you're scared that i'll
"do something stupid"
and i can't say i won't.
i can't promise you that i won't
hurt myself
and i'm so sorry.
i am perpetually sorry.

I can't stop thinking, thinking, thinking
Scratching skin, pulling hair
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry
Oh god, did I say something wrong?
Foot in mouth.
Did I lock the door?
I don't know if I locked the door.
Did I say something wrong?
Foot in throat.
What time is it?
Bouncing leg, shaking hands
I messed up, didn't I
Did I say something wrong?
I said something wrong.
Foot in stomach. Digest foot.
I'm sorry I'm so messed up.
Did I turn the lights off?
Did I take the food out of the oven?
Did I forget to slow down?
Help me to slow down.

Sometimes being a poet
means being very sad
yet being very sad
does not mean
that people will know that
and that
makes me very sad

you told me you've never kissed anyone
and i was very surprised
and you thought it was a bad thing
but actually
it's about the cutest thing i've heard all week
and it just makes me want to kiss you

I look back upon my own words and wonder
who wrote these?
It seems like it should be me
but it feels so foreign.
The scrawl of my own writing from mere months ago
looks like entirely new handwriting
and it's all really bad
****
my poems are all really bad

When I was 8, my mother tried to leave home.
I packed a trash bag holding only blankets
I was fully prepared to go with her
she broke dishes trying to get all her things into the car
when she was on the last bag, I wrapped my arms around her waist
and offered her every hug I had to give for her
but she told me
"Not a hug on this earth could keep me here"
but I knew I could do it.
I held her until my dad got home
they talked for hours
and my mother
stayed
I still wonder how my dad did it
I still wonder why I was prepared to go with my mother
I still wonder why I thought a trash bag full of blankets
was enough to live on.

I found myself
painting a picture of a cigarette
and I found it really strange
that I was painting on the smoke
with watercolors