I looked in your eyes and they were moonlight,
piercing the darkness, unlike sunshine, unlike
the burning you feel when you get too close to something
fake. I looked into your moonlight eyes and I saw pools
of blue cascading like a waterfall over crystal, distorted shimmer.
It wasn't even like looking at eyes, it was just looking into something
I wanted to steal and lock away, in a corner of my closet
where no light could scratch.

Gloom rolled into town
like a caravan circus
vintage and ragged
rusty and golden
the metal tent reflected
a land before time
maybe from the old movies
when the elephants wore hats
still, and the women danced
long legged, **** and sweating
as their toes kicked up
leaving little to mystery.
The gloom has its trapeze highs
and it’s netted lows, a feeling
of falling through time,
through space, being caught
right before the big SPLAT.
The net between the gloom
and the bright lights
catches me like a spiders web,
totally and completely
but not enough to feel less lonely.
There is a tight rope of thought
instead of a train, in my brain,
i am constantly balancing,
a crowd of roaring people,
spitting people, animals
howling in the gloom
at me, laughing at me
throwing peanuts
at me
as i try to balance on the rope.

Mondays are a drain
they are dementors
they feel like an anvil
they taste like recovery
and exhaustion
like your neck isnt strong enough
and your brain is rebooting
i am constantly troubleshooting at life
looking for a solution
to make getting out of bed easier

I feel like a clown
makeup running down
my face, from the rain,
the pain of feeling clouds
blocking my sunshine dreams

I got a new desk today,
I thought "HEY!
if I get a new desk
I'll be able to fix this mess!"
I put together the desk,
it wasn't hard,
I didn't sweat.
I put it in my room
and I got upset
because despite the desk
being beautiful and tall
wooden and long
perfect for that corner in my room,
it was not big enough for the clutter
and the mess
and the stress
and all the books and the stuff
that I need around me.
So now I have a desk and my things
and we all float together in my solitude.

Its hard sometimes
to feel the lust.
To feel the genuine gaze of longing
from eyes that see passed flesh ripping pulls
and grasping fingers. Your nails
leave trails along thighs that disappear
into the hairs. Like rivers on a map
where streams are crossing
violently and parallel.

Why does the moon hum a warm tint
in the darkest, coldest, empty night?

The frosty walk home is lonelier with its glow.
I am devoured by the cold and the lack of sound.

My exhale, like a ghost, tries to find a way home also.

Magic spells, theres synth
in the air. Don’t you want to dance?
Dance to the keyboard spring,
with the flowers and the flags
blowing in the breeze, never ending.

My sister fell, at the neighborhood pool,
on the cement, instead of into opal water.
She said the **** on her knee
looked just like a maraschino cherry.
Red like a maraschino cherry,
or a clown's nose,
or like the fire
in the center of our planet.
The ****** **** dripped cherry juice
down her leg
in between her sun burnt toes,
evaporating off of the cement.
She reminded me of lava,
constantly bubbling
always moving
always destroying
without hesitation.
The reaper of flowers
and ice cream cones.
Red cheeks, red like Geryon.  
Purposefully confused
and always wondering.
I hope I can answer any questions
she has, when the need
to know evolves to thirst,
and the fears she has now
as a little lava girl
become fears that we all feel
as destroyers in our own lives,
wrecking everything,
reaping the flowers
that are growing
in the ashes of our youth.

I feel lonely often.
I feel like the tide pulling back,
on every single day,
that I don't get
a minute to myself.
I feel like the white rabbit,
the clock is always ticking
and my heart beats fast
tap
tap
tap
to the rhythm of aging.
The breathing of the anxious beast
holds me close to it's lungs
like chains on a captive.

We're turning the world
into a Frankenstein Earth.
We cannot exist, science
and nature, safely, healthily.
We cannot support our planet
and be there for it, with gentle hands
and the care we would, a dying bird
or a spider we do not want to crush.
The Earth wants blue skies, rain
and sunshine, it want's green fields
and animals roaming free, grazing
and ******* and dying in due time.
The Earth is dying inside out,
we are little minions of the fiends
harvesting the Earth.

