where am i?

it's hard to remember where i  come from when all the old pictures, the ones taken where they are all smiling and having fun, are emptied of me. i was there... some pictures were even taken at my house. but every time i see those photographs, i hope and search to see my face, and just end up sad.  have i always been this invisible or am i just now realizing it? i guess it makes sense why i take so many pictures of my goddamn self, because no one else will/has/is ever going to...



my sadomasochistic-pseudo-narcissistic ways are eating me alive
i feel it in the breath of the new ways and the ebbing tides
i feel cold
it must be the beauty of the empty train
where we danced all night and scribbled our names
i felt free 
if only for a second with the Polaroid in hand
and a dying sharpie in the pocket of my pants

there was no time for pictures in Montauk
breathing heavy and warm, 
salivating at the mouth 
cold and alone
we left our mark with invisible ink, the blood, and the tears from my cheek

don't cry for me, New York

-we don't live here anymore- 
unfortunately