Storyteller

I can feel it in the space, right below my throat,
strange sinking heaviness that makes me wanna choke,
So what are you looking for? Another crop of endless stars?
Secret notes written on the dusty windows of cars?

I sing into guitar cords, and empty stained wineglasses,
sitting idly by while I watch as the time passes,

The whiskey was warm, and as most good stories start,
I don’t fall in love, I just cut out my heart.

Late night

Late at night
I am every existential crisis that
You failed to recognize, every
Pale computer screen and
Empty stomach
Scratching the back of your throat for the right words
That you barely knew how to pronounce
The crush of cigarette filters between bruising fingers
A sideways smile dimly lit by sidewalk street lamps,
Thin, sarcastic line, like a crack in a wall
Unfocused, unhindered, unspoken
And finally Understanding that’s all it ever was,
or ever will be.

Myths

I could’ve loved you forever,” he said,
the finality of each syllable like burnt ash on my tongue.
But what is the myth of “forever”?
Like the legend of halves created by Zeus,
needing to be found to create a whole.
When all the wholeness I ever needed
were my 4 limbs, 2 eyes and one heart.

Frustration

The intricacies of this simple life are all I have to show of value for myself; the veins beneath the surface of my tan skin protrude like winding rivers, endless and pulsating with the ambition to achieve so much more, yet I am hindered by the humanistic limits of the blood that flows through them. These sleepless nights and cigarettes, and calloused hands and past regrets, are meant for me to understand but don’t define the girl I am. Because I wait for answers to my questions, but there is no reply, no voice, no mention, no suggestion or a slight direction – just emptiness and recollection – of things that had existed then, written down from page to pen, it’s all just prose inside my mind, but when expressed they only rhyme, scattered heart expressed through ink, but you wouldn’t even stop to think, that there isn’t really much to say, just pointless words throughout the day, that form to make a pretty sound, a hope that just comes crashing down, so put down the pen, no need to write, just walk away and say goodnight.

We are

We are
words unrequited,
like a lover uninvited,
breathed the smoke to say you tried it,
now addicted, you can’t fight it.
I am
moments you’ve forgotten,
cold as steel and soft as cotton,
free desserts for those who want them,
they never notice that they’re rotten.
You are
a secret behind my tongue,
disease encased inside my lungs,
a wordless song that can’t be sung,
a heart that can’t admit it’s done.

Apologies

Sorry about the smell, and the ash in the cup holder,
and all the ways that I’ve changed as I’ve gotten older.
Ignore all the dirt and the cigarette burns,
Missed exits on freeways and street names you never learned.
Burnt knuckles were tragic, hearts stricken with panic,
when the highs that you chase started to lose their magic.
I think about the irony of well-intentioned tragedies,
Hopeful mediocrity plagued by constant mockery.
Because I’m the type of girl who picks at scabs until they scar,
Who will love you til you’re better or until you break apart,
Type who never gets the joke, but will laugh at the right part.
And will forget the things they’re made for,
til they don’t know who they are.