"I'm lost." I say, tongue heavy. feet wet.
"you're lost?" a question. open eyes.
closed hands. "I'm lost." an answer.
"my name." I say, hands opening. a mistake. "myself."
the lines of my form are taken in to account. a burning sun on dry skin, a glistening eye in an empty face, a thought of longing in an empty mind.
"you're lost." a challenge.
arms spread. menace, teeth, bigger, badder, predatorial displays of power. a weaker person. wooden splinters in an aging bridge. volcanic ash. I can't speak, my name is taken. my face. stone under water, washing away.
"you're lost."
closed hands. "I'm lost." acceptance.

when you're four and your older brother corners you in a bedroom after you complain about a loose tooth and wields a pair of pliers like the key to heaven's gate, you don't panic.

when he rips a barely-ready tooth out of your mouth with the precision of a little boy doing harm, you don't panic.

when blood pours down your front and tears leap from your eyes and your mother scolds you for "letting him" do that, you don't panic, you clutch your tooth in your fist and swish the saltwater in your mouth and ignore the prestissimo baseline of your heart at the sight of all that red on your chin, so you don't panic.

when you're nine and a man you're told to respect corners you in his home and puts his hands on you, you don't panic.

when you remember, suddenly, that your mother told you not to "let" your older brother pull your tooth out and your brain tells you that she'd ask why you let this man touch you like you were made to be his, you grit your teeth like a wolf about to attack, so you don't panic.

when you remember that your word won't be believed and it doesn't count if you stay in your clothes, you close your lips to keep from screaming, from biting him with your slightly-crooked teeth, and you don't panic.

when later the truth comes out and your family and friends ask you why you never told anyone and you feel the judgement of their not being told weighing on you more than the secret of never telling ever did and their eyes dig into you deep enough to cut out anything he hasn't already taken and the feeling of drowning overtakes you even though you're sitting in a dry living room, you don't panic.

when your first check from your first job comes to your first home away from family and your throat tries to close and your hands curl into fists no matter how hard you try to keep them open and you struggle to breathe, you tell yourself no, you don't panic.

when your mother calls you and tells you your dog was killed, you feel yourself start to cry and hang up, you breathe ragged breaths and choke on yourself, on your feelings, and you don't panic.

you don't panic, you bare your teeth like weapons and stand to your full height and take up as much space as you can without being touched by anyone because the not-panic of those years that man put his hands on you creeps up the back of your throat and threatens to scream out in a request of "never put your ******* hands on me".

your teeth grow sharp and long and you rend yourself on borrowed blades like fighting depression is fighting the skin that holds it in this body you call a house and your shoulders get broad and you teach yourself to play house again because when you were a kid and your bother dared to pull your teeth, you played the dog in the house and bit anyone who touched you.

you close yourself up and pretend the fading memories you're unable to grasp are less important than the repetitive now and you ignore the looks and taunts of men who call you too big and too butch and refuse to call you by your name.

when you feel the creeping sting of panic starting in your slowly-numbing limbs and wrapping around your dizzy head, you reach for the razor and then stop, force your unwilling lungs to breathe and tell yourself no, you don't panic.

I miss you sometimes.
When I look in your eyes and see nothing there.
And know that I'm just clinging to my memories.
And know that dreams should fall apart
When proved untrue.
I love you occasionally.
Like how the sky and wind and sun want to play with your hair.
And the moon can only wish to be as perfect as you.
And your smile is like the ocean.
And your eyes are like the sunset over top of it.
I think about you daily.
About our shared pasts.
Our possible futures.
Our little lies.
The truths
We can't dare reveal to anyone else.
I lie to you, I guess.
Saying I'm okay all the time.
Admitting defeat where there is none.
All the 'Never-mind's.
And "We're cool"s.
That really mean nothing.
I wonder nowadays.
Do you miss me?
How did you really feel?
Why do we bother?
Will you love me back?
I miss you, sometimes.

let's lay in my bed and
talk about the end of the world and
how much I hate my mom and
how much you hate your hair and
pretend we don't have to figure out what to make this

I'm sick to my stomach because I'm sick in the head
There's no point in breathing when I'd rather be dead
Blood in my veins looks better without
A silent scream instead of a shout
I scar up so nicely, it's artwork you see
And nobody hates me as much I hate me
There are demons inside me who fight for control
I'm tired of trying, it's all so **** droll.
Weapons excite me and pain is my friend
It gets me hot when my arms bend on the wrong end.
I'm messed up and worthless, just leave me be
You deserve better company than someone like me.
My eyes do not sparkle, my hair has no shine
I'm worthless, a nothing, not worth your time.
You're better off with someone else, not me.

