the lost boys

castles built in forests far away
hold crumbling boys inside crumbling walls
where water runs from old mine shafts
and carves fissures in the rocks
like the fissures in their hearts
they climb and hide and play all day
and hit the lip when life gets heavy
one more sip equals one less worry
and they don't have to think about us
or the things that make them hate themselves
every few days or so they miss the warmth
and we find them on the side of the road
borrowed communication, stolen ash trays
pockets full of change and half smokes
at least we understand neverland
and that lost boys never grow up

burnt toast

don't do that.
don't be nice.
no airplanes.
no lingering hugs.
no sideways glances.
i can be your friend.
just not your toy.

cinnamon lies

so someone stoked a flame and i had my hand at writing songs whilst driving on mindless errands today. i came up with a chorus. don't be too hard on me. the melody really is pretty. perhaps i'll track the song's progress. if i don't forget about it in the move. to the bay. in three days. holy smokes.

sometimes your lips taste like cinnamon
and sometimes they taste like lies
don't tell me that there's no way around this
cause i've seen your insides
and i won't settle

i like eddie murphy's laugh

after two days of fever
did you wake up sober
and realize that i wasn't
exactly what you thought
or dreamt i was before
the alcohol seeped from
your pores and the parts
of you that thought
i was beautiful?
because my mind was clear
and i remember the details
the texture of your lips
all the games we played
and the pain you felt
that haunted your eyes
and i woke up in the middle
to make sure you were breathing
and let you squeeze my hand
when the pain was too much
you said you owed me your life
but i'd settle for a phone call.


nope. four.

new

you walked back into my life off the side of the road. and perhaps i let go, because you called me your wife so many times i believed it. but even if i'm not. i don't feel bad for feeling good. about your skin or the way you looked me in the eye.


i'm thinking of a number between one and ten.

hindsight is 20/20

i hate you. i hate that i don't. i hate second guessing and seeing your light through the darkness you put off. i hate that i got a taste of the person you are underneath your well constructed facade. i hate the half truth-bullshit-pride vortex in which we seem to reside. couldn't we just go back to that day on the tiles and decide to be friends? catch a glimpse of what we are now and conclude together that it would be better that way? then i could enjoy the person you are without being sore over your indecision and the omission of your life's details. your random contact gives me a buzz that's bad for my health. and i feel silly for feeling this way. for feeling anything at all. for spinning the lie that made you change your mind. but we can't go back. and i am begging the universe for the day i don't care.


i want to bleed. cry. laugh. and curse you out. and wash my hands of the mess we've made.