i get lonely sometimes
not solely because i dont have company
i like to be alone
i breathe alone
i see alone
but sometimes
i feel it
for the world,
i know its full of people and everything,
but
that means theres always somebody sighing out there

rotten

you complain about something every time you come into the store.
its the tomatoes mostly
they arent red enough
not the right texture
they are on the side, not on the bagel
even though you eat them on your bagel
they are too large, too cold
there are not enough;
"I don't know what they've told you, but i usually get three slices"
everyone else gets two, but you get three
three tomato slices that seven times out of ten will probably rot in the trash
ive asked you several times if youd like to pick out your own tomatoes
and you have, analytically, critically.
ive thrown out hundreds of slices in your name,
decimated crops for your fussy pleasure
i display the slices and i hold my tongue
because inside i would like to ask you a lot of questions
that have nothing to do with tomatoes
they're fucking tomatoes.
one can only wonder what your life is like

a train of thought

if i ripped your life away
if i held the axe of time
would you be able to tell me why
i should not cut the threads of memories
could you tell me why this very hour means something
to you
to me
could you tell me why i should keep standing here?
and should you say no
then i would guess that something has already been torn from you
something has already sliced the strands of hope
perhaps you loved life with a fierce intensity
the kind of love that falls on its knees
and never breathes when plucked up

a debate

The hand holds the pen in one very decisive position
It is trapped under the spell of the index and thumb
and usually the ink contained is held by one hand
right or left
your writing, however, can be as disobedient as it wants
It can cause a fuss, it can curl, it can not be seen
It can be sharp and short, invisible, obnoxious, pretentious,
absurd, genuine, expressive
I look at my bouncing fingertips when I type this
My fingers communicate against machine
They slap buttons and touch screens
They sprawl out wild, but not to stray from keys
Keys that speak the perspective of me
I can change the color and the style
I can delete and space my thoughts
I could delete this all and you wouldn't know
but if I wrote something by hand,
You would see there was something that was supposed to not supposed to be there
something mistaken
something left out
something disregarded
something feared
perhaps a realization
a special turned un-special ocassion
a number, a name, a secret, a forgotten game,
unnecessary grocery items,
unnecessary blood clot of ink
this crossing out
this scrambling is a small grave
for what mightve been
but the afterlife of the machine,
where is that?

i type so fast. i grew up and the internet just started happening. i got harrassed online when i was 11. aol creepers asking me about my private thoughts. a random person full of hatred came at me in caps. i remember books for research. but now this jsut wont do. its just too much to do. its too much. today i ran on a belt that runs for me. it operated by wires and machinery. here i am typing on my bed because my computer is portable. here i am raving in my head and broadcasting to who knows because my world is portable. my iphone knows where i am. it can tell me how to get to the washington monument and tell me about it too. it can count my calories.
it can
but what can i?

i pour the drinks of my choice.
i know my favorite dishes.
i select the scents I am stirred by.
i create laughter when i start to sink.
i set my sights.
i discover my desires with time.
i age and find ways to reinvent the bones ive been carrying around.
i sweat in shallow attempts.
i ask for time in all sorts of ways, especially for myself.
i curl up and embrace myself on harder days.
i choose the sexy dress.
i choose my sleep,
my art, my dreams.
i choose with all choices in mind.
only i can turn me on.
i tell these muscles to move.
i say what makes me coy or bold.
i hold the love to let you love me.
i smile at my reflection when its right.
i provide the touch that will tell you how.
i breathe deep and steady
and really listen to the chaos in my head.
i keep my happiness in mind.
so yes, you could say that I'm in love with myself.

today i met a woman in her 70's who had had a heart transplant. she has the heart of a fifteen year old girl who died in a car accident. the mother of this girl said that she loved pepsi and pot. the newly alive woman began to drink a good amount of pepsi until the noticeable weight difference made her want to stop. i didn't ask about the pot. she said she now wakes up with no pain, none of the aches that come with age. she's got teenage energy. she has a piece of someone's life inside of her own. her body accepted this foreign wealth of life. her heart beats and beats courtesy of a girl with no pulse and no need for a heart anymore. you're born and you die. you live until you die. and death can breed life and life keeps blowing my mind

a dark chapter

i wasn't eating very much. i had the idea that if i just ate a pickle here and there to curb my appetite i could go by without eating much. i enjoy pickles; theyre zesty and snappy and the taste lingers on your tongue for long enough to distract you from hunger. so i ate pickles. i ate pickles and my pelvis began to stick out more. i was proud of my loose pants. i just wanted to look good. i wanted arms that looked long and thin in pictures. i wanted the teenage fat from my cheeks to dissolve. i wanted you to turn your head away from an ever absorbing computer screen. i wanted to be sexy, to be wanted, to be lusted for. but i was empty. no pickles could save me. i was hungry and tired. i had no energy. but i was really tan! and thin! and fuck did my eye makeup look good! my hair dresser told me how fabulous i looked and i smiled a miserable smile. a smile for all the wrong reasons. i think that was the smile i always had for you. everything wrong but looking pretty. looking polished. "gosh, she looks really good, has she lost weight?" so why dont you rip your eyes away from that screen. that fucking mindless screen. i dont care what level you are, what your character has done in a virtual world that won't have sex with you. i am right here you fool! i am right.here. i had a depressing ring tone for you. i wrote things about you. i kept pictures of you. i sank with you. and no you never hit me, never handled me too roughly, never left a mark of anger but your mouth was the worst kind of poison. a poison i let seep in to my skin everyday i tolerated it.

you told me little things i needed to improve. you made jokes to "ease" any tension over this. you said you really liked it when i was all done up. so i never showed you anything real. i showed you nail polish and hair dye. i showed you the effects of only eating fermented cucumbers. i showed you empty. and you, you were empty too. but i tried to fill you with whatever i had left on my bones. i tried to laugh for you, to be happy for you. but you muffled my laughter. you told my tears they were wrong. you shoved my spirit to the ground. your depression bored me and my patience bored you. so we would pick at each other as some sick satisfaction. we didnt solve things. we said things were stupid and buried them. we were the worst we that could be. yet i chose you and you chose me. and misery chooses company. and i chose for a time to tolerate this. i let my thoughts be polluted because i always thought things would be clear if i waited. waited for what? for you to turn into another man? i waited while my toes were stepped on. i watched you drown at your desk. i watch you immersed in a world that wasnt real, i saw you disappear inside headphones. i yelled at you sometimes. i screamed. i wrote in sharp and pointy letters about your disregard and disrespect. i exhausted your name in trying to understand you. i smushed the lumps in my throat into my pillow. i breathed heavy. but i saw you give up on life. i saw your back slumped over in defeat. i saw you, but you never saw me.