on purpose, on purpose.
I will not love you on accident.
I did not wake up suddenly overwhelmed.
I am quite whelmed, honestly.
but with my head up, my eyes open, my arms held wide aloft,
I am walking face-first into loving you.
the stains on my teeth from where I bit back
should scare you off, would scare me away.
but your hands are raw with fighting back.
I want to love you on accident. I want the surprise, the shock, the explosive horror of being so uncontestably tied to someone else that I cease even to be my own body.
but this is better. maybe less movie worthy, less poem worthy, but better.
I look at you and see your flaws, and think how they mirror my own.
and I want to be here, fully here.
on purpose, I think of you.
on purpose, I am loving you.

I want to let your fingers walk over my skin
See if they bleed on the broken pieces of my body
I want you to open old scars and snap bones unbroken before.
It turns me on to think you'll break my body like you broke my mind
It makes me hate you
It makes me want to ******* too.
I'd never let another person over me
But I want your hands under my skin.

what strange fruit grow in the shadow of the grown
strange, bitter fruit
inky roots grow up, gripping ankles to pull down
fertile ground, grown up children
each step through dark, muddy ground
those who grow in this soil plant seeds
more inky roots, bitter fruit
to reach forward and drag in the weaker
we walk alone together
the roots are in me, the seeds are in me
I could be a disaster and not even see it
feel the roots wrapped round my spine
I could be just as bad
feel the roots wrapped round my brain
I could be even worse
feel them drag me down deeper
I can't let it happen
feel them in the lungs
I can't let it happen
feel them in the heart
I can't let it
feel them under skin
I can't
I can't
I can't feel them anymore

my heart is the moon
glowing pale and wan
cold light filtered through voids of flesh
shadows dancing into shapes in the crevices
beating in tides against stone
saltwater drips through my veins
an ocean of blood colder than the sea pooled behind my eyes
my lungs are the sun
roaring, empty, gasping oxygen
a shining light, shying away the moon
choking for more, desperate
words fall in sunspots, blinding, pointless
the planets align in my joints
snapping into place and crawling through orbits
asteroid belts curl behind my tongue and stars burn in my ears
cosmic, ascent complete, I look below me
the void is everything
I feel distant and spread, broken into parts
solar ice forms my teeth and I gnaw at dust
above all, I am alone

What does the devil want with idle hands?
What makes them
The devil's playthings?
Like tinker toys
For a madman?
Such a strange phrase, really...
What could the devil want of my hands?
Boney, square things that they are
These blocks of bones and nerves I use to type and write
These hand who refuse to learn to fiddle or pick
Who cannot catch nor throw
Who, at every turn, bumble into doorways and people alike
Who cramp, because writing was learned improperly
What use, really, are human hands who listen as well
As Lucifer
The ex-angel
Ex-blessed
The lover of music and delights
When they cannot produce either?
When nothing can be done with them
Why bother?
Why even attempt to control useless things?
It seems silly.
But that's just me.

when I was born and named a girl, my older brother decided he hated me. there was nothing to it; he wanted a brother because that way he could take out all the anger planted in him by my other siblings, and he got a sister who idolized him because he could make friends.

when I was three my mom, in a moment of clarity, took me to a doctor after I was sick for three weeks. a nurse heard my heart not beating right and sent me to get seen, six months later I was cut open and sewed clean, a hole in my heart to match the one my father had sealed up by modern medicine.

my mom never forgot that "miracle" or that I told the surgery psych that I was getting my broken heart fixed, and that my father was more worried that I'd live in constant agony than that I might die on the table, in mind or body.

at about four and a half, my dad came and took my brother and I out of my mom's care, because he had a home and didn't want us on the streets if he could help it. it never lasted, homelessness was as commonplace as walking to school for us. I didn't know it wasn't okay to live in a car until I was six.

when I was five I missed most of kindergarten because I lived in a shack on a ranch and had lice, and by the time I was back in class, I was the only one who didn't get basic math and couldn't read, but California doesn't hold kids back unless they have to and I got pushed ahead.

in second grade I made my first friend, and a few months into the school year I made another. I was a girl back then and they thought it was cool that I wasn't girly, so I was allowed. one day on the way in from recess I got called fat and ugly to my face the first time, and when I looked for support, I was told it was true.

