Sometimes I'm not home
But I remain sat, snug between it's walls.
Sometimes I'm home,
Existing only as a body,
A spent bullet shell...
Empty, warped and scratched gold.
All of the time I'm at home,
Physically.
Yet, the wind traces it's fingers through my hair
Sending;
Shivers down my spine,
Sending;
My gaze to stars...
Peeking between cracks in the roof,
Sending;
My heart to a parallel beat...
And I am not there.

my body is ready
my body is ready
my body is ready
virginity ****** catch22
don't u know all the things I wanna do 2 u
my body is ready
can't contain my feminine energy
my body is ready
can't keep my eyes from twinkling
my body is ready
am I my body
my body is ready
feelings or purpose
my body is ready
soul power n pheromones
my body is ready
physics and laws of attraction
my body is ready
biological agenda
my body is ready
I don't even love myself
my body is ready
chakras aligned
my body is ready
but my mind is rarely on time

They kissed you with that mouth
Wrote books about you
Took pictures and hung them up for beer ads
For humans with high testosterone to ogle
While they ******* the top of a beer bottle
Like it will bring their fathers acceptance
Back into their eyes.
Your nine inched heels gave me whip lash
Your ½ inch eyelashes gave me heartburn
Your spit
Indigestion
Because they kissed you with that mouth.
And you still believe,

You asked for it

You still believed you were not worth getting out of the hood for
The hood
what good is the hood and the hood-rats

You ******* ***** in alleyways

All 10 of them lined up
said I might as well have the money upfront
If I'm gonna **** **** I'm getting paid for it

They bashed your head into concrete so hard.
You forgot how your mothers voice sounded like
Almost forgot how your uncles knuckles tasted like,
I don’t know your story
I don’t know your name
I don’t know you
I just know that your friend
And my friends
Last night
Came to the conclusion
That you were a ****
And you were asking for it
You asked for your head to be bashed into concrete
And hey maybe you did
Maybe you wanted something to hit you hard enough to make you forget
The hate inside
The misogyny you swallow
and wash down the drain
maybe you were there in front of 10 guys because you wanted to know what power felt like
what being wanted felt like
because you thought you were worth the money
but they didn't
because maybe that's what you asked for
because maybe your mother taught you to get high and surrender with glazed eyes
rather then take your higheels off and fight

because your laughter sounds more broken than you do
because your eyes hold remnants of your skull
because you remember the taste of your blood too keenly
because my friends, my female friends who are not evil or sexist

my male friends the protector of women
came to an agreement
you asked for it
put yourself in the position to
smell the inside of your brain
because your blood meant power
because finishing them off
meant swallowing or bleeding
and you did some of both because
maybe you chose survival
because maybe you came in kicking naked and maybe thats how you wanna go out with
another mans hands down your throat
some to aid air some
to constrict

weather you bleed or swallow you are only
emptying out

and I tried to explain that to your friend and my friends but
there is so much anger about what happend to you
and none of it is directed at the ten faceless penises.

Because you were once a chandelier of candles
And now you are a faceless light bulb hung on the moldy hotel building
Because your **** gives you free crack and
My friends have disgust on their faces
And I feel
Pity

I was going to write a poem today,
About love and loss,
Sin and gin,
But the motion was buried
By the question of how to drown myself
In the puddles outside my window.

Some are almost shattered.

They’re pieces,       scratching         tearing  grinding 

     wearing 
down.
You can tell something       isn't
       right.


Like a ceramic         vase         dragged      across                 gravel. 


Their moods are brief flashes 
of—           mommy's hugs

and strangers—kicking the **** 
      out  of     their bowels. 


They aren't even w  h  o  l   e,

merely p i e c e s         of ceramic and clay.

Some are smooth, held in a gentle hand.


But others are jagged reminders of being hurled into a wall.


I often wonder if it's my responsibility to mend these pieces,
or just let them be
as I've grown to admire the individuality
of these shattered personalities.

Every morning I rise
6 am, almost like my body
Was in tune with the sun
No words said, just blinks and slow Movements
As I log the smell of my breath
In and out of memory
Soggy blunts, cheerios,  and cigarette Smoke
Ironically these things seem
Fresh
To me
I Adjust to the beams
Light brakes
shadows casted by the blinds
A shattered portrait of my face
Reflects off my palmed screen
Followed by a bird in flight
This is the first time
I'm reminded of you.

I bleed letters, breathe words--
lived in utero with a pen.
Creative gypsies & outcasts
are brethren.
I will die
for their plaid sky brushstrokes
&/or verbal slip-bang poetry.
That's my religion.

Self-doubt is my sin.
I have a habit of overstaying my welcome,
another is coming on a little strong.

Communication is my mantra,
my philosophy is intelectual stimulation.  

Putting up with "****"
    is second nature.
Spit in my face.
         Call