loves a pressure

there are sides to every story, sometimes you're never the same. its about borrowing things never to be returned again. its about going down a path  without your gps guiding your lefts from your rights. I've left you're right. i write about theft. and where do you take your collected sorrows for a cash in, a lump sum in my throat of pieces i won't give away. 

artifacts found along the way,

never have i ever

been so scared, i shut down
thicker than the berlin wall,
never have i ever
would you rathers, counted
"time is an illusion,"
but i feel it. i really fucking feel it.

que paso, ari? what now? where to?
hypnotized by, "one day at a time,"
I'm lucky to be alive, aren't i?

love is cruel. when i broke
in front of my mother,
she gave me
an unrecognizable look, "and where is your eternal optimist? where have
you lost her"

oh my god, how you pronounce the word "through," and i don't know what I'm imagining, but i feel you saying "true"-- it's like singing to drake, "come through, girl; you deserve rounds tonight," but hearing "come true"

i thought once to grow my hair because of this condition to aspire for a gown of the life long kind, societal negotiation of supply & demand of the fairy tale kind. a good bride has a good braid. when my first love hurt me, i cut my hair in the bathroom. i tamed to grow it. only to find the little girl inside my body, snipping chunks of her fine baby hair to my jaw line alone in the bathroom again. i cut my silk every time i want to weep. it is the only thing you have, to shed & sever, and it always comes back to you. 

My drive home
from an unsteady heart
gives me time
to think after my work is done
who will wash my dead body?

This thought makes me cry
from the belly, but I can't
lose sight of the road