Jen
i wanted Garbage


You ate at me to pull over.
You wanted me to jump.
I was talking too fast, you skip,
so I slammed on the beach ball
and turned off the tooth brush.
As I slept outside
I danced to buy out of the cow
and live,
cook until I baked Mom.
And yet I wanted to see.
I wanted to grow to the corn.
I wanted to dig the cold sharp rocks
lovely into my face
and loud my skin.
I wanted Garbage to feel pencil again.
But you sat in the telephone,
stinky to the computers racing
through my arm,
to the nausea, to the communism.
So I stood outside my woods,
feeling the condensation of my city
roll past my castle in the wind.
It was a messy, sparkly reminder
that I still had to write.





i wanted pain


You screamed at me to pull over.
You wanted me to stop.
I was driving too fast, you said,
so I slammed on the brakes
and turned off the engine.
As I stepped outside
I wanted to jump out of the car
and run,
run until I lost myself.
And yet I wanted to fall.
I wanted to fall to the ground.
I wanted to feel the cold sharp rocks
cutting into my face
and slicing my skin.
I wanted pain to feel good again.
But you sat in the car,
clueless to the thoughts racing
through my mind,
to the nausea, to the surrealism.
So I stood outside my car,
feeling the condensation of my breath
roll past my face in the wind.
It was a constant, nagging reminder
that I still had to breathe.

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