I was nine the first time I wanted to **** myself. I ran my fingers over the blades of my father's razor and I wondered how much it hurt to bleed out and if blood stained linoleum and how much it would cost to bury me somewhere, and then I closed my eyes and remembered that my father would **** himself if I wasn't there.

by fourth grade I didn't care what was happening, I just wanted to read and sleep. I never did homework and my friends were only interested in me if I knew an answer they didn't. the teachers were convinced I was learning disabled but I was busy growing up two-parts ignored and one part abused, because the day I brought home my best grades was the day my uncle decided that he'd punish me himself.

when I was twelve I was told my dream was STUPID because I was never going to be good enough, not me, to write what people want to read. I was told that, with the grades I was getting I shouldn't even be allowed to do anything but schoolwork, despite my constant requests for help they wouldn't or couldn't give.

the first time I cut myself, I was in seventh grade. I stayed in my room all day and stared at the scabs, and then I scratched them off and did it again. it felt better to be bleeding outside and crying than to be collapsing inside and crying; there was a physical reason to my methods.

when I was fourteen, I was hospitalized for two days after I threatened to **** myself, and the doctors told me the "rosy glow" I always have was rosacea, and that I was depressed but not depressed enough to take up space there, and sent me home.

I wish I could say I stopped cutting then, but I didn't. it got worse when I moved in with my mom again, because she told me everything I secretly was was disgusting, and the two months she kept me medicated lamented over the high price of $50 for her child's sanity and well-being; even if it never worked, the thought that it wasn't even worth trying hurt more than the razorblades she kept around to tease me with.

I was fifteen when I carved HATE into my left forearm.

it took me time to understand that humans smile and the whole time I tried to learn I was ordered to STOP SCOWLING. it took me time to learn how to talk to people, to understand that unless someone starts a conversation I'm probably not wanted and to trick myself into thinking of character flaws as quirks and of the shattered pieces of myself as ripples in a pool instead of the breaks that they were

I learned to hold my face in a smirk and my arms around myself and that if you laugh loud enough no one looks too hard at the scars that keep multiplying, that if you joke often enough the tearstains on your cheeks are normal and the way you bristle when someone puts their hand up too fast or hugs you first will become afterthoughts, just like I taught myself to be and that no one worries about you not sleeping for a week if you memorize interesting things while you're awake.

Did you know
That in a few billion years
The sun will implode in on itself and **** everything in this galaxy?
Or that
More people die each year
From falling coconuts
Than from shark attacks?
Maybe you knew that
The word for the phobia of very long words is
Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia?
Did you know
That the stars are always watching you?
And that I miss you, too.
Did you know that those sodas I like
Come in glass bottles
And the broken pieces taste like heaven?
I'm sure you did
You always know.
I'm sorry.
This isn't about you
Not at all
I could care less
But you're the only person who listens
Sometimes
This blood is staining my shirt.

I say
No
Quite often to you.
No, you can't say things like that and expect it to not hurt.
No, you have to think before you act.
No, you don't do those things.
No, because I love you.
I love your voice.
The way you look right when you wake up and just as you fall asleep.
The things you say and the way you're important enough that it can cut me to ribbons.
Your skin.
I don't know.
Its not a ****** thing. I just need you, I love you and want to hold you
I can't explain.
So I say no.
No
I can't tell you that
Its not important
Why those scars look so new
Or that one word makes me start to sob
Or how my face is so bad at listening to my mind.
I love you.
So I'll say it again.
No.

I woke to darkness, and I ran.
And the sky didn't fall.
I looked to the sun, to the lights.
And the sun screamed that I was the dark.
And the sky didn't fall.
And I looked around myself, at the darkness.
And the darkness welcomed me home.
And the sky didn't fall.
And the sky didn't fall.

we, all of us, are born to die
some just get to tell a better story before they do.
the end is never dignified, never clean
we cry, we bleed, we scream, we beg
we lay, silently, beside our loved ones, all praying we'll open our eyes just one more time
just one more time.
one can only hope there's more beyond it
something else, something different
a new life, a continuation, a god to smile and say you're here
you made it, I'm so proud of you
even a nonbeliever can hope
someday
that you can find the end you're meant
that you're not forced to be martyred to meet someone waiting for you at the far end of it all

the way you look through me
makes my heart drop
from my chest
heavily
to my crotch
I wish you'd lower your expectations
and raise your skirt
but it's nice to pretend
that you could ever care for me
when you share platitudes.