The bridge between hell and home
its long, and always has no sun
the hell of looking down and the wind
the gravity pulls your gaze
there is a liar in the calm sounds
of the waves calling me to come to bed

skin the citrus off the husk
and stain your hands
with the tangy sap
with hands around my throat
let me **** the orange
off your bones
peel an orange for me
and i will never love you more
split it
half ways
like sticky stringy thighs
let me drown
on orange juice

In a winter reflection, through a cage of ice,
I watch a shadow of myself love you.
From a sunken place, I’m stuck,
Endlessly pacing within my head,
I’m stuck, a lonely, hungry tiger.
The coldness fills me slowly
as I watch you from my prison.
The bars to my cage pretend to bend,
but it is only a trick of the sun.
I refuse to leave the cage
even though I have the key,
for safety
for sanity
for selfishness
I swallow the key often.
The cage will melt eventually
so I will wait until then,
It is hard to hate for so long
in conditions like this
where every day the water freezes
and unfreezes and freezes.
It is hard to hate when her hands melt the ice.
Love freezes the pain and drips away everything else
Into the gutter, but the sun always falls, still.

You swore you felt the Earth quake
But I knew otherwise
The force was from the tectonic plates
Shifting within me, my marrow molding
over itself, pressuring the collision of us,
the snake pit that lived in the shadows
of my bones, under my skin, slithered
like a river running rapid, unstoppable.
I watched the drink you cradled like treasure
rise, attaching to your lips by osmosis,
you sipped and I watched the heartbeat
of your gulps, first slow then recklessly quick,
the waterfall from which you took your drink
rushed down, disappearing into the mystery
within you. I wanted more than anything
to be that drink, to wet your lips, to be
the beat that you were so thirsty for.
Somewhere else in the bar, a glass slipped
off its tray, shattered, and people screamed
and they laughed too, soaked whiskey jeans
trudged off to the bathroom looking for paper towels.
You didn’t flinch at the sound of the shatter,
you were off, staring into the void of it all,
and I stared off at the geometry of your jawline,
sharp as rain fall, your eyes glistened with the gloss
of happy, your lips parted to say something
but you turned to me and instead just gazed.
I felt love like the color red, burn in my stomach like a coal.

Sunday is for birds to sing
and to swing among vines of bedsheets,
for moving hair out of your eyes, to cry
in sadness and joy and feel the warmth of your body.
Sunday is for birds to sing
while we string ourselves into knots
and leave the windows open for spring
to carry the sounds of singing along

You take everything
she said,
everything.
I thought long and hard
about all the things I had
and all the things that
I can barely touch
and all the things that collect dust
and I thought about her fingers
reaching for things she thought
I held over her head
reaching up out of the waves
of the shadow her heart slept in.

There is a Cerberus in me,
chained, like a captive.
The breathing of the anxious beast,
it makes my head quake when I forget
about getting old or watching lovers die.
The three heads argue with themselves
in my stomach, rattling my bones,
pulling on the chains, trying to agree.
The more I sit still, the more it wants
me to just go and never stop,
to keep running and running
in three different directions,
against my instinct. Whenever I stop,
to catch my breath, I feel the teeth
ripping at anything that they can reach.
The beast that guards the gates of hell
has dug a hole inside my inhibitions.

Knock knock.
I heard it in my sleep,
in my head,
I heard the knocking
between the weather change,
between the fleeting cold mornings
and the calm of the sun on my afternoon skin.
I heard the knock of it all coming together,
the season, waking me from the nightmare.

we start the day again
as though sleep is just a memory,
the wheel keeps spinning

Has your blood ever boiled
and burned the handle of your sanity?

I want to break the tiny bones
in my fingers and crunch my hands
into crumples of blood and skin.
I want to break all of my possessions,
I want to shatter glass and crunch it
into tiny shards with my palms.
I want to cause a collision,
to run my car into another,
to watch matter bend and implode.
I want to hear the echo of inconvenience,
to discomfort and dishearten.
I want to set the world on fire
and to reciprocate the feeling of contempt
I hold with a tight grip.

It sounds like a pet shop
in my head, the twitching
tongues of birds, the spinning
of rodent’s wheels, the tap
of reptiles on the glass.
The animals never stop living
inside my head.
On some days it feels like chaos,
like they’re all running free,
no cages
no glass
running free inside my head
while the world burns inside it
never silent.

Here it comes again,
The feeling i had hoped i’d forget.
The hands in my brain, fingers twisting
pretzel knots out of memories,
squeezing out life juice and blood
like a butcher’s wash cloth.
I had really hoped i’d never feel
this feeling again, the feeling
of looking at something beautiful
from behind a glass.