He whispered lies to lust as we manipulated death
We were tripping together and chanting symphonies of language.
We moaned and were in love for an eternity.

losing my wisdom teeth
and losing you felt similar;
i only had them (my teeth)
briefly, two months maybe,
just like you.
and when they took them (my teeth), it reminded me
of all the chemicals i put in my body
when i was too young to
understand the consequences.
and when they took you, it reminded me
of all the chemicals i put in my body
now that i'm old enough
to understand the consequences.

shivers sweep down my spine when I
hear your laugh and see your teeth
[white and straight and hypnotizing]
oh, please, I can't remember the last time I didn't want to dive into your flesh
and dance on your nerves
to see you react to my body on yours.
and while you're standing slightly slouched with
broad shoulders and rough hands
I sit slightly smaller with no fingerprints wondering if there's a chance that maybe our bodies were cut from the same piece of cheap cardboard, meant to fit together with their
jig-sawed  edges.

i love going to the dentist and always do my homework on time.
but,
i am bad at remembering to brush my teeth at night and i smoke
so they're yellow
and reading on a computer makes my eyes hurt.
but,
i somehow always get perfect marks on my homework and
my medical records
so how badly can i really be doing?

i never let my dishes soak after i use them because
i hear a voice every time i try to
and it makes me sick

i used to think my paralysis was
lucidity
not hysteria
but now i know the difference

i wish i had big teeth,
so big,
that they'd fill my mouth and i didn't have to talk

when our faces were close and our mouths still
clumsy
your broken tooth always reminded me that I was
alive.
and now I hear you are getting your front-right-
tooth filled in because
the chip is getting to be too much for you to handle
and
you're 'so tired' of explaining how it got there.

what does that make me?

Black water ran from my rapidly aging hands.
The cobwebs of hair surrounding my head tangled around my brain and pushed me to remember the rest of the night.

All of the trees  twisted and began to breath with me.

I will never know if I gained a new piece of my soul, or lost a piece I never knew I had.

holding hands with a shadow,
hoping maybe i could trick the tooth fairy into
bringing me a new set of canines and
molars,
i bled teeth in my bed.

i sometimes think i'm in love with the
bird-boy
who pecks holes in my wrists and puts pegs
through the fence (to keep me close by)
but bird-boy is
so young and
so sweet with
clear eyes and  
no clue that i think i may
be
a wren.

i am here sitting quietly doing nothing but
thinking
and i can see vividly in my head the color of your birthmark
(and i can feel myself crying)
do you remember mine?
do you remember my scars and coldsores and bruises?

it hurts to know that my Temple is of another faith than you care for
and it hurts to know that my Temple
                                                  might be burned to the ground
                                                  by your zealot hands
but this fear
and pain
and sometimes rain
can only last so long.

i like to feel broken i think
sometimes
  i like the way you broke me.

5 days of bruises are built up and browning
on my notably translucent skin; i wear low-cut shirts to show them off.
there's no sorrow in my voice when i talk about your
astral body running astray across my rotting bones; i finally feel small.
601 days lost to bicycle handles and bloating bellies full of fear and sometimes cake; i don't remember before.
before, i'd get picked up and ****** up, an ultimatum in an altima; i thought it wouldn't end.
at 8 am i talked about the boy whose knowledge was so vast it overwhelmed him and took him across highways, barefoot, and out of my life; i forgive but only in abstract.

I am a well-maintained automobile,
battery charged and tires rotated,
brake system probably needs to be adjusted and my drive-shaft may need to be realigned
but otherwise
you could probably make a decent profit off of me.
My blood is thick motor oil, and
my scent, a lit cigar
ever-burning down to an infinite ****.
I'd probably go for about $10,000 (if you turned back the odometer 20,000 miles).

your face is something like
rotting wood full of bodies of people i knew
(rough to the touch and cold inside)
and there's nothing 'magic' in the air of graveyards
or the morgue
or the funeral home (even though some people
feel that there is) but there is
blood and make up and
prosthetic chins  
that  make your dead grandfather (rest in peace) look twenty-eight
even though he was eighty-two.
please don't tell me that your spirit feels trapped
and your body feels wrong (even though i'd listen and nod) because
i already know what it feels like to be trapped  every morning (and sometimes at midnight) and waking up with my eyes shut and my
mouth sealed like a coma patient who didn't tattoo
NO CODE
on her chest soon enough and can hear her family whispering about what kind of
coffin and
what size dress she wears so that she looks pretty for
the reaper.

