subculture-of-one

You don't pay attention to the cost of the rental Only the amount of force on the pedal Curses slash your throat like words went mental The synonym for addiction is always accidental The closest thing you got to Darfur's peril Is the $50 t-shirt you got from American Apparel And if it's you staring inside the gun barrel You know why the women wished they were sterile Daddy telling you to stay away from black men Marry a man that fits the mold of a Ken White skin, blue eyes, ends a sentence with amen Soul as inky as a ballpoint pen

He is the hand that chokes The throat That spills The bullets and the notes I spoke Caught them in filters Kiss the one that feeds Your seeds Share me the way he grinds his teeth and eats I am your crayon box Give it away Give it away Give it away Give me away Give me away Give me away I am the bird out of the flight formation The coyote follows the shadow I flew into May They shot down Athena Give it away Give it away Give it away Bullets

When your staring at his clay face That smiling clay face you ask your self Who gives the most? And he makes you want to give yourself away When he doesn't want you You ache When you don't give He takes When will you learn rings aren't as shiny as first bought Your conversations only consist of calloused words While your ribcage starts to cave in But you still give yourself away You take off your dress for him Your hands and thighs are stained black You still take off your dress for him He's waiting for you to hurt yourself again When he doesn't want you You ache When you don't give He takes

    There are so many trees on my block you could swear someone was trying to plant a rainforest. Each tree has their different style of imperfections. Some are lumpy and stout, others are wiry and thin.     The elm tree outside of my bedroom window smells like rainwater and the leaves create shadow puppets that look like fire in the fall. The bark is hard and sturdy, and makes you feel like Superman when you manage to tear a chunk off of the trunk. The branches are as random and sporadic as a drop of blue food die in a tall glass of water. In the summer the leaves are the most vibrant shade of green I

It's just the way he closed his eyes And set his hand on his cheek as if he was trying to remember That he was human And to see the droplets form on the tips of his eyelashes Knocked down pillars inside me He outstretched one arm and lied on top of it And tucked his hand into his pocket He tried to look occupied But his eyes screamed vacancy His pupils like hotels He watches the people walk in and out of his life Like a revolving door And the one man he wants to leave Won't return the key It's just the way he forced a smile With one end of it trembling "It's nothing" I keep praying that it's nothing But my rosary tells me di

 Melinda Biggs has been employee of the month for the past three months. She prided herself on her perfectly manicured grey pantsuit and level nametag. Her husband died two years ago on a damp Monday morning, and the event has left her bright face an expressionless abyss. Her wrinkled skin had evidence of the laughs she used to have; her crow's feet were like dry empty streams from her aged eyes. She guarded the Impressionists area of the museum. The doors were being opened at 7 am and, as usual, the crowd poured in. Two twin boys, one with a slightly shorter haircut, walked in two identical red polos and capris. Their mother was stringing al

Click, step, Click, step, Click, step Pacing in shoes that give me scars I thought I'd become a skeleton on my linoleum floor I told myself that the sun would deflate like a balloon hit with a shotgun It would rain acid and leave holes in tree leaves The wind would knock electrical chords into a rich kid's pool the cement would become quicksand But instead I realized the sun was too far away the bullet would get lost in the marshmallow fluff of atmosphere And the holes in the leaves are just the aphids celebrating Thanksgiving And there's the back of a pickup truck crawling with clanking metal Tool belts and plastic red boxes Two

When waves crash down they make storm clouds each grain of sand loses its name i stay the same her hair grows short her nails are crayon boxes filled out, dressed nice her hands have changed I stay the same I wait and count the stairs and stare and pick at nails after the pain im still the same

I'm waiting for the sun to peak above the horizon I try to count how many faces it has already seen My body is lined with seashells on the cold clumping sand and the rocks on the lake melt with the dark blue and black sheep clouds each crack and crevice like a hard finger print people paint their problem and promises on them Marry Me Joan? 1978 Happy Birthday Mom EB + LS Some are so sweet like an extra cup of sugar in their strict recipe it makes me so sick, and how I want to scratch them out but instead my fingernails create catacombs for ants in the damp dirt next to me writing out the dreams and futures I childishly believe