call us when you need to find out.

and when we're all cut up
and dangled out in spades
I'll wonder if you ever think of me
and everything you

is there no end to who I can't be?

if i was stronger i would tear you apart

never, never, never will I ever in all my endeavors encounter someone stronger than you

and i see the old men caterwaul and the young ones hold hands, smoking their first cigarettes. you are art, you know, the subtleties in rain and the fog smeared on window panes. I can see you in technicolor and crisp grey, and this will never be a song for you. (except that it is. expect an uproar.)

i wanna riot. I wanna rip up the streets and tear out your vicious words, kill you with kindness and softspoken affirmations. you wanted me to write you words you couldn't understand, so here you go. something to hold on to.

arent you proud of me? I've written something worth sharing and letting go.

family affair

the kid (Michael, as he has introduced himself for the fourth time in five minutes) is completely gone.

his legs wobble like the mint jello that your grandmother told you "not to touch, you little shit" when your mother's back was turned to concentrate on the red sauce. (well, that was my grandmother anyway.) the smell of beer soaks his shirt, mingling with his sweat as though they were old friends. my stomach seems to be rethinking the flat Lionshead I consumed an hour ago (keg beer isn't friendly anyway). his off white flat rim cap, incubus shirt, mesh shorts and dunks scream "bro," and I inch away from him to avoid boy germs. Then I remember he is one person ahead of me for beer pong. Oh, the politics of playing a stupid party game.

"Hey man, what's up?" I shout at him over the thump of techno in the basement. I'm maintaining my distance, a good balance of politeness and self-preservation.

"Nothing much! Just chillin', this party is bangin'! Am I right?" he says, with what he probably assumes is a playful backhanded thump on my chest.

I am not one of the boys; that hit hurt, but I let it slide. This isn't really about me, after all. I pretend to not have heard what he said, for the sake of continuing an otherwise dead conversation. "The music's real loud, can you say that last part again?"

"Yo, bra, I forgot," he says, with a loud guffaw that turns heads. "I've had, like, twenty beers. How many have you had?" Once again, there is a jab to my sternum; only this time, it's from a pointed finger! Even better.

"Just the one, keeping it safe tonight," I reply.

(There is some truth to this statement. Last night I got so wasted that I had to hold hands with a boy I had only met a few hours before, a boy who dragged me along when the cops nearly broke down the door of Alpha Tau Omega. My sweaty feet slipped around in bronze gladiator sandals as a redhead shook his head and a black haired kid just helped me along because he didn't want to be alone either.)

"Aw man, that sucks, designated driver, ha ha ha," he replies, not aware of what I was saying. His eyes widen for a moment, as glazed as a Krispy Creme doughnut in a Windexed shop window. "This party's off the hook! Am I right, am I right man?"

No, Michael. You are not right. Army parties suck by default, with muscled young men hide their fear of the middle east with vodka ice cubes and the sensation of a tight ass against their dicks. There is the bitterness of single women in not-dresses, stilettos wearing down their already flat feet. Boys devour the lips of girls they sit next to in anthropology, unhooking bras while caressing crunchy, gel soaked hair.

"Sure, it's awesome," I say. He looks away, and I slip in, prepping my ping pong ball and letting go.