interlopershow me god the way your motherknew him, show me the mark onyour body where he stoppedyou from suicide, where he changedyour winters to summers andback again.address me by my first name to showme that your respect for me hasn'tdied, letter by letter, buried betweenthe bow of your hips alongside ouronce-strong playground love.tell me the preacher was lying as hespoke of our comely desire falling tothe destructive hand of a deity no onehas ever seen, but feels as they speakin tongues that never matched the ones ispoke in to finally tell you thati felt for you.don't leave me in some drunken tantrumacross state lines, slurring words asyou try to tell me your love for someoneelse is vivid and living in you, even in theparts that have died away, breathing outalcohol as you use the word "never".curl into me with intimacy, touching the sadnessout of me, because i always wanted to bethe one you love, not the one you loved.
tapdances on our brittle bonesif it's fifth hour and there's a cadaver in the classroom,it's because i'm carving your initials in my right carpus;or perhaps it's because we're investigating human skulls,but yours is the only one i'd like to play detective with(i'd donate my skeleton to youhad you not already owned it)(i'll use parenthesesas if they're oxygen)but not punctuationor lowercase lettersor irony because i'vewatched too much tvwithout you or senseor an attention span,and i will write poetry in the form ofsliced wrists and broken wishes, ofhacked kneecaps andhackneyed caps lock:I WILL SCREAM AT THE STARSAS IF I DISCOVERED THE SKY;I WILL YELL FROM MY LUNGS,AS IF I INVENTED BREATHINGMY VOCAL CORDS WILL EXPLODEAS IF I'M THE FIRST ONE TO YELL,and i will whisper with my tongueas if i still owned full custody of it.(and enter more parenthesesbecause you're breathtaking;i'm breathless and in need ofyour/my/our twisted oxygen)O+Mg => U+Ibut chemistry reactions don't helpwhen m
pacificher longbow mouth is un-strung; loose bottomlip with a cockedjaw -.shebirths into him likea womb
.i.the high is at itsbest when i can't remember why i hated myself.ii.death is a nightmare only when i realize youare not in the dream.
a casual i love you1.a note reads: i love you.so, i call you smilingani love you, too.your phone rings. he stops.the phone stops. youstart, unclothed on top.2.you wait, watching tv,to tell me.
morningssunday.the croissant crumbles in my fingersbuttery flakes drift towards mismatchedchinaand your lips are stained withstrawberry jam.monday.sleep clings to your eyeslike a shadowand i watch you breathe, whilei trace your collarbone withtired fingers.tuesday.we wake before the alarmand count how many times theneighbor's dog barksbefore she finally lets him in.your soft laugh blends perfectly intothe early morning sun.wednesday.your fingers trace the curveof my spinethe old window rattlesin the windand i press my cold toes against your leg.thursday.half asleepi mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaperlooks pretty in the sun.you tell me i look prettier.friday.i tickle your cheek with my eyelashesand make my fingers doski jumpsoff your noseand wonder out loud whythe room smells like oranges[you tell me you ate some for a midnight snack.]saturday.linen
Witches MarketMidnight fell like an old black bird;I meant to wait for you.There were tables rich withamethyst and pearls,and fragrance by the fistful,mint and petrichor.I meant to wait for you.You were gliding through the hazewith your knotted bag half full-shadows flicked their tonguesabove your knees;you meant to look for me.Moments ran like mice;a silver pot, a cup of tea.She stank of vinegar and thyme-the hand was hers, the heart was mine.Her iron eyes reflected flame;she took my lungs, she took my name,though you had meant to look for me,and I had to meant to wait for youamid the black salt and the brew.Ash for the handle,Birch for the brush,Willow for the cord that binds the twigs.
yes, all womenmonths or yearsfrom now my therapistwill click her pen atme in the static humof her silent office,perhaps before poppingthe question so manyothers have before:why haven't yougotten over it?if it's hard tounderstand why theshortest relationshipi've undergone hasscarred my skin andnearly taken my life,then i'll explain.i am not over itbecause panic attacksrattle me when i seemy abuser's face -in person or in memories.i am not over itbecause a tank top andshort-shorts does not,under any circumstances,mean "yes", and neitherdoes his teeth on my neckor the silence betweenthe two of us.i am not over itbecause i was ridiculedand rumored to be a slutbecause his handsdecided i was.i am not over itbecause i still getprank calls from privatenumbers and nightmaresshake my fitfullysleepless nights.i am not over itbecause i am scared tocross the street to work,and i have beenharassed more timesthan i have fingersby men with the same eyesas my ab
VenusFor three nights the sungoes down without you,red mouthsdry out,the sheets remain sadand unchanged. Soon,a giantess will put downher glass to identifyyour body, so carelesslykeptfrom a photographtaken too late. And thenyou will be claimed.The altardid not forget you,girl, your little teethlike candy,or your sticky deerlegstrippingin the cola dipof the day.
