you get to that spot after Three
That's not exactly Four.
But when I get to the blankness after all that solidity,
I get to the uncomfortable state of not being sure
If I'm alive.
Or, put more correctly,
Wondering if not being alive would be better than this.
And that's why we don't count to Four.
Because that's the number where you ask yourself
If you'd rather be dead.
And we don't ask ourselves that question
Because sometimes the answer is yes.

---

When I say "I know"
I don't mean that I know how you feel
I just mean that I know how you told me you feel.
And I'm sorry to say that
I think that's all I can handle.