Tripping on your wires
tangling myself in you.

Touching:
your skin:
so sweet
so soft,
so tender:
smooth as milk.

You shine up at me
like a thousand stars
your light strips me raw.

Soft as grass
sweet as sugar
you will be my only lover.

religion is dead
but the taste of butterscotch still lingers in my mouth.

I know it's freezing outside.
that's why I want you to hold me so bad,
it doesn't matter if it's you, it could be anyone,
but I know you need it just as much as I do.

I want to read you something
a little more meaningful than
a grocery list, and I want you to
smile more, but I want nothing to do with it.

I'm more situational than you seem to notice,
and I like how we can sit quiet and listen to nothing,
but I'd much rather hear your voice through the
haze of tension that seems to follow us, rather than
watch you sit alone on a welcome mat for depression.

I love you is a funny way of saying I love you,
but none of us really know what it means until
we know what it means, and I know how bad it
hurts when we lose what it means, but I'm sure
we'll find it again. Even if we have to be patient,
and scream a little, and **** someone worthless.

For what it's worth or how much you care,
I want you to know that I care, even if it's
only enough to dodge questions and push
boundaries and cross some t's or some lines.

You give me cold feet and hot cheeks,
but in the friendliest of ways.

I can't touch my face because my hands smell like popcorn
and I can't paint my nails because the smell is too strong.
I keep dancing with my arms and my head while I sit in my chair,
and I keep thinking it's okay, but I know it's not.
I want to paint a picture and tape a cats head onto a humans body,
and I want to light it on fire and take a picture of you naked and send it as a postcard to my best friend, (that I sort of have a thing with).
I'm not sure how many times I've called you this past week,
probably none, considering I don't like talking to you, (especially on the phone).
I'm not even sure if I remember your phone number or not, the numbers just keep mixing up in my head and then I end up calling my hair dresser or the pizza place down the street, (you know the one, with the salad bar that we never eat from).
I don't want to have to keep this up any more, I just want to put white out on those things I said and write over it with something funny or beautiful.
I don't want to have to worry about making the bed either, because it's really hard when you do it by yourself.
So please don't make me leave another message,
pick up the phone and tell me you love me already,
wait,
I don't want you to say it unless you mean it,
so just,
call me back.

ten years
of writing
and sharing.
of erasing fear
from what I share.

a decade later
and I am asked
to be quiet, told,
I talk too much.
figuring, if I talk
too much, too quickly,
I have learned nothing.

so I write.

this place is safe
pen on page
words on screen
no real name
truly facing shame(s).

words can hurt
but writing can change,
an outlook, an image,
a feeling, a tone.

there's something about here
me, alone, with these words,
that stops the constant curiosity
of what others may say or do,
because with these forms of words,
only beauty may resound.

no, "telephone game"
of, "who said this, she said,
he said," distorted and mangled.
re-angled! painful miscommunications
avoided so simply. LOOK HERE, look here!
if you misunderstood, read again, or interpret.
these words were written for me and about me,
inspired, perhaps, by others actions or words,
but honesty can happen in abstract ways
much like the daze that follows, when one
says and they say, so instead, I choose to
hurt no one, on purpose or by mistake
instead I will express myself within
this realm of word play!