1. sometimes when i draw his eyes follow me, and even while
in the dark they wrap me
with affection, desperate for a contouring god
to lay him on his back and define him where
he has molded
2. he tells me i was better off an
lucidi lie awake
until the back of dawn
unto the fore of night,
the chemicals of my anatomy
to release me
to give me
a fucking break--
i am not
the bed of bones
beneath my skin,
pour them from the opening
in my chest and
before the shadows
of the swallowed
immolatethe first step
to sadness is to
punctuates the bruised
shorelines with broken hearts and
shore creeps up, kisses
my feet. sometimes he rips through
the distance between
the air here
vibrates to a fire,
sparrow's heart humming in c
major. it does scare
how i might love you
more than ibuprofen, or
the way the light might
through an ether storm.
the person i am now is
with who i
was before you. but
how do i scrape myself out
from under my own
we caught the
moon between our feet,
heads falling behind us.
things i will
you: how you can't stop wearing
lemongrass and how
the smell hides
away under your
collarbone; the way you wear
saturn on your ring
keep neptune's rings as
keepsakes when you come back from
the sky [to remind
my favorite colour
no more jokes, no more laughterAfter eighty-eight and a half hours awake,
No grand gestures or passing out, hitting your
head on the way down,
just one body shucking clothes as it crawls
into clean sheets. Pillows and a blanket and
the soft night air.
Two eyes, closed.
In the morning, nothing will be the same.
The past week is a long-faded memory.
Snapshots, facts, things left in strange places.
This is what the body does,
And you forget with it.
HeartMy heart exposed,
I remove the arteries and veins,
tie them in a bow,
and pin the heart
to the notice board above my bed.
Her soul bled from her eyes
into the pool of tears
at her frozen feet.
She is so pretty, they say,
made of plastic, as she is.
Like a real girl,
she can breathe and love and die.
jesepanouiscoring the thin lines drawn on me,
just making sure they are fine
just making sure
you can see them, sickly electrical stars
in the night like
the cherry sun of the fag, smoking
with red stop signs and
perfect symmetry to coo these pale,
willowy angles around
their infinite explosions;
they'll draw me
the best damn boardwalk the universe ever catered
over my body's strict
beautiful red ink pens.
friends are foryou are a chore.
how long have my
meek pencil arms held you
to the heavens
so you could get a good look; you
said you'd be
but a minute
and here i am
a millennium letting you have a swig
of the gods.
indigomy mother knows a word for everything.
I could point to the jagged tooth in my mouth whose brother is missing on the other side; to the bones of my barb-like, womanly contours that convulse out of my heels and my hips, the ones my body forgot to correct. she would say:
when I was little, I would point to the clouds that hovered like gods above us in lazy, dreamy projections, looking like father's head.
"I want to be a sailor of the sky."
she would laugh and tell me:
(a cough; dizzy vapor escaping from the atmosphere in her mouth)
I read to her once while she lay in bed. a cigarette oozed from the gaping hole in her face while the asperous film of her lips kissed the shrivel bits of juxtaposed skin. her chest moved rigidly like land, up to the press of the stars only to collapse again like the beautiful, intricate structures of the universe; a heave of aspiration. she inhaled Marlboro like the air god forgot to give an
Acid Girl 03Take a breath. I don't remember having lungs
We found each other in the worst kind of alley
Philosophy majors get the concept of a dumpster
Between Zhuangzi and a blowjob,
there must be a difference
I woke up in reverse today
Any nice guy has a shot with a stripper
Conversations with the creature in the corner
He's excited that my skin is melting
She meets me in the pretend hotel lobby
Concrete, turn around, ants at a picnic
Adult drinks for breakfast, semi circle dinners
I'm in love with easy veins
She picked out her bride's maid dress at Wal-mart
I was dead for six whole months
First day back, Lazarus didn't change
House wives walking their cats on a leash
They wish their brains were as stained as mine
I still remember how to use a phone
It can't be winter without a fatal car wreck
We went to church last year
She thought it was a movie
Turn around and no one is there
I paid for the double feature
Campfires on the windowsill
Lightning strikes as many times as you want it
Memories of b
FirstsI had sex
for the first time
on a Sunday
ate away the blinds
and snake-lines of light
at undone corners.
