Three Poems
Fags
That night
we traded from our decks
like Poke'mon cards,
speaking from our lungs
"got,
got, got,
need,"
and we lit them
and curled our lips
and smoked them
and burned ourselves
black as tar.
Half dead and dizzy
and too frightened
of the woods,
we had found a mound
not far from a street light
and doused ourselves
from an Evian bottle
full of vodka
and smoked each other's
cigarettes.
A Confession
I do not want to be
a fatalist
because I know
that anything
is possible;
it's just that
some things
are infinitely more probable
and some things
are just
inevitable.
I Used To Write Emo Poetry
Now
my bed is dirty
and I have marked it out
uncomfortably for my own;
I have crossed the pillow
and filled the side
where you slept
with pebbles, shoe prints,
lost pens,
my own broken
fingernails,
and I face away
from where you are not,
encroaching on the edge
I have marked out
for myself
and stained.
Now
I cannot sleep
and I cannot dream
for dreaming of you.
I have made my bed
and, now, I will lie in it.