the carpet holds a mixture of dust and debris from 11 months and 24 days of living. and fucking. tears are dried in the back right corner of the room. whether they rest on the headboard or the sheets. they are there. coins are used for more than laundry. and i remember the adult booth with your scene programmed for 75cents. blow your pitty on me blow your pride to me. and blow your insecurites with me. blowing is what you were always good at. and caring is something i was always bad at.

your face is pretty. some may call it beautiful. i destroy beautiful things. it's a force of habit. nature. calls. leaves have fallen. so has orange. and brown. but mainly, yellow. died and fried the grass sprouts new opportunity. bleach kills off just the right amount. but it always left the trail cleaner than we left it. because i destroy beautiful things. a little bit of me is everywhere i go. you get around, was the last thing i remember hearing someone say to me. they were beautiful. i d...

the things i said were meant to be a figment of your imagination. but i confused fiction and reality with the self-help sections and came to the conclusion that you were not interesting enough for a biography. your heart in the corner of the desk held more dust than the journal locked in my chest. and its a hard thing to come to terms with the fact that you don't know what you want anymore. and its even harder to accept that. because in the back of your mind, you know what that means. and tha...

the dust on the ground is mixing well with the liquor that's been spilled. and clay never made more sense to me until now. the sink looks like it's growing a beard and the shower wall has more of your hair than my bed sheets do. and saying i love you was never more confusing than it was last night. because i always say what i mean...and lately...i'm starting to figure out that meaning and saying are two different sports. but that's just because you opened my eyes. and i was never good at seei...

and the conversation last night didn't help the mood i was in. i try and put on an act even when i'm not happy. because i know the remains of a not happy day and i know i never want to be like that again. the phone could be described in two words: biological warfare you were so far last night. the mileage never changes. but the fact that you won't believe me when i say i miss you hurts me just as bad as hurting because i hurt you. believe me when i say its not intentional. because i don't lie...

i cut out holes so you could breathe. more importantly so you could suffer. feel the gasps of breath. and feel the rawness of your throat eating peppermints is a nervous tick of yours. and having your throat chilled with some ice water never seemed more cruel until it was forced. the intentions you're laying on me are lacking class. don't confuse weekends with a time of forgiveness and don't confuse me with a weekend of lust. because having you only hurts me now that i know i am being treated...

the only two windows in this attic are fucked. the two by fours boarding the one on the left have more worth than just keeping the debris from blowing in. they keep me from blowing out. the ceiling is torn and flaps are falling into the better half of your ego. the random amatuer art sprawled along the right wall hint that lonely teens have remodeled for the season... and spray paint is the trend for this fall. how is that for a new look? i hear the clatter underneath...and i hear the kettle ...