"When they talk about the tortured genius, somebody always brings up Van Gogh-
how he swallowed yellow paint
because he wanted to put the sunshine inside himself.
How his psychosis was probably the result of lead poisoning.
They called him a prodigy ,
but what I see is a man who was so sad,
he found a beautiful way to **** himself.
They say, "it's awful isn't it?"
They say, "It's always the talented ones who go before their time."
And me, a 10 year old kid
who's always been told they were so
talented
wonders when I am going to die.

I had a broken tooth and you had a broken car that sang at certain speeds.
I was holding my crimson soaked mouth but we were all laughing.
You were the only one who was worried.
Speeding to the doctor with your hands at ten and two,
sending me the occasional look and asking if it hurts,
does it hurt.
-All the memories of you do.

one time he and i were sitting in bed and i said "where do you feel stuff?" and he said "what do you mean" and i said, "here is anxiety" and pointed to my bottom left rib where the spiders start. he pointed to his throat. "it's here for me."
i keep anger in my breastbone, he holds it in his hands. i feel sadness on my shoulders, he feels it in his lungs.

I wanted to be born as a star
but someone had a different idea.

That's how I ended up as a street lamp. I die too soon and flicker too much. But yesterday I saw a moth trying to kiss me. It almost burned her.
I have heard stars do not get this luxury.

if you want to learn
what someone fears losing,
watch what they photograph.
- that explains why he never took pictures of me

***** burns my throat
but your name hurts my head
so i would rather black out with a hangover
then stare blankly at my hands
trying to forget what its like to touch you.

[people generally think blue eyes are pretty, but his were not.
they were not cornflower, sky, baby, indigo, azure. his were iceberg, squall, hypothermia, eventual death.]