slippers your ghost eats peanut butter out of the jar. an atomic grease fire tongues our oven like an aneurysm. if only we walked on clouds if only we lived in the belly of the ocean
literally, a quesadilla more than you will ever understand, you smell like an impressionist painting. cigarettes, new car, shirt stuck to skin. laughing: I wonder what would happen if we fucked right here, sacriligiously. no nerves, just confidently lacing the space between planets with electric light
Otherwise Good ConditionI have worn the same dressfor four days, becauseI am sick, exquisitelysick --black and gold, your drunkdimestore Nefertiti. Awhite stain announcesitself, a muddy star:she coughedhere. Undo yourself,those sallow words you drink,let the silk fall loose. I've gota face like dirty laundryand burial grounds --What I touch becomesunwell. I wear my hairlike it pains me,blow kisseslike a little girlsucking her teethat cars, the caked littletombs of sugar that crumble,nakedunder the hot milkof the sun.
you are, you will bethis is meant to be heard: https://soundcloud.com/c-e-moore/you-are-you-will-be-by-your-methamphetamine--my bodyis beautifulwaitnofucktry again with moreconviction this time.my body is beautiful;its curves ascend more than the ruggedAlps, theyfall like contradictions from a politicallyincorrect statement, my body is thepavement of my mind's highway but theseflyovers keepcollapsing, I'mtrapped under the debris ofesteem(not self-esteem, that requiresa mind-heart team effort)my lips have kissed all kinds ofroyalty; my hands have polished enoughcrowns and sworn fealty to the rightpeople. my loyal legs once opened widerfor you to go deeper but I don't likethinking about that, I don't liketalking aboutyou.start over and this time,mean it.my body is beautiful; have youseen how my hipbones curve likewishbones?(when you find me stuck between yourgravestone-teeth, will you promise to bebreak me homolytically?)have youseen how my thighs purge out ofsociety's
HistoryIt's easier to generalize a century than it is to generalize a day.
Signing in KoreanSigning in Korean as rain fallsin another land, and within my mind.A robe of cranes wraps around mywillow's body, following my every move.I gaze through my fingers as they weaveand separate the rain turned to icewith hands that flit and beat silentlyon a petrified drumthrough the constantly shifting airfrom which snow will soon driftwith the flight of cranesinto another land, signing in Korean.
welcome to wherever we aretwistingour tongues in Gordian knotschoking out tropeswe jibber like metonymousgibbons consumedin a riot of blood sugar spikes
dreams from the strawberry cityi woke up with the word prozac on my lips.aaaand i dreamt of london again and thecity was swollen and the lights were red, trafficclutter and cinnabar bus shelter redi thought i heard a train smashing but it was only newspapers soaking upthe nocturnal tempo of some underground night clubsome state of the art sound system, oh so modern oh so let's pretendto be an orchestra, hang cables from plastic pronounces,
virginity is like an envelopemy mother said her mother knew.i wonder if she stumbled home like i did,fifteen and beer-loosetied to the door like a thunderstorm with black lipsand i wrote a story about disaster,a quiet two sleds long.a box full of beads, i swallowedfifteen needles, mommy. don’ttell me i’m not sorry.don’t call me a whore you bag of bonesyou lock-loose suitcase do you evenrecognize me look at my face my toothache skini am not the one with the knife.my mother never slept with a boywho didn’t love her never let a boysleep on her while she lay awake beneaththe shroud of his skin breathing onlywhen her voice-box gathered too much dust.you have to know i didn’t doit on purpose. he slid beers down my throattill i felt like a landfill.i was not yet a crescendo. maybe i was a polka-dot.you couldn’t tell. i got homewith my legs full of nightmare.the doctor said xanax.i said i am a ruin like the oneswe saw in peru.a balloon in a funeral poem.
how to healthey say honeyto soften the wound, but i let the woolwet with ethanolgnawuntil i amweeping,again, and again,and again