It’s late, so I will write what I know.

New heart

Old heart

Fused together so perfectly

The torn pieces

The frayed

All sewed and mended

But not new,

No they wouldn’t be, would they?

I am sitting here

At 9:39

At night

In the cold

Chilling silence

Of my childhood bedroom

A place of pain I forgot to abandon

And I’m feeling manic

Enraged and enticed

By foggy drunk memories

Of your soft tangly hair

In my mouth

And between my fingers

But this poem isn’t for you

My peach

My perfect pear

(but isn’t it always really

about you, my love?

Don’t you live forever

In the back of my mind?)


Not now, I won’t think

I can’t think

I’ll just watch the curser

Flashing curiously at the top of the page

And dwell on how unutterably

Fucked my life has become

My life

With it’s twists and turns

It’s cruel little chokes

I am the punching bag of the universe

I am the teacher

The one the boys learn to be better from

Only to practice on soft


Unbroken women

Those who can’t do


And I can’t do love.


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