Dandelion fires on a
cloudy, sun-filled day
run rapidly, recklessly
through big
                  
                        bare
             ­                 
                                fields
(what would your lover say if he knew?)

i woke up with bedhead/left with bedhead/didn't get head
but i guess that's besides the point.
you told me to clean up
and i said okay
because i clean up so
*******
nicely
but still not nicely enough for you to take me out.

i dont think about hold your hand
only
holding your hair back when you *****.

i took notes in a real doctors handwriting
[scribbles with incoherent conclusions]
   every wednesday afternoon until
        the girl next door moved and
           i felt singular for the first time
no one to pretend was sicker than i
no one to help heal
no one to hold my hand in the cul-de-sac

now i've tamed my solitude
[i avoid it at all costs, keep it on a leash]
   every wednesday afternoon until
        i knew it was time for you to move and
           i felt okay for the last time
no one to pretend would stay forever
no one to feel near
no one to hold my hand in the waiting room

you have become the one part of my life I don't feel the need to be heavily medicated to enjoy.
boy.

You ate my heart when I was young and now I’m stuck in neutral

I feel so ******* weird like
buy a pack of cigarettes weird like
I ate too much pizza and cake weird like
when was the last time I thought about my ex weird like
how soon is too soon to be in love weird like
got a job at a fast food chain restaurant that I can't even eat at weird like
I have to figure out how to pay the rent and electric bill before next week weird like
I'm gonna chain smoke because my new fast food job says I can't and I have to get it out of my system weird.

your
hands are soft and
you
smell like sweat and
your
touch feels like pin ****** and satellite signals.
your
body is raw and
you
run your mouth and
you
taste like broken promises and copper.

im so tired of the forgotten
and the dead
and the way your shoulders turn away
like mountains,
     falling boulders

i am grateful for waterproof mascara;
and that i didn't let myself be stopped by the cold weather when i
decided to leave.
i am grateful that i have begun to forget your
teeth and started dreaming about
new grins.

she told me once that she worshiped the
forest of her body and the garden she had grown (like spring
                                          all over her outsides).
she said she loved skin the same way i  loved
marlboro blacks and sweetwater blue (obviously and
                                         uncontrollably).
she screamed compliments at me in
soft words with rough meaning (like ****** knuckles against
                                        freshly cut grass).  
she assured me that it was okay to wake up
in cold sweats with heavy limbs (unmovable and brittle,
                                         buried under sheets).

but i knew better.

i have a habit of
forming habits of
doing the same thing
until i feel safe

I haven’t broken your heart (yet)
not like

her.

I haven’t twisted your words (much)
not like

her.

I haven’t hidden the truth (often)
not like

her.

you say that you love me (but)
not like

her.

im always around
always down
yellow teeth and brown eyes
(surprise)

I am impulsive and unsure
I wonder how to wander more
I hear colors, loud and bright
I see sounds, colorful and light

I want serenity
I pretend I’m calm
I worry I’m not good enough
I cry when I am wrong

I am from the eye of a storm
I dream of the day the rain will stop
I scream to heaven, constantly mourn
I will not miss the rains’ ‘plip plop’

I whisper ‘I think I found a cure’
I am impuslive and unsure

you like a girl with teeth too big to fit into her mouth
(i'm glad i grew out of my buckteeth)

January 2015
i am freshly nineteen.
a boy with black lipstick comes down unfamiliar stairs
from a mysterious Above.
i wonder if i'll ever see this place.
March 2015
same boy, no lipstick.
i kiss him at a bar
but do not yet get to see the mysterious Above.
i hope to see it soon.
April-June 2015
i wake up most mornings
in the Above place.
i sometimes wear lipstick, but usually not.
it is bright and
cold and
nowhere near the bathroom.
July-December 2015
i reluctantly walk up now
all too familiar stairs
to an Above place where
i am not wanted
or welcome
but i still need a place to put my bag, so i ignore the signs both
literal and figurative.
January 2016-**
i am welcomed with
open arms to
the Above place and
do not want to leave
but
home is a subjective term and time doe not stop for nostalgia;
i am glad no one else will get to see the Above the way i do.

