He told me.
I could never talk to Emily about things like this.
That he's talked about more with me in ten minutes.
Than most girls.

He likes Cocaine.

And we drink wine.
In the crystal glasses.
With music from before our time.

I freaked out last night.
I just didn't want to be.
A moment.
That slithers into nothing.
Within the day.

He cures my insomnia.

It's weird.
Being unconscious like that.


I want to focus my life.
On what my soul wants.
Rather than what.

The bricks want.
The cement wants.

The plastic wants.


The Lizard King.

Is beautiful.
I can smell his soul on his skin.
He turns my brain into poetry.

He loves everything about me.
That I have been waiting to be loved.
He is my brain.

His skin is tanned.

His hair is thick.

He has the mustache of George Harrison.

I feel like I've had so much to say about him.
But I sit here.
And my brain has died.

I think I"m just afraid to say it.
Even in this secret invisible compilation of words.
That shows up on my computer screen.

I just.
Very much like him.
And I trust him.

He recognized the softness of my skin.
And my contoured neck.
He lays in bed with me.
For too long of a time.
And our bodies twist into each other.
Like I've only imagined in my mind.

I gave him almost all of my life,
And he didn't.
Erase me.
Or find me a degraded ball of Vaseline.

He asked me if I like to be alone.
And I answered twice two different answers.
I thought I knew everything about myself.
But he asks all of these questions.
And it seems like I don't know.
The truth.

He told me I make him feel like.
I forgot the direct quote.
Like the old days.
When life was about.

He held my hand.
As I walked him two miles to class.

This is the first person that I have had sex with.
That I.
I like.

That I really like.

I don't close my mind around him.

I showed him one of my poems.
Which is a rarity.

But I walked around without eyebrows on.
Because I felt comfortable with him.
I feel completely comfortable around him.

 He has.
His eyes are something familiar that I will never remember.

And his chuckle is young.


I think this is going to work.

I think I could love him one day.

The sex.


He is Sex.
Sex is He.
Is He Sex.
Sex He is.


People are strange.
When you're a stranger.

I am so lost.
Everything is superficial.
And it's becoming who I am.
When I moved to this new town,
I did it just to make being careless simple.
It started ever since my first boyfriend.
I wanted to be a trophy.
I wanted him to be proud.
And show me off.
It's interesting, though.
Because I became a prude at the same time.
I'm okay with liking expensive and nice looking things.
But I want myself to return.
I want to love.
And I want to be kind.
I don't want to intimidate people so much.
I want to make people feel warm.

There are people in my life.
Who I don't want to love me like they do.
Friendships are sacred.
And no one respects that with me.
I always know when it happens.
But I can maintain platonism.
They can't.
They get drunk.
And they tell me things I've been hoping they would not tell me.
And I know this happens.
And you overcome it as a friend.
But I never can.
I never can.


It happened once that I did.
And that was after I stopped speaking to them for a year.
And it took a couple months and a couple joints to get through it.


I want a boyfriend again.
Someone vintage.
Someone with a wide body.
And a manly chest.
Someone with big hands.
That have thick skin.
With a shy smile.
And an uncertain gaze.
Someone with an odd style.
Someone who wears sweatpants to their morning classes.
And their tired head on the desk.
Someone with shagged hair.
And long eyelashes in their silhouette.


I already know who I'm talking about.

I want my fingers in hair.
And my palm cupping the jaw.
With the thumb rubbing their cheek bone.
Right under their eye.
I want to kiss them.


I miss skin.