stuff i found in the corner of a small bar, in the middle of the night to the left of my anger and the right of my familiarity:

“I’M CRAZY ABOUT YOU,”

was stuck between the stars on your skin that burn me all over and the empty blue beer bottles running cross-country through my brain,

“WHAT BIG BAD MONSTER HURT YOU SO GOOD?”

and made you the hardest being, a boy lost in a swamp, on a wooden swing, feeling like a giant green mountain, in the middle of no man’s land, which i die climbing. the hungover sunrise, pregnant with toilet-bowl-trouble.

“I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT YOU,”

scratched on the bathroom wall next to “Ryanne + B 1992”, throbbing through the faucet and in the two-bit-beer seeping into the floor.

“YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE,”

got caught in my sweater and i spilled my drink. i suggest: your telephone should be digested into the deep-rooted sea, swallowed by the darkness you forced in my throat.

“COULD YOU PLEASE HELP?”

me because you are the four walls that don’t ache, and the crickets in the middle of my bed, and sometimes you are before, and again, and more.

“I’LL WALK YOU,”

to the Bridge to Terabithia. we can cut off your hair, sew our hands together, and let the sun burn our backs white.

“I’M SORE,”

bit by all that’s OK, wounds in sugar, lap me up, bandaged in layers, and more, and more. i’m searching for a needle in the hay.