Wow. So incredible the way life flows,
how words come out of me this one time because I forgot to think about if you knew me or not. You do, and I am getting to know myself now, wanting time and more time. Confusing where to start when I want explanations. It was so nice to see you.

i have been left.

some things wont leave me...like wanting to throw up on and punch things sometimes. I've been thinking a lot about the order of things, the order of the way our minds work, the order in which we go to get where we are. I've been thinking a lot about hate, and how it really cannot be separated from control and self-loathing. I've been thinking about how there is too much to do and nothing to say.

Noticing my home as if I've never lived here before,
settling into knowing I'm moving forward even if other people continue to say "oh, well...you have time" without knowing me. not to be angry, but mobile and not get caught in what I don't believe in.

He said to make sure it spilled out of you,
he said to not show it to lovers or mothers.
Well I showed it to both and called it intimacy
scrapping the tops of buildings like we did
trying to pick up extra change for the hobos you
wanted to be.
Now I look at you,
trying to spill out clumps of
your hair
pulling from the drain,
our flight fell.
Crevass of echos deep in their chaos, it melds into
the swirl of who you were to me,
sitting up late,
wanting grasses greener than
the dollar i spent
not sleeping in bed with you again.

How did I know we'd end up like birds on a swing,
never quite still,
never in one place,
moving forward clipping my wings from the black rubber seat,
I sing.
I sing for you,
the one who brought me close to death,
close to throwing up my body till there were only shins.
My face is stone
my tongue sits on it, the main attraction lapping up
the moon and the sun when they meet each day.
How would I know a swing could bring me so close to living?
Living like loving the only way I know how to
living in love like it was my seeing eye dog except I wasn't anyones self respect but my own intelligence.
How would I know what it felt like being stifled
to be dead to be a translation of other peoples thoughts in my head.
How do I know I love you?
I love you I love you
and I want to say it till I'm awake again.
Awake to the past not owning me and the present not being me
but awake awake to the movements we make when we agree that as humans,
we can collide together and as swings we could fly together and
as hope for the bottom truly being the bottom
we can rise up together.

I am making myself sad
into wet mud and I can't scrape it off my shoes or it'll get stuck in y fingertips.
I am making myself sad holding my arms around the meat of the first tall tree i see.
We are all making sadness
pulling down branches trying to reach the stars at the top.

Can it be true that stories only birth from grime?
I don't see any dirt on bodies here except the residue of mountains.
The homeless huddled under the
curve of open sky
anyone can look into it and see generations.
There's one man, he looks over me glazing
blurry streets to my body,
and his blue eyes ask me for booze money.
I wonder if he could get me some too?
The next time, and the next after that he doesn't remember me.
But I tell him each time hoping he'll get it.
That's the difference there between bums here and bums
in baltimore.
Those at home aren't stuck on booze. They were either broken or
moved onto harder drugs.
I'm drawing images of a drunk in my
mind,
seeing a foster mother in a dirty kitchen,
slipping on liquid ice
made for soothing ear drums.