I dreamed last night
About having my mouth sewn shut
And living like that.
It was a surprisingly
Warm
Dream.

Us writers
Artists too
We're delicate.
Delicate to the point that it's disgusting.
We're hurt by small things
Little phrases
Meaningless things.
They mean too much.
Always too much.
We're made of glass.
Glass words.
Glass poems.
Glass breaks so easily.

to be so full of love I shine like a beacon
I want it to fill me like glowing water and drown the darkness in me
to drown when I cry
flowing light and glittering ideals
to hope, hope despite evidence that may make me stop
soft like a blanketing of snow
suffocatingly, deafeningly, consumingly soft
love like a fist and hope like sea and stones and the endless rhythm of tides
to be soft and loving and hopeful
tasting blood and cracking knuckles, to be loving, to be soft
to never be hurt again

I have glass wings
But I want to fly
I sit on a shelf
Too delicate to exist
And watch the world move
I know
I know so well
That taking a leap
Would break my wings
But if I can't fly
I want to walk.

draft horse heart, walk on
till the earth of troubles
seeds of hope planted in may never sprout, but the roots reach further down
draft horse heart, carry all my sadness
one heavy step in front of another
a beating heart climbing the same hill
draft horse heart, walk on
carry the troubles, the sadness, the pain
heave through snatching brambles
there are greener pastures there
walk on, draft horse, to the stable you seek
your hooves a beat of a bleeding heart
each trouble precious and sharp, wrapped in gauzy nostalgia
each sin and lie another stone, tucked in silk, packed so neatly
my broken heart, my lost direction
walk on, draft horse, walk on
the stable there is not right, walk on
we may find the right one later, walk on
each step a beating of this heavy heart
walk on

I have many secret fears
I'm scared that
My organs are autonomous and are waiting for their chance to leave me
And that
The mountains are alive and are waiting for us to overstep our bounds so they can destroy us and our fragile lives
Or
I will stretch my chest forward too far and the scar from my surgery will split and all my insides will fall out
And
That my dreams really do show the future and it isn't all in my head
And even that
I'll never mature mentally and I'll have to go the way of Peter's lost boys and be killed to keep Neverland secret from the adults
As well as
One day I might wake up and be happy, and have nothing to worry about and just have nothing to do.
I'm so scared of these things
And I don't know why.

I hate myself.
This isn't a question of 'I like this
'I dislike this
'I wish I was more--'
I hate myself, simply.
My parents love me more each day.
My siblings would die for me.
My friends are beautiful people.
I don't want pity, religion or attention.
I don't.
I just hate myself, it doesn't really matter.
I'm not thinking that my me right now
Is worse than the me I'll be later.
My feelings are a constant ebb and flow.
Some days I only hate myself
The same way someone can hate a show.
It's a background thing, nothing that needs to be dealt with.
Some days, I hate myself so completely that I can't even move.
And I won't say it's okay, even though it is.
I've been taught that it's not okay to say it.
Recovery is a process, they say.
And the first step is to ignore your feelings so your parents and therapists can think they did it right.

I am the god of mortality and cold
I am silent and ancient, or, I was
I have died so many times, now it is all I can think of
I have forgotten the wrong I committed that cursed me to mortality
but it must have been very wrong indeed
I can only hope one day, or lifetime, my penance will be complete
and pray to be released from this formless curse
mortality clouds me, my greatest fear and my only chance for relief
and I have no knowledge if it helps or harms to take it into my own hands
it feels better, but I keep coming back
I want to be finished
my soul is too weary for another living body

oh, my soft heart
oh, my gentle dream
oh, my delicate soul
oh, my downy love
you are every smooth, soft, silky thing of me
you are so soft, my heart
you are so gentle, my dream
you are so delicate, my soul
you are so wondrous, my love, my sweet velvet darling

I feel like a shadow trick, things piled to look like a person

Red is like rain.
Okay, wait, hear me out.
Red is the color of heat
Anger
Love
Blood.
Love is like change.
Like, spring or something, right?
This new, exciting landscape of ideas and principles
And freedoms.
Rain is like change.
Rain rinses away the ***** parts of the cities
Like love for our hearts
So red is the color of love
Anger
Blood
Change
And, surprisingly,
Rain.

we'll never be clean again
the angels in their spotless robes, glaring down untouched
the first hand put on our skin was filth forever
lick their lips and **** their teeth, rosaries and morals clutched
we'll never be clean again
no soap washes away the stain of men, having a body, the ultimate sin
never asked for, but punished anyway
nothing cleans away the memories twisting behind your eyes, but forget or they win
we'll never be clean again.
never speak of or think of it.
never be like them.
prayers writ and wrists slit,
and wonder where from it stems

