I want to melt into your skin and stay there for a night
Bite your collar bone and sink my teeth a little further from our next goodbye.
Say hello to me again soon so I can wrap my palms around your shoulder blades
Move my fingertips to your jaw line and touch my tongue to your throat
Taste the way your words come out

i left her on the side of the road near the rookery in southern indiana. her body was still warm, not as warm as the time she told me she wished she had a thousand teeth but not yet as cold as the time she grew them all at once and stuck them in me. she taught me many things, like how to forget and how to see through the cataracts and necrosis. she kissed my face and told me i was beautiful and boiled me in a metal bin inside the barn and watched as my skin separated from my bones as easily as slicing butter. she assured me i looked prettier this way, all bones and flaying meat and a thousand little exposed teeth i had no idea were in me.

They say that we can't accept in others

              what we can't accept in ourselves....

                      

                   I must be a **** then!


                                    XD

I am the queen of what ifs
Sitting on a throne of could've beens

My fears are my loyal subjects
Escorting my dreams to the gallows

My ambitions are now prisoners
To my court of procrastination

I, the queen
Reign over all of this regret

It's funny, how just now I recognized myself in a poem someone else wrote. Like my words came pouring out of their pen and marked the paper-- just for me. Just so I can nod in agreement and for once in God-knows-how-long remember who I actually am.
It tears me up, everytime my eyes reread the same **** lines. Why does this stranger know me better than I know myself?

There is nothing I can compare to the wait.
The moment before flesh hits wall
And knuckles hard as stone bleed against brick. 
We see red through the tears
that run down the distorted lines of our faces,
cooling the burning skin of our cheeks,
And seasoning our lips with salty streams.

We hide our sadness behind our rage.
Our bruised hearts behind bandaged knuckles,
The way the air smells fresh with perfumed lies and a hint of apologies.
The smell that reminds me of the color red.

And we wait for that moment,
That the line becomes blurred.
We loose our sense somewhere between adrenaline and addiction
To the pain they cause and the pain we live for.
And we wait.

We wait for a sign, a cure, an apology, an explanation, a reason.
Nothing compares to the static silence,
No words to describe the reckless sadness,
I close my eyes and the wait looks red.

-K. Moran
@words.and.weapons

Revenge is just a quick fix
That quickly slips from fingertips
Purse your lips and take a sip
It just tastes too good.

The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure; I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth,
a consequence of boredom.
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons.
I am today, you are only last night.

Split me, canyon style,
My yawning maw ribcage
Showing pink-wet guts.
Take another step and let me swallow you.

(Come) it's soft in here.
(Come) it's safe in here.
(Come on) spill love,
Let my tongue-heart taste you,
A prayer to muscle.

For love is a muscle,
A soft, warm muscle;
And woman is muscle,
A strong bend muscle.

Woman resides in your eyes on my skin.
The prayer hides in the sighs of your sin.

Fluorescent flickers illuminate the stained cement floors of the hallway. Your slippered feet music an uneven pad and scuff. This ***** city is home, whatever that means. This ***** city holds you like you're someone else's child. A burst of joy and music reaches for you through the window; someone bangs a door and you turn on the tap. As water sputters onto your toothbrush you catch a whiff of Dakota Jim's racist southern drawl, a puff of his ketamine breath.

You walk to the window, toothbrush dangling.

[Oh London, I know you love no one, but nights like this I feel your heartbeat in your embrace.]

History swells beneath your feet. Your eyes land on a seated figure, his grand headdress of feathers overpowering the tableau, his gaze calmer than the other mad happy swirls that make up the crowd. It makes you wonder what he sees. Probably nothing. You will learn that when he seems profound it is usually an accident. You are penned in by jagged skyline hieroglyphics. History swells. Your heavy hearted story is a speck consumed in all this history. All the history you were taught in school was death, you remember your mother bemoaning this war generals and battle dates history. You wonder at how much death this place has seen, how many lives the city has birthed and eaten, hungry mother staving off starvation.

We all write our stories on other people's bones. Of course the greatest cities would leave the greatest scars. And what did you come here looking for anyway?

[Hello Momento Mori city. I see you. I see your rooftops straining to **** stars. Do you mourn for your dead? Are they heavy in your belly? Are you going to eat me, too?]

But now, if you drag your little mind back from the immensities, everything around you is alive. Everyone is dancing, happy to be caught in her belly. Or her womb. Not one of you knows which, but there you are. In the courtyard, the small, steady figure of Freddie Stitz brings a lit cigarette to his lips and smiles up at you in the window.

Wipe that toothpaste off your face, you look ridiculous. Go back to bed.