DAWNeatsdishsoap

I am little more than nine numbers- strung carelessly together, with the torn tendons of yesterday's mistakes. An identity only identifiable by personal blunders and a shame unsurpassed. Ascetic fingers, attached to harrowing hands, curled and contorted around a coffee cup. Later introduced to a naive nervous system-     unaware these futile phalanges would later be crawling across her flesh, and approaching pure panty lines. You have left me as little more than a furtively skeletal frame,     a bag of bones, an elucidated example of involuntary self mortification.

My nightmares are nothing when set next to the notion that you've found someone new. A real looker with a little more stability and a lesser knowledge of comic books. Someday I'll be able to come home to your kiss and hands on my ever shrinking hips. However, if it's not as soon as you had hoped you'll have to take it up with the bags under my eyes and bruises down my back.

 I could sleep if only I tried. Wide eyed and waiting for something as spectacular as my skeletons to come out of the closet- I much prefer nightmares of sea creatures and substandard credit scores to bedtime flashbacks of the putrid person I used to be. No,    no. It cannot be normal to be this nostalgic. Maybe I'll go smash mailboxes into smithereens alongside my old best friends, Sacco & Vanzetti,   or even Mr. Hoffman. I would bet my bottom dollar that if I could ask forgiveness of all the saccharine souls I've wronged on the road it would work wonders for my scanty self esteem. Dawn, you're so distraught. If only

I can't be trusted to not drive my car clear off the Ambassador Bridge, or promise you that I won't quit my job if I have to wait for the coffee to brew, but if I did we could erase all of the memories of who I used to be. Maybe we could dance in the street and on rooftops, searching the boulevards for more beautiful things to replace me with. I am taking my cat and a permanent vacation. I know that he has been brought up too proud to purr, but won't you come along? I'm sure we could make the room for you in my heart, in my car, and in my head. I know that there's never been anything glamorous about returning bottles to pay the rent but if yo

On cold nights like this I can remember feeling alive and elated along         with infantile and infinite all at once. Laughing and making a mess of myself with a bottle of Grey Goose in one hand and the hand of a confidant in the other. But it’s always the hollow nights, spent by playing kick the can and doing 'God knows what'       according to our parents. That I can recall the most clearly when my reflection shows up in snowflakes and emergency room windows, panicked and pathetic. Watching you take my place in the ICU brings back the feelings of guilt in my gut

After 6 months of dark I'm thinking that maybe we'll have to travel west.       To Oregon- where we can end it all- because honestly, I can't imagine living forever.       (I can hardly even imagine living another four months like this.) When characters from movies become my only friends. They're safer than my old bad influences but still leave me high and dry. However,   Edward Norton and John Wayne aren’t very good for girl talk and they fail to speak me to sleep on the phone every night.       Oregon’s looking better every day.

There are three tiny hands carved secure by the street, worn and weathered trying to figure out which parts were worth remembering. Late nights have had me wondering if you still listen to Cyndi Lauper when you brush your teeth, and recite state capitols when you’re stopped by bad traffic and trains. I just hope like hell you’re not standing in front of the refrigerator     rearranging magnets to be convinced I’m keeping warm.

Are you ever coming home? Honestly, I’d like to, but I don’t think it’s a place I’ve been before. I think I need to converse with my connective tissue my organs are out of order and my heart’s where my head once was. Sleeping in your car makes it hard to not think of childhood storybooks and selfish shapes. Sometimes I suspect she’s just trying to find her missing piece in capsules and glass bottles. Frankly, I imagine it’s fashioned like a family.

Armed with coffee in one hand, and an acoustic guitar in the other you’ll find me staggering over Motown’s finest potholes, wishing it were first grade again and the only numbers I could ever crunch were there to guide me along. My pitiable pinky finger extended –      I’ll pivot to connect the stars in the sky. I’ll saunter through the park taking mental snapshots of the middle age lovers on midnight strolls, kids contravening curfews, and the senior citizens fearing the future. We’ll sit by the sea and smile when I can’t remember chord progressions and the homeless man with the dog te