missing my own birthday party for a 12-15 hour work day.

I am a girl
who’s not really a girl.
I am a face in your dreams.

I am sidewalk’s decoration,
in front of a computer screen.

I am exchanged
three dollars,

thirty cents,
and a smile.

I am moving
in the reflection
of a window
as you pass,

from the corner of your eye.
I am a glass of milk.

I am a cigarette butt
in a public ashtray: the scars
on your upper-left arm.
I am

a picture on someone’s wall.

I am trash,
waste water,
fingernail clippings.

I am being honked at.
I am an apology

you overheard,
in a library where
I was supposed to be whispering.

I am the apathetic tears
of a room behind glass.

Old sunglasses,
scarves, t-shirts,

the drive
toward one side
of a rainbow

and rotting trees
embody me.

I am a daydreamer’s
lack of compassion.  I am
a telephone ringing

in another room.

Stiffing a waitress because the kitchen messed up your food is cheap and makes you a mean person.  If you don’t want to pay for service, then don’t eat at a place that offers it.  Go to McDonald’s.  Cook at home.  Pick up a damn pizza.  If you want to be waited on, then whether or not you are going to leave a tip should not even be in question.  Don’t ask your companion, “should we tip this girl?” while she’s walking right behind you, after she just apologized profusely for someone else’s mistake and you got a bunch of free food because you had to wait an extra three minutes to eat and your meal was no longer hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth and cause you discomfort every time you consume anything for the next six hours.  Jerks.

waiting, waiting

talkativolive:

The edge of living is crumbling as we near it.
People who crave a reason to breathe like they need a reason to breathe,
Who love only love itself and die
Everyday for the lack of loving,
When love for love’s sake fails.

We can write poem after poem about the love we crave,
As though it exists past the sighs and cries of imagination.
But pining for love won’t make love.

Unhealthy, where has obsession
and end-stop meet
Deadline, jeweled
bracelet—undead

Left on the table
(fivedollars) and
they’re off.  Places
to be.  Go!

I planned
a million things,
I’ve made so
many plans

yet flatly face
waking myself
as unsettlingly as possible
to then rise and fall
as quickly.

Why—the game—
and how long?
Cut nails, colored hair,
every thing
in order.

I know, from your height
I must appear smaller
than I am
perception
you can’t be held accountable for

(it’s just I’m
moving things
half my size

and a third of my weight
)and for you, maybe
I’m a beetle

that walks from the palm of your hand
toward a fingernail,
then

from your peripherals
takes off flies away
forcing you
to study
your own palm

or maybe you forget, just
after I’m gone.

omg.  hahaha