I started smoking again just to prove how over you I am.
I found 5 pointed stars in my bed,
Tore my sheets and poked microscopic holes in my mattress.
A dip in the terrain for every night you’ve spent.
I sleep over 3D maps and contemplate earthquakes now.
The mountains you created make knots in my back,
My lows don’t feel so low anymore;
While the highs,
Hurt a hell of a lot more
Than the lows
I went to an estate sale.
A woman was selling a baby blue guitar.
“It’s yours — I’m moving to Aruba.”
And off I went with baby blue in hand.
As Blue as an Aries,
was the name of the band.
There was a boy in navy blue swim trunks playing in a South Jersey blue hole.
I blushed at the site of him — pink.
I put down my guitar and started to paint my hair shades of blue.
Streaky and soft,
like watercolor ink.
I found a man in orange,
offering me warm bearded kisses.
I didn’t want them but I was cold.
“This could be a good move for me,” I thought.
I went to the bathroom to wash the paint out,
but the whole room was blue.
I missed the night.
I smoked passion flower,
left a water bottle open in my bag,
slept with lipstick and glitter
for 12 hours and it’s still not enough.
You were in my dream–
at least a part of you was.
My childhood fish friend decided to move in with me.
It’s always dark now,
in every dream,
Blue, Black, Grey silvers of light
form the non-existing moon bounce off of puddles and trees.
I want to hide.
I want to be seen.
I don’t know which one I want more.
I am surrounded by vomit,
When did everything I write become so dark?
I thought seeing you would make me feel better,
but now I feel worse.
As if I didn’t hate them already.
As if I needed another reason.
I would tell you if it was your fault,
but it’s really not.
I would speak the words
if they didn’t make me so sick.
I would say them loud
if I wasn’t already gagging.
Some people make you feel worse
while some make you feel better.
I long for car sunburns,
sleep, and spearmint gum.
I’ll move to the Midwest and use it as toothpaste.
We’ll pass of Fireball on the road
and use bumps as pick-me-ups at 5am.
We’ll never think of the rain again.
I was thinking about the Midwest.
White, orange, and black cars.
The color of the craft,
our New Year
Spotted on the first day of Summer.
Sometimes fresh starts aren’t always so fresh.
Sometimes they are hot and burning off scorching concrete.
Sometimes they are born on Midnight in the suburbs of Connecticut.
I’ve been dreaming of Russian winters,
taking 6-hour flights
for 45-minute brunches,
to show people how much I care.
Dashing red velvet ropes
for closed off areas
Grand marble staircases
to hijack the castle
Waiting on snow
for the team to show up
and give me a ride
I have brunch plans in six hours.
I dreamt of city beer hall pasts
A brick wall splashed with soft lighting
A raging bull
An opening to different times
Torn up pieces of paper, Free pizza
Nancy yelling at me to get in the cab
We were always going back when we should of been moving forward
Time is a funny thing