I still write your name on chalkboards and left over pieces of paper,
I leave out the a--
My old clothes that hide in the back of the garage all smell too unfamiliar,
like those of somebody I can barley remember
Some days I wish I could be an ocean,
as big as I am on the inside, on the outside,
I'll let the water swallow me,
drink down the---
I believe in a God--
You are the type of person who used to make bucket lists on left over pieces of paper,
You are the type of person who does not bother to buckle your seatbelt--
You dance under street lights that radiate like multi-colored malignancies and count the days left in your calendar--
All those pages,
consumed by ashes
in the fire--
God never answers--
A sober alcoholic is always thirsty--
I rather drink acid than inhale smoke, ashes--
writing in cursive is a just another metaphor for life,
the words don't stop until your hands get too tired--
Mom I cannot answer you
I do not understand the words that fall off your unfamiliar tongue,
I'm sorry--
I'm still not finished carving your name off this page--
When everything hurts, hurt is everything--
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