there's nothing poetic about a car crash

there's nothing poetic about several tons of metal
slamming into another couple tons of metal
going 55 down a parkway twenty tile midnight
there's nothing poetic about the eyes squeezed shut
and handing gripping at the steering wheel or
seat cushion or anything they can find
there's nothing poetic about the way two headlights look
on a full sized SUV through the passenger's side window
or the shadow they cast on someone's face
someone you know and care about
and are just starting to love again
there's nothing poetic about the feeling of impact
and the blur of the entire moment
as my precious S40 goes spinning
there's nothing poetic about the moment things stop
and nothings moving anymore,
and i'm alive and lady gaga is still playing on my stereo-
well, there might be something poetic about that
lady gaga, had terrible timing
there's nothing poetic about the moment i look over
and see that someone drooped over,
with blood on her arms and seeping through her hair
when i scream,
because i can't do anything
because i can't begin to believe what just happened
and because i can't imagine how this could end okay
feeling like a bad horror movie character
where every single inch of myself is filled with this fear
that you can't possible imagine,
unless you've felt it
there's nothing poetic about the sound of the lady
on the other end of 911
who must get god knows how many calls in one shift
probably used to the irrationally terrified tone in my voice
there's nothing poetic about a car crash
but here i am
writing a poem, after seven nearly sleeping nights,
with the same moment in time played over in my head
and over and over
possibly only increasing in how nauseous it makes me
because there's nothing poetic about a car crash

i feel hypothetical right now

i don't know what that entails

its one of those nights where i wish i could unzip my skin and step out for a bit
pretend it was a shell
and leave everything back inside the shell
and exist outside myself for a little
be unaffected by thing
not retain them or think about them or anything
i kind of wish i could just let stuff happen
stop thinking for a little bit
sleep walk and talk and make friends and not alienate anyone

i'm going to alienate everyone eventually
i don't know why
but i probably will
and maybe by then i'll have finished in cold blood

haha i fucking hate this
whats it called....
priorities
fuck those

cigarette ashes smell so terrible its almost poetic

the spots from the blood that dripped into my pillow
soaking through the cotton and stuffing into the sheet
and it trickles down past the ear that
slowly set it free
the world is falling apart and killing me

the world is falling apart and its falling through my fingers
and the world is crumbling down and its hitting my shoulders like fire
and the darkness of the world around me, with everyone asleep
blatantly alone with no one
this silence is crushing me and
i cannot breath

i try to speak through my teeth
play some pointless sound to make it all better
and somehow
i'm in this situation again and everything about to break
i don't where i'm going this time
but i can tell it isn't good

two hours later
the sun is awake and he's coming up from behind the clouds
the light is pooling in my eyes and
i guess i survived the night
people walking their dogs
getting the newspaper
going to work once again
and somehow everything is better

but the stain from the blood
left on my pillowcase is proof of the flood
of the death and fires raging
when the world fell apart
and drowned out the crickets chirping
when the world fell apart
and told me that i was dying

and somehow i guess i survived the night
and somehow i guess everything is better
and somehow i survived the night
and somehow everything is better

when i was young my grandma had an ashtray in her porch
used for holding pennies and golf tees in
didn't know what it was til i was fifteen
and noticed it while were sitting,
talking to each other about how things change

and in our living room we kept a trunk
adorned white paint and chipping leather edges
filled with coloring book and arm covers from a couch we
threw out years ago

and in my room i had a small wooden box
kept on a shelf, open without any sort of lock
it held letters from an ex girlfriend
written in ink and addressed to me by hand
and other words i planned to keep from distant, broken ties

that summer i didn't sleep
til the sun was rising and the air was warmed by its fire that burned brightly
the nights were filled with friends,
sneaking out and drinking
filled with cigarettes and memories that curled away in the air
filled with good times that
in a way i never wanted to come to an end

and on a summer night
i met a boy in a tyedye shirt that my friend asked for a light
his smile won me over
and his ringtone resonated in my mind
we hung out in the dark
conversations in grass
and when i thought of quitting i saved my last ten cigarettes
for being with him

for once, my thoughts were never racing
and for once, i didn't want to die
i felt it finally, what it felt to really be alive

i'm sick of things being fucked up

i'm sick of people being angry or sad or mean or distant or whatever
i am sick of all the shit that has been going down lately
i want things to get better
to go back to being good
a few months ago, things were so, so good.

and now it's like... it let go of the rope that keeps my life in check and fwoom
it's all fucked up.

i don't know

maybe i am making a mountain out of a molehill
maybe i'm not
i don't know
i really don't

still nights fall on frozen ears
frozen hands
drift back and saturated in the scent of my sins
it doesn't matter
it stopped mattering
in four hours water will wash it away
flowing over the shaking legs
fighting to hold up a nauseous body
that would empty it out
if there was anything to be emptied
no longer part of me
none of it is
i've drifted away
tapped into a dish to sit
for weeks
months
saturated in the scent of my sins
it doesn't matter