sometimes i write about the same thing
over and over and over and ov-
I don't know why
and sometimes I yell it all in my mind and it doesn't stop until i cry
and sometimes I go to the studio and forget about everything
except pointing my feet
but I know there's no future in that because my feet don't point far enough
and I can't yell loud enough for it to stop
and throwing my body around a stage only makes me forget for the length of the song
and what if one day i can't stand to remember
or what if one day all i want to do is remember
i could get too far lost in it all
or get lost in it while trying to grasp onto the edge

Arms to the ground.
I have fought my last
Battle.

Boots off, socks too.
I will search; explore
No more.

Head down, to rest upon
My woman's chest.
Not one night

On solitary pillow
Ever again.
The end of my life

As I have known it.
I'll never be less than
Two. Sad pen to

The ground. This might
Be the last poem I'll ever
Need to write.

Bandaged wounds that
Bled ink healing. All my
Smiles are unwriteable, now.

and i know you were drunk
but the tragedy of last night is that i believed every sweet word you said

*** a couple times with your hand that
    has one vein popped up over the knuckle. sheets crinkle
    laundry sits in the small humid room.
    smells like roadkill and peppermint,
    like christmas eve with dinner down the toilet.

you've *** four times in an hour,
rubbing at yourself through your underwear.
don't touch skin. it's off limits today.

getting raw means you can feel
how it stings when you cross your legs.
it's not about pleasure. it's the reminder:
   you want to know what you look like,
   what you feel like.

next time you're ******* down some boy you ask him
"how does that feel?" he says "good."
            quick kiss, his ****** is archaic and copper.
            you like how it tastes. now it's your turn:
but of course he won't make you *** unless
you take your hand and rub while he *****,
your hand a barrier between his body and yours.

          "please be quiet," you say out loud
the boy furrows his eyebrows, "i didn't say anything."
you laugh, "no, my stomach."

pretend to *** for a faster exit.
give him a tiny maternal kiss.
let it linger out the room where it's cold but he's still warm.
you don't want a warmth you have to love because it's too much.

the scab on your neck is now a scar
       and you have no make-up for the ones on your forearms, but
       really, most of you by now is star dust and tobacco leaves.

               the sun is in our eyes. i want to know
               what makes a circle go on forever.
i think about ****** a lot.
dreamt two nights ago chris sold me some,
it was in that tiny wax bag with a "king ******" stamp .
when i texted him the next day said "i dreamt
we did some together," he said
                 "that's funny. i've been doing some definitely
                  but not really selling."

     the Chicago cold does something odd enough to you.
it always seemed like you were alive as a kid. well,
were you?

               where is your body? out in the storm.
                are you a ghost? no, it would be nice though:
                    the lack of responsibility of life,
                                    a state of impermanence.
    it would be nice.

Scream in the air to not cry.
Stomach twists like tangled vines.
Tears rise but refuse fall.
Violent sobs shake my all.

Legs give out after a while.
Back slides against cold tile.
Of course I'm okay.
Can't you see?

I'm just okay.
And this isn't killing me.

I know they all talk about me,*
He mutters.
Whenever I'm home sick, they
Say that I'm never at work.
That I'm always late.
That I do a bad job.

I look down into my coffee.
We talk about him, all right.
As soon as he takes a sick day,
We know he'll be back the next.
Pale with lingering fever.
Wet with sweat.

We speak of how he's always
At work. Hardly ever comes in
Less than an hour
Before us others.
How he pours his whole self into
Any job he's given. Always.

He would never choose to
Believe me, so I change the subject.
Each man his own attitude.
Funny how the brain keeps
Blaming the heart for
Its feelings.

I lift heavy covers to expose
What's mine to behold.
Snow skin, sweet drops of
Salty dew from within.

Flesh female, lady
Bones, choir cells whisper
Their name; Woman.
Woman. Woman.  

Eyes smiling. Mouth smiling.
******* smiling. Womb
Smiling. The rest either
Giggles or shines.

Tattoo of the Midgard Serpent
Around her upper thigh.
Snake of Norse mythology,
Coiled around the world,

Own tail in mouth. When it
Lets go, the world will end.
Its fangs are mine in you.
Poison lust. Venom love.

Refusing to release the
Ragnarok of our common heart,
I slowly kiss its every scale in
Submission.

Tried to
hold onto you,
to plant myself
in the fertile soil in the
creases of your elbows,
tried to breathe in
when you exhaled,
to fill my lungs with
your leftovers
but
there is not enough
oxygen here
to share
and I have told you
that I cannot
breathe,
told you
I think I need to
get out of here,
I'm feeling claustrophobic
but you only
hold me closer,
bruise my ribs
like rotted fruit,
kiss me with
no desire to
heal what you have broken,
and I am trying to
survive
but I cannot live
in the vacuum
you have created in
your chest cavity.

tell me someone will love me
fully clothed
and

tell me someone will love me
with blood on my hands
and

tell me someone will love me
shaking, trembling, convulsing
and

tell me someone will love me
when they're searching for gold and i am rustic bronze
and

tell me someone will love me
with veins ripped apart
and

tell me someone will love me
with a starved stomach and empty eyes
and

tell me someone will love me
when i am dying
and

i'm asking you
//please love me//