I remember less of you,
and more of me,
in yellow sheets
how you kept mumbling
questions and I
are so much less vivid
than the sense
that I was shedding
So that later
in the bathroom,
I saw myself,
twisting my hipbones
shelves that I could
rest my elbows on.
I was nineteen
two times my weight,
welding my bones
made me feel
ten years less lonely.
Describes me perfectlyI corrupted the edges of her autobiography, and smoked her ashes in the pages of her poetry. I hung myself by the glow-in-the-dark stars of her ceiling, and buried my dead body in the floorboards of her dreams. I baptized the tips of her fingers in white wine, and drank in the horrors of her life. I swallowed her white rosary with an inhale of humanity, and tasted the remains of her religion on my lips. I mangled her serenity with a steak knife, and licked away the blood that stained its blade. I fought within her consciousness until she became me. She was me. I am all the awareness she has left.
please, don't find me.she is a bruised peach lying in the desert sand, strawberry lips with candy floss eyes. and she is searching for dry cracks in the soil, taking me apart, snapping fortune-cookie fingers and sewing eyelash wishes into my skin. and i am swallowing my tongue in effort to keep from screaming. and sometimes she is unsure if i am worth the decay that comes soon after i bite down into cream above her collarbone. and sometimes i wake up with her heart sewn into my sleeve. and i am sure that she believes that one day i will tire of her, eat her up and bury the pit in the hopes that someone else will grow. and she is sure that i believe that i am the most pathetic excuse for a human being that she has ever seen. and she misreads every signal that goes up; s.o.s., for so open your soul and let me in. and this is just another letter that i will never send.
It's not enough to not knowYou are unforgettable and
Unforgivable and I want
My fingers on your skin
I drink wine out of
Pour through me and my
My hands are cold tonight
Kept calling your name but
There was no dial tone
MargaretMargaret talks to herself in a shaky voice as if she's scared she'll forget and get lost without words.
HomeHome is 4 am;
when I am too afraid to sleep
because of the nightmares,
and he awakens to meet the sun
but it hasn't risen yet,
so he just reads the bible
in the family room, and I hear him
whisper the passages.
Home is red lipstick;
how she applies it with care
and the way she smiles when she's done.
The grace she walks in,
the tide on her blouse.
I like to breathe on the mirror
and leave my future self messages
like, "do you wear red lipstick?"
and "Am I pretty?"
Home is Sunday;
why he still gets up so early,
I don't know. His only day off
and his only time to be with us.
Football games, newspapers,
black coffee, fatherly things.
He pats my head,
and teaches me how to be
a good person.
Home is vases;
where the flowers are always new
and they match the wallpaper
precisely. I like to sit in the corner
of the kitchen and chip off
the fruit patterned wallpaper.
She smacks my hand in a
childish way, almost like an
empty threat. So I color
on my legs with marker instead.
on leaving it behindi still
this might appall you
or agonize you but i do.
i remember still evenings
with little to exchange besides
heartbeats and breathing patterns.
i remember soft afternoons
with my back raking against the carpet
leaving sporadic scars and stitches of memory.
i remember dark roads, and darker rains.
i remember a longer faith and a shorter pain.
the wounds are not as fresh, they do not sting,
but they ache and the few times i hear your voice
wedges your fingers in my brain and i can feel the cake
of neglected cum stains and i can hear the desperation in
the small whimper of my name and the way it was hard for your
breath to escape and my mind is running on thin rails, paper train,
and all i ever wanted from you was a home, not a place.
you would finger fuck me in the movie theater
and i would squirm and you would laugh because
i am not so good at keeping quiet. and all it would take
was a look from me or my hand up your knee or my lip under my
teeth and your eyes would
We Can Be...Hello, I'll be your conscience for the evening.
We're both adults, not love-sick teenagers
with lusty hormones that control us.
There are consequences
to each and every action, and we know it.
We can do this. We can be good.
We can hug, but we must break
when I let go, don't make it an embrace.
We can do this.
Do not stand so close to me,
and do not reach out for my hand,
the feel of your calloused fingertips,
warm on my cold skin, is just too much.
we can be . . .
...I think it's time to say goodnight
and take me home.