there are boys with hair that makes me nuts
lusting to touch
and i don't know what it is about
copper or
orange or
tangerine,
clemintine, even
rust
that makes me cringe because my body is empty
and lifeless unless
it's covered with soft patches of old skin cells and
must.

how much of who you are is ego?
how much is self-actualization?
and how much does answering these questions
help or hurt one or the other?

with you again.
but, when i left you,
i felt everything (and nothing) all at once
and now i
can't
       stop
             touching you
whenever i get the chance and kissing you passionately (something i forgot about) and crying at the thought of you touching other girls.
i never thought i'd feel in love with you again
but i do
and i am
and i can't believe it's over.

distorted face, discolored and slim.
haunt me through eternity.

i spend a lot of time thinking about setting myself on fire
i used to hold hot irons to my forearms
i am no stranger to feeling cold
i often feel cold
i spend a lot of time thinking about setting myself on fire

With its life in the palms of person(s) unprecedented,
And its soul orbiting other oppressor,
And its eyes glaring at glistening gloaters,
It slithers and slides and twists and turns,
Ruthlessly reaching for a rapid revival.

Its heart lays limp on the long, lonely lawn
And its spirit sinks silently
And its mouth cries carelessly
It pulses and pushes and wriggles and writhes
Hopelessly harking for a hint of help.

these words mean nothing without you to say
"will you please speak like a lady?"
and i probably would
if i could,
[but your silence
is like an unfamiliar hand pressed
closely against
my marmoreal skin
leaving nothing]
but
mouth-shaped bruises on my thighs and
questions on my tongue and
unaddressed letters on my bedside table

I am a long way from home
(and the distance only grows as my skin gets thicker) until these bleeding fingers and
cracked teeth
start to feel just like
segments of destructive dreams.

i always came over wearing silver and black
and you always wore something purple and insisted it be noticed
even if it wasn't noticeable

but i didn't care.

i used to date boys who cried wolf and kissed poorly
******* in dugouts
high holiday hook ups and lackluster dates

but i don't care.

you bruised my ***** bone
and ego
and surprisingly, my heart

but i hardly care.

or, at least, that's what i keep insisting.

i wonder what you think of when you shave;
is it a voice reminding you?
is it bare skin against yours?
i wonder what you think of when you're down below;
is it ***** boots and molten lead
        is it  the secret life of plants again?

in june i thought about your hair every day
because your reds were like the sun and felt warm even indoors.
in july i thought about your pulse
because your shirts were thin and i thought i could see your heart beating whenever i walked by.
in august i only thought about you every day
because it hurt too badly not to and thinking hurt less than a sunburn.
in september i stopped thinking about you
because you stopped thinking about me, and i found silence in familiar arms.
october didn't matter.
november was the same.
but
december i thought about your back every day
because your skin is like snow and your reds felt like the sun.

our friendship was built on
broadripple and chicken wire
            stained clothing and bruised legs,
and i'm so sorry for that girl
who ruined your innocence
and for how i stood by because mine was already gone
and for how sometimes i raised my voice
and couldn't contain my sighs.

i'm sorry that things weren't always good or great or even okay
and that sometimes getting out of bed was hard
and that 
sometimes
                   nothing felt right.

and i'm so glad whenever you smile

my bare, bruised lady-skin
          is covered with a
thick carpet of sensual
                               secrets
           which will remain
                                        exclusive
        ­                                and
                             ­           elusive [until death do I part].
my bare, bruised lady-skin
           is made up of
freshly formed scar
                              tissue
         which will remain                        
                                        pretty
                 ­                       and
                                        pink [until death do I part].

you told me i had forgotten my own mannerisms
that i didn't tilt my head when
i told you how to make me ***, didn't
interrupt my own thoughts
or roll my eyes when
i said that you weren't even close
(but maybe you just forgot
to notice
the new ones.)

your greedy metal mouth  (the taste of tin will never leave my tongue)
   engulfs me
                                               (my parenthetical affection can only last so long
)

In Colorado my mother did lots of *******.
On clouded days, she'd take some pills and try to feel the rain.
The snow felt warm,
the air was dry.
She watched the people passing by.
Her bones grew sharp,
her tongue grew dull.
Her mind melted away.
She started to wonder if she'd wake up another day.

They made her leave,
they tapped her brain.
My mother never was the same.

linchpin boyfriend
hold me together at the seams;
for I
       can't stop leaking
viscous
memories.