The best my body ever looked was laying next to yours The smallest it had to shrink, and the emptiest it felt
Was unknowingly the same
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Mike Driver
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The best my body ever looked was laying next to yours The smallest it had to shrink, and the emptiest it felt
Was unknowingly the same

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Accidents
Suddenly you aren’t nineteen anymore
And you aren’t dead like you begged to be
You don’t wake up disappointed by sunlight
And you wonder what the forecast will be
Suddenly drowning no longer sounds as euphoric
And a car crash seems unreasonably expensive
You have a favorite cup and movie plans next Wednesday
Suddenly you realize a dull ache still quivers inside you
But you don’t grapple with standing so close to ledges that it makes your friends nervous
Sometimes you still stare at tv static while watching reruns in your head
But you share your home with pain now, and offer to make him tea
So maybe you’ll linger a little longer,
and plan your birthday party
instead of your funeral
They say we're so developed for our age
But we still ate spaghetti with our hands and wondered if monsters are real, or if they're just the eyes that watched us walk to the bathroom
Ballerina
Everything inside me is held together by tape
Adhesive is fickle and so is my sense of belonging
I apologize when my insides leak out of my eyes and down my cheeks
Because nobody likes a pretty girl that can't stay intact
My jaw hurts from filling comfortable silence with the noise of needing to be noticed
Once I am, I shrivel under spotlight
And continue to flail on stage
Because an once of observation could pay my rent for months
But nobody gets to see the price tag, or the tape peeling off
To be seen is to be loved, but to perform is to be safe
When I feel uninspired, I hang myself by my shoulders
And wait on the wall for the puppeteer that asks me to crack my limbs again

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Casual
Choke me.
Rip through skin and tell me that I've earned it.
Turn romance into a dirty secret that secretes mutual disfiguration.
A warm smile that asks to bare teeth to chew through innocence.
And when we're done
Entangled in fluid, regret, and each other
The Holy Trinity
Consensual emotional ruin
Because mutual exclusivity isn't needed in war
If you had to save yourself
How long would it take to walk through an already open door
Cyclical
When I lay in bed, I feel homesick But all that lies in front of me is endless pavements
Despite bleeding feet, I continue to walk..
Then crawl
Searching for permanence while objects around me morph into every almost
Rooted out of reach, mocking my outstretched hand
But, I'll continue endlessly seeking shelter that's familiar enough to feel like hope, but new enough not to remind me
Maybe if I stopped long enough to look beside me
I would see that these pavements are not linear
I've only been traveling in circles
what’s your biggest fantasy?
Giving my dog the best life possible
Every frayed string I've pulled has unraveled until I was nude well before anyone had asked me to undress
And I'd keep spreading myself wider to distract you from wincing

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Archived Wound
I think everything I do is with a slight touch of cyanide
Because I have an insatiable and innate wisdom on how to systematically poisen the fresh and alive
That stumble blindly into my life
I am rotted, under clothes and behind a temperate demeanor
And after we're done, you too will be untouchable
Because that is my perogative
And my mortal wound
To make you ache like me in a way that will make you understand,
Flesh is just flesh
Modesty Doesn't Save You,
From An Uninvited Guest
Ways I Was Fed
Someone once said that I’m addicted to my own sorrow and suffering.
Periodically I’ve sat with that thought,
And the notion (hopeful, childlike reckoning) that they could be wrong..
But probably aren’t
Because, for as long as I can remember, there has been comfort in the most familiar feeling I have always possessed..
The soft, syrupy awareness that drowns me in the understanding that:
despite whatever I do, the most solace I’ve ever felt is within the emptiness of complete abandonment and ridicule.
The conditional love and acknowledgment I’ve always ever known has been fed to me off butter knives: A knife sharp enough to break skin if pressed down long enough but a knife soft enough to say “I never did that”
As Above- Which Has Been A Noose Dangling Around My Neck
So Below- Which Has Grounded My Feet Onto The Chair
Crooked Clock
A house is a home
But not when the clock on the wall doesn’t sit straight
Because of holes from a hand drenched in love
That allowed prying eyes to look in
Sometimes the eyes show concern
But not when they’re dilated
And saucepans burn on the stove
And whiskey bottles are barren
A house is a home
But not when the lock is broken
And so is your nose
And so is the place that came before this
And so is the clock that doesn’t sit straight
So furniture is glued to the walls
To match the ringing in your ears
And the living room that twirls in a circle
Because a house isn’t home
When the clock doesn’t sit straight
So everything must be sideways

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I have found divinity in alley ways,
and salvation next to death.
Both disturbed me the point of quiet self redemption.
All This Anger Used To Be Love
I had always felt righteous within my anger-
a carefully curated manifesto allowing me to wear pain as proof.
My pendulum has always swung between extremes, but nothing would ever taste as good as rage would feel- like thick tar sticking to my insides that I would refuse to scrape off with forgiveness. My anger was your repentance, and I was judgment day. You'd lay your neck on my stone and your blood would be a transactional agreement of apology.
An eye for an eye; a pound of your flesh for my suffering.
You deserved it. But anger has no place amongst tenderness, and I lost sight of the lamb that my father used to see.