cross-country

they sold the city where i was born.

you burned the bridges when i was torn.

you talked shit i looked forlorn,

standing on the corner chewing cherry stokers-

you with your heavy jacket and the fingers and teeth of a smoker.

my heart's in my pocket, thank god for my belt.

heavy heads heavy hearts

we were fucked from the start.

on wednesday a little after 11:30am,

a man will tell me that i am consumed by self-loathing and guilt.

i already know this, it's in my dreams every night.

like when i'm standing in the rain and you won't let me in.

like when i'm bleeding out on the sidewalk from cuts half a foot deep.

like when i'm walking home at 4am and nothing matters

because i left half my guts in a urinal at 9 the last night.

and i miss you sometimes.

and when i wake up in the morning i will read this note that i do not remember leaving myself:

"you're down,

but not much more than usual.

your deodorant is making you nauseous.

you have a throbbing headache.

you remember reading somewhere that alcohol disrupts sleeping patterns.

curl up, face the wall, hot flashes, damp forehead.

when you feel like this, you find it hard to feel strongly about anything."