Indulging in you.

Indulging in you

is impossible.

It is the opposite of celebration.

I cannot sit on thoughts of you for too long

as your absence

and the memory of your presence

mixed together

produce overwhelming sorrow.

There is nothing I could do that would

make me feel good

when it comes to you.

All experience is laced with hurt

with longing

with where the fuck are you?

Bad News Day

Ramen Tonight

Instead of

Sleeping Pills. 

Revisionist History

It happens.

your birthday poem

it goes without saying

this is not fun

i never imagined we'd spend this day

not spending it all

i could write about your beauty

your talents

the gift the world lost

but why bother

it makes no difference

there is nothing to celebrate

this day is a ghost

it is a damaged day

let me close my eyes

i see your slender hands

they are assembling a bouquet of weeds

you are smiling looking up at me

i take your picture

a group of misfits pass us on the old train tracks

it is a beautiful day

we put your flowers in a discarded sneaker

i take a picture

it was a perfect day

it's sad

that a moment such as this

would become so precious

so rare in the grand scheme of things

love in the time of nutella

i want to walk down the street singing the songs we make up together.
i want a metaphysical collaboration consisting of teeth and breath, of breasts and scents.
concrete ephemeral drive-bys and expensive high heel shoes that make my ankles look pretty.
i want to talk to your mouth.
i want to see inside your beautiful native eyes.
every morning i wake to the sound of a breaking heart.

all the birds in new york city can't lift this.

one day i will join you in the painting above the fireplace.   

Come to think of it.

You done fucked me up. 

Don't hit my piano with your wine bottle.

I am getting phone calls from Detroit. My piano was desperately requested by the organizer of an event happening where I live. They solemnly swore that the people performing would not go Jerry Lee Lewis on it, but now the audience is drunk and people are banging the keys with empty wine bottles. At the end of the day, big dumb animals with heightened fashion senses and yearning genitalia is all we are.
I wish mental illness wasn't associated with weakness. I totally love it as a character trait- which probably means that I hardly suffer from anything. I bet people with real illnesses don't find it sexy at all.
Adi, I am going NUTS. I am so bored with everything. I didn't even change into real clothes today. I ate one meal. My teeth I brushed not. I heard recently that people who sit a lot have higher mortality rates than those who move about. My tailbone hurts from the weight of my lethargic being.
Tonight, I am going to brush my face and then apply about twenty different kinds of cream to it. Then maybe, I'm going to do day 5 of my 30 day abs challenge. I might rummage through my mom's kitchen in search of some alcohol too.
I wished I lived with a crystal genie, and that a sorority of good witches resided across the street.