Drunk Poem.

I miss him holding me.
White blankets.
White ceiling.
White skin on skin and
lips pressed to shoulders.
I miss the lockers and my friends and the trees.
Honestly I can hardly comprehend what I am saying.

But I know I miss him because it is always on my mind.

I know I hope he sleeps well.
Because every night
I wish for him to sleep tight even if it means
I cannot.

I miss his mother telling me she loves me.
Miss Katie and I laying in bed playing soft songs and just talking.
Our plans to see the states.

My fingers are pressing these keys; they look foreign as hell.
To whom does this hand belong?
This body isn't mine; has always been his.


I miss my home town. I know I won't be there forever.
But if I were what is wrong with that?
I've seen enough.
The entire East Coast in all it's uppity glory.

Kissed enough boys to appease myself for a few years.
Only one set of lips could do the trick now and they
rest miles and miles away.

On a boy who is not yet a man but I could care less.

Never did someone leave such a deep impression on me.
"I bet if you dusted her heart for fingerprints,
we'd only find yours."

I do a good job of pretending he is not nicotine rushing in my system.
To pretend that when I stare out windows,
in mute dis-contentedness, that it is not him
swimming through my thoughts.

But it is him every time.

I wish
for him
constantly.

But also that I might become someone
my father could be proud of.

Who wants a kid
smoking everyday
drinking every weekend
desperate for affection?

For a touch of someone else,
I don't care if they are pretending to care.

I don't care who it is because
I wouldn't see them anyway.

My mind will be so very distant
as it always is.
Reviewing the tired memories
I've replayed too many times.
But can still taste.
Feel.
Hear.
Smell.
Envision.
As distant as it always is.

In a room full-up of
the only one I have ever loved
that I did not breathe in my lungs
or poison my liver with.

He is not perfect and I don't care.
Please never let that happen.
It hurts. I don't mind.


I hate school.
Hate how alone I am.
Few friends.
None really special.
I am alone,
not by choice,
but because

I am the outsider.

Whereas, at home,
I can be alone in my own comfort.
By my own choice.
In a room of familiars who
would let me join in
if I felt the urge.

With my own Katie.
My Conen who is not mine.

But will always be mine
because I don't know how to give up.
And if I did, I would not.

And the empty
swells up inside
like a balloon.
Only to be filled
with smoke and toxicity.
He gave it up.

If I am his toxin,
or his smoke,
I pray he gives me up too.