I finished a book and
thought it was perfect but
I forgot the name.
We could not talk about it.
I
remembered after you were
unimpressed. I am always making
those sort of
mistakes.
*
What if I missed the exit
so I pulled over and
wrote this on a piece of
receipt
and cut
all my hair and mailed it in
an envelope?
I steal so
many things and they are all
insignificant.
In a poem he writes
No one expects you to be able
to handle a life. Does that mean mine
or another's? And at what
point do I know I am truly happy?
will I get a letter
In case I cannot recognize it?
I once again am reminded of
the dead trees.
I am only just realizing
the extent of my
self-something. Luckily,
I am young for a poet.
I still must resist the urge
to set fire to my things.
I peeled paint
from the wall beside my bed.
I peeled skin
from my palm
at the paper cut.
a few famous individuals
have died from a
paper cut. But I don't know
how I want to die—
like I said
I am young.
Isn't this why things are
difficult? because
I see art in stupid things.
All my reading is done
on the train. Have my
letters arrived?
Do you open them?
It's okay if you don't
touch me on the waist
the next time we meet.
