Text For Last Night

I'm a stupid woman, and you love me, so you're a stupid man. And I've howled at the Moon so much, my lungs are sore and raw, and I'm coughing up blood like raspberries all over my porcelain skin, where you've laid your hand your head your face, traced all over me. And your kiss feels like home, and I'm so fucking homesick. And now that I've thrown my stupid body against the wall so much, I can see, now, that I'm not angry at you. I'm angry at me for letting you slip from my tiny fingers and into the arms of somebody else. I'm not angry at you for trying to fix what I shattered like my car on a foggy morning on the road you and I traveled endlessly on nights like this one. I'm angry at me. I'm fucking pissed at myself because you aren't mine. And you never will be. I don't believe you ever were, but that's alright. I have kicked and screamed and cursed you away so many times and begged my forgiveness back into your Heart a thousand fucking times. And here I am again. I hope you meant it last night when you said you were done with me. I hope you read every word of this and delete them immediately and go to bed, without a word to me. I hope you have plans to see somebody pretty. I hope she kisses you with a mouth that was softer than mine. I hope you fall in love with her like you love the Winter. I hope she holds you late at night and buries your bruises in her skin and you never hurt yourself ever again. Because it's all what you deserve. I'm not bitter. I'm broken, Baby. I was never whole, and I never will be. But, goddamn, you made me feel like I was pretty close to it. I never meant it when I said I hoped my exes the best in Life. I mean it right now. You deserve it. Goodnight. I'm sorry.

Song For The Wounded

You were the best thing and the worst thing in my Life, my Dear.
The light has gone out.
And soon, maybe you will, too.

I Miss You

10:05 pm
I can't quit shaking
You are someplace nice without me
And I am alone, waiting for a boy to take me out to the lake
But I just want to be with you
But you are miles away
And I cannot stop the shaking
And the Lexapro isn't working for me
And I can't quit biting my tongue in my sleep
And I'd kill just to watch you sleeping tonight
And I can't erase your face in my head
And you are still tangled in my hair
And somebody is making you laugh, and I can't hear it
And I am sleeping too much
And I don't have anything to look forward to anymore
And somebody will marry you, and it won't be me
And I have no idea how to cope when it's late at night
And I can't stop shaking
And I'm breaking
Come back to me
Please, stay.

I Do Not Need To Waste A Fucking Title On You

I am broken glass
I am shattered porcelain and beer bottles I emptied into my belly
On every night like this
Loving me is wading through a beach littered with my broken parts
Because everyone that broke me never wanted to clean up their mess they made

I am moldy laundry and stink in my clothes
I am staying in bed for days
I am purging what I ate, because I do not love me enough to feel full
I am so angry, my whole body shakes
I am hating you so much that I want to tear out of my own skin for every time I think of you
I am Hiroshima
I am boiling
My blood is boiling in me
I am a time bomb
I am a hurricane
I am phlegm and blood coming out of my throat
I am a fucking wasp
I am losing my shit
I am losing my mind
I am losing
I am losing it
I am losing you
I am losing it
I am done.

Open Letter To My Boss

Please, do not yell at me.
I know I didn't do my job right this time,
Just like last time.
I know, I'm not cut out for this job.
Please, do not yell at me.
I work tirelessly
For five nights a week
Until my bones are weak and
My muscles fight in protest.
I go home when the Sun is rising
With my body defeated.
I work with all kinds of people.
With mommas, trying to feed their babies,
With convicts and criminals
With old men and baby- faced men
With immigrants who don't speak a lick of English
With a woman with a Bachelor's degree in business
With people who I have never heard speak
With people whose laugh I recognize from across the factory
With liars
With Christians
With Atheists
With brothers
With sisters
With Choctaws
With people whose language I cannot even recognize
I do not know what it is to reap the benefits of arduous labour.
I am not a rolled- up sleeve working- class hero.
I am a writer.
I cannot take apart a machine and put it back together.
But I can take apart e.e. cummings' work and figure out what he meant.
I cannot back a million- dollar industry with my hands,
But I can write a soliloquy made of no complete sentences
And make a million people relate to it.

I am not made of elbow- grease and the sweat of my brow.
I am made of staying up all night just to write poetry.
I am not made of oil- stained hands or black grit under my nails.
I am made of ink stains on my hands and smudges on paper.
I am made of 4am Spoken Words
Made of writing poems in the dark about my lover while he's sleeping
Made of haikus
Made of coffee stains on the poem I wrote about it
Made of a thousand words on any situation
Made of seventeen syllables on my worst days
Made of The Pen Is Mightier Than The Sword
Made of collections by Plath
Made of crying at anything by Jeanann Verlee
I do not know what it is to take pride in my job,
But I know exactly what it is to take pride in my work. -xx

November

This time, last year,
I cut my hair very short
after wearing it long.

It was down to the middle of my back,
but on my nineteenth birthday,
I became very depressed
and cut it into a short boy- style.

I took my cut- off hair,
and threw it outside,
off the porch of the house I shared with my two friends.

My best friend at the time,
a sweet Choctaw boy from McCurtain County
said I shouldn't have thrown the hair outside,
because Choctaw legend says cut hair left outside,
will attract bad spirits to find me
and give me bad luck.

You came into my Life about the time I cut my hair
This time, last year, with my hair cut short,
and my foolish Heart on my sleeve.

I Exist

But I'm not completely there
Like the entity of blackness inside and empty tree- without concreteness
I am the hollow blackness