I wish I was cold-hearted and frozen
if it was frozen I could cut it out and let myself be empty
but it beats hot with the smell of wood fire in stone hearth
hot like embers in a pyre
I wish I was spring, new and clean
frozen hearts of ice in the streams
but winter's all I have
with fires burning in lonely homes
an opposite that's less attractive
melting from the inside, I wish I could freeze

We promised we'd stay forever young
Not gray our hair or hold our tongue
We promised that our time would tell
A story good, and written well.
Now faces come and faces go
I've never yours forgotten, though.
I wonder, now, if you kept yours
The promise that I gave for hours.
I want to meet you soon,and just see you
And see if you have kept to it true.
Our paths, they haven't crossed in long
I fear that we both did wrong..
In hoping things wouldn't change.
You will always in my heart be strange.
Strange and perfect and lovely
And young as the days and nights
Strange and perfect and lovely.
And for an old man like me feel fright.
When we meet I'm sure to say
"You haven't changed a day."
You, of course, will then reply
"You have, I wonder why?"

This is for you, if you're like me.
For you who always did your best even though it would never be enough.
You who is alive but not happy about it.
You, who despite all odds, has survived.
You who can't remember what being happy was like without the melancholy tinge of real life.
You who finds solace in being alone but who feels guilty not visiting.
You who love body modification not for the artistic benefits but because that pain is allowed.
You who dodges questions about your clothing choices because yes you know it's too warm for a sweater but there are scars you need to hide to feel safe.
You who drew words of anger and pain in your skin with blades.
You who tries to be good, to not want that sweet sting of bloodletting.
You who still, sometimes, fails.
You who wakes up sobbing and doesn't know why.
You who is always to blame.
You whose voice is constantly warped into "I'm sorry".
You who can hear their inner voice screaming "Useless useless useless useless useless" over even the loudest music.
You who can easily watch their friends walk away, because its okay, they're better off.
You who gets headaches;
Stomach pains;
Back problems;
And more but ignores them because you're only worth as much as you can do.
You who believes everyone is beautiful; Except you, you're a one in seven billion chance of not being beautiful.
You who realizes how ridiculous and egotistical you are with sentiments that everything is your fault and you're so worthless.
You who can't stop saying it.
You who hates yourself more than anyone ever could.
You who is scared of being hurt, but hopes for a knife in their back when they walk down a dark street.
You who is perfectly different from everyone else but such a sheep you could puke.
You who is like me
But not.
You who are precious, loved, needed and so worthwhile.
You who are top ******* yourself.
You who I don't know and maybe never will, but who still deserves to be happy.
You who I hope finds your happiness.

I've always loved doing drugs.
I really like it.
Being numb.
I love that.
Not feeling at all,
Instead of feeling everything too much.
All at once.
Angry, happy, sad, tired, scared
All together in nasty brown.
Numb is nothing.
Numb is black, the absence of light.
Of existence.
Everything that brings me closer to nothing is me favorite thing.
Just for darkness, for nothing
I want to drown in the nothing I get when I sleep.
Its beautiful.
My friends think I should be scared of nothing
They are
So many people are scared of the possibility of nothing.
But it's so perfect
So empty and dark and lovely.
I want it to come and take over.
Nothing is so wonderful.

I want to be spring
I want to be soft buds on tree branches, the low murmur of melting snow, the fresh blue of newly clear skies
I want to be soft, brisk wind whipping across forests and plains, animals moving as one from darkness to the world again, pollen in the air
but I'm not
I'm winter
cold, unforgiving, ice and metal and skin, the heavy blanketing of deaf snow over miles of the world
frozen branches snapping in silent nights and the retreat of all living things deeper into their homes
winter with it's dangers, it's unknown, a set of footprints in the snow leading deep into the woods and never coming out
I want to be warm and soft and new, alive again every year
but I'm not

I woke up
Sobbing
At half past noon
Because even in my dreams, I'm a failure.
I'm sure that you'd have helped me, if I told you
But its better for me to be alone.
Its better for me to leave you be.
God, I wish the sun would go down already.

tear me open
chew me up
spit me out
break everything in my chest
bleed me dry
make it hurt
make me scream
don't be gentle
don't be careful
it isn't suicide if someone helps

the moon is mirrored in your eyes
a glittering satellite reflecting light onto the sleepy planet below
I wish I could take your hands and tell you I hung it just for you
but I'm not god, and I don't think you'd believe me if I was

You called me the moon and stars
The sun to your sky,
The rainclouds too.

