dishes in the sink; you're still thinking about drowning
i've seen the way you watch the girls out the window,
white-teeth smiles, drunk off of the taste of youth;
(rotten peaches and dirty fingers and stolen cigarettes)
some days you forget what it's like to be afraid,
and i understand
some days are tidal waves and the easiest solution—
the one that keeps your flower-petal cheeks,
pale and lifeless beneath luke warm bath water
—is to drop to your knees and drown, drown, drown
but drowning leads to blue skin and crying mothers,
crumpled love notes in the bottom of your locker,
never to be sent, never to be read, never to be requited
so, you stare at the dirty dishes and the girl next door
and pretend that this—any of this—is considered living
