You're too lucky there's no hell for you to rot in;
'cause lord knows, you deserve every inch of burning flesh as a reminder.

Possessin' this hollow body like a curse; all fingers crossed and twisted under the weight of the car-door slammin'. And I don't know what's worse, tracing the footsteps in the loose dirt where you finally put your foot down... Is it better to regret it, or simply easier to just forget it?

If I could, I would.
If I would, I could.
If I didn't.
and I never did.
And I never, ever will.

I can't tell if I mean it quite the way it's written, 'cause I wrote it all down drunk.
Where the letters string together, there's hardly anything left to decipher, just a poorly drawn map on a page full of secretly-heartfelt suggestions on a meaningless journey to clear one's own. What isn't clean will never be as clear as the decision to ignore the filth, caked on from years of avoiding my own guilt over avoiding myself... And regressing myself, to come back to the mindset I let myself drown in with disappointment - now, what was too many years ago. I ain't never been a shining example of good faith, nohow.


A good heart will get you anywhere, a good hearted-woman will make you bleed. Like the days long-gone, you won't miss anything. Not the sound of the voice trembling in the cold, you lace your fingers into the strands that trace the outer-most corners of such a stern face; I know you're guilty of watching me sleeping. Wondering why in the hell any chosen path could take you somewhere so far out of bounds. I know you're just as sorry as I've ever been, or as we ever could be. And you're stories quit matching up after playing telephone for another hour with no one seeming to wonder why a body of such stature can't even be trusted. Why without reason and in clean working-order, a defined lack of treason could make any body possessing sanity wonder why the hell any body would bother standing at the edge of the rye.

Why such a nasty remark, with such a nasty tone, with such a nasty...
disposition. In such a nasty sort of seeking situation, where the comments leak with hesitation... as it makes anyone nervous to say to a person. If the smoke's still lingering, as it usually does, and the atmosphere just isn't the same as you wanted it to be. Fainted and re-imagined in memory, until the tiny details favored are lost in made-up wonders of what really was and what might've been, yet never was hasn't been.
      So thinking it over, and over again. I'm not much for an explanation, but fairly is how I feel I represent present contexts over pale comparisons of the past. And when you capture it in concept, you must've determined what the concept has to mean to yourself and everyone.
     Lost in the art of the wall decorations, light lightly-humming music in the background of a restaurant with drinks in hand... Just water and lemon and obviously-lacking conversation. What I love most is the excuse that there's nothing to prove.

Who you hookin' on the end of that line? With that half-smile as in-tact as the day you discovered..
Softer flesh than you had bothered to study for yourself, though you enjoy the smell of the hair more than you enjoy the smell of food, waiting on a plate in front of you. And you don't want what's as obtainable as waiting for such a relief; from hunger and other such things... Like grieving the act of deciding against breakfast with a beer in your hand and the sensation of vomit yielding in your throat.
      Still choking out excuses. It's not like I don't think I don't drink too much, it's not like I don't know... I'm impaired, and let it be. I can see clearer without glasses but with substances in pockets hidden from untreated eyes.
      I can't say whether or not it's considered wise to stuff you're money in your mattress. I sleep atop an invisible gun, becoming more serious in intoxicated laughter. It's nothing to smoke-laced smartass remarks, but steep in dreams, I'll make you dead to me. Shots always firing, yet you never bleed.. it's just whispers lost in wars, and winds. All dreams of such, such a faint distraction from phones ringing and conversations with reactions you hadn't expected... It's a story heard before.
   

The most unfair aspect to it,
after sleeping through the drive -
counting headlights in passing, one, two three...
that's incomplete. There's no two-wheeled machine grinding the pavement in front of me.
Unfortunately, forced into seeing it from this unfair, unflattering angle
& your dishonesty looks huge in that dress.
I could have pulled my own goddamn hair,
I could have cried myself to sleep. Instead I waited patiently as the hours passed...
and still you never got over such jealousy.
I never did figure out what you wanted from me, but it must be somethin' I ain't got, or I ain't givin' away these days. You just aren't getting it, all the same.

All the same.

&we're not so alike anymore.

one eye open, teeth clinched shut.
The thought of you can be infuriating, seeing your cold-stare once solid
slowly crumbling apart. And there ain't a thing to avoid in such an inviting
silence as we've introduced ourselves to -

I kept the lights shut off, because I wasn't afraid of the dark.
And I've never feared what I might overhear if my hands are kept in my pockets
& I'm trying hard to mind what's mine and only my own, yet still she knows. No one tells her and still she knows.

We all have our weaknesses.
Like the ability to be sober,
and sure.
Still overflowing with honesty, true
mostly all misconstrued.

So I call and hang up
without the chance to answer.
No enthusiasm in the pitches
mostly met with sarcasm,
and I've grown to accept
that this isn't acceptable,
if you're grown.

Such a delicate defect
you've wished onto me
still nothing different,
and I wish it weren't so.
All moving inward, intestines knotting & live-hopes rotting
and lacking much room to grow.

Advertise yourself,
make your face read well
with minimal personal belongings
'cause nothin', not a thing is attractive
with baggage.
No collateral for damage.
Just make it all seem as if life is dream.

I can hear what you're thinkin'.
I swear -
and it ain't what you're sayin.
...not because I don't care.

'We just waste time,
drivin' around the block.
Runnin' around the clock
to find the time.'
He'd say-
   to talk with her.
'Such a solid voice is a curse' -
so it lingers in verses.
And I don't know if it's worse
if I can't remember, or recall.
With a heart so tender-
words tough when I chew.

Please, stop feeding the compliments untrue.
If I wanna refuse to be a liar, I'd have to say
I just can't stand
not hearin' from you.

So the dust trail ends
where the smoke trail begins.
& there's a notification on the airwaves
of an unknown car
parked on the side of a city street -
and this is how you're forced to remember me.

Why,
why must you doubt?
You like to say you hate the way I pout
yet never hesitate
to draw a frown across my face
with nothing positive to say.
And so we'll try so hard to sleep through the time apart..
I just strive for the easy way out.


The vodka was bruning
my bottom-busted lip when
I'd realized that if I were bleeding,
I'd bleed only while deep in a dream of you.
And the worn soles of old shoes - you say
you find all sorts of things when moving out;
everyone knows you'd wished you'd forgotten about.

The night lingers on, still
& my face feels sort of numb - while fingers gently rest.
I'll knead the x-amount of square inches of goosebumped flesh.
Just to get the easy way out.

If there's snow on the ground
you might try looking around
to find out what's bringing the corners
of your pressed lips down
into the frowning position
those sweet cheeks must be
so familiar with.

If there's snow on the ground,
it might be cold
This might be why I feel so old
in comparison to how it felt
when I met you,
& you were smiling.
So long ago, now.


So -

I've been waiting for this long,
so long as I've had the capability
to pretend my thumbs aren't fumbling,
with every secret I can keep
slowly molding under my thumbs -
into lies as my silence sweetly speaks
in such violent, shocked reactions.
So.

It's a habit.
It's not hard to know if you have it.
It's bad if and when you can't grasp it.
But when you can, you intertwine
with it's empathy.
The dirtiest of purity,
dust on the mirror - still clear to see.
If you need to be
a part of me
you're going to become a habit.

I don't know if it's true or not, but it's written in my journal. The ink smears on the side of my hand a perfect representation of my misconstrued intentions as I answer the phone. How is a lady to tend to lady's work?


How's a gentleman to learn a lady's way?