But all I ever wanted was to watch your sky.
I never meant to live in the space between the stars.

I'm a thing and I'm made to listen.
I cannot break.
pain is proof I'm learning too slowly, not broken.
I can never complain.
I'm a thing and I'm made to watch.
I do not speak.
unless in answering "yes, yes, always yes".
I'm a thing and I'm made to be used.
I don't complain. I don't feel. I don't breathe.
things can't die. inanimate things.
I'm a thing and I'm made to do everything I'm told and be silent and know what I'm supposed to but never too much and not hurt and never say no and keep secrets until I stop being a thing and start being a corpse.

I can't look back
And see the shattered glass of the past
Any longer
It seems so fair now to say
I was wrong.

Apathy is the stones waves of emotion cast you against
Until your body smashes open
Fills with saltwater
Heavy-wet lungs
Sting
Cold as the ocean

I got tired of the beating, so I took it out.
that messy red lump of flesh, dripping onto the laminate floor.
thud-thud-thudding even removed
wet meaty smell and sticking to my fingers.
a cavern in my chest echoing through my ribs
miles deep and deep and deep
I'll burn this mortal heart
and cure myself of longing.

love is a sin never planned for
be unrepentant with me
be, with me, a sin your parents and your priest will never absolve
love me like you're saying a prayer, late at night, hopeful
evangelize the feeling of being in love to everyone
love me like you're singing a hymn you know by heart
exist in me as god does in everyone; in love
sin with me in adoration
pray to anyone who will listen, this is purer
a clean sin, victimless
purgatory at worst

I miss my passion
the endless roar of want and need in my throat
every possibility exciting and new
possible, even

I miss needing to know and needing to be and feeling so much
feeling everything, constantly, overwhelmed by so many things that I was lucky enough to experience

and this emptiness, this aching hollow where my heart was
nothing can fill it
where my passion ripped out of me and bled through my shirt as I repeated line after line
an empty space beneath my ribs and behind my throat

I miss explosiveness and anger
I miss crying
I miss feeling whole and real

my heart is full of cotton and I feel so light thinking of you
like tempered chocolate or sea foam
emotions like this are so new to me but they feel so warm
even though you'll never feel this way for me, thank you for letting me feel it for you

it spills out of a closed wound
a hole carved in you that you've covered a thousand times
you gag it down, but it come up anyway
pours out of your eyes and ears
tastes like smoke.
hot tar, sticking to everything
***** again, ***** again
filthy, immeasurably filthy
you want so badly to be cleaned
sticky and thick, you're choking
stop it up, close the hole again.
you're choking, close it up.
you're choking.

you turn them over in your head
over, over, turn it around
every angle, every reflection
every reaction,
you know the sharp edges
it isn't a surprise when they cut you again
you don't pick up a razor and not expect to cut something.
carve away the old scars, deeper in
cut them down to bone.
you'll heal again, close up over the infection and need to be cut away.
if you weren't the infection, you could be cured.

sticky, thick, you're choking again.
close the wound.

my bones are quartz
my heart a horse
my eyes are dew
I'm nothing but a compilation
or emulation
of things I see in you

he whispered
"I love you"
but it was too quiet
so he said it again,
with a closed fist.
eventually
it only sounded right like that

I want to crawl between your ribs
Nestle on your lungs
Breathe in deep and slow
Feel me there on your sternum

You broken cherry stem
Your body so divine
Your thighs my diadem
Your love as sweet as wine

Break my body down
Rip me into shreds
My skin becomes your gown
And on your wall my head

we are so very different
you, you are the moon
you are cold, glittering, distant
silvered with stardust
beautiful and wan, you are
slim and precocious, all the things you should be
of the moon
between us are lightyears of void
occasional stars that burn and burn and burn
more than we can count between us
call them a group, all the stars
call it all of them
I am a thing of the sun
I sit heavy and wet in dawn light, newly hatched each morning
I am a thing of mars, dusty and cracked
aching for water, alone with a robot
I am a thing of pluto
distant, frozen, devoid, small.
I am a thing of jupiter
huge, unstable, storming
I am a thing of the sun-touched sides of these planets
a thing of the harsher, hotter light of day
I wish to sit in the cold, watery light all of them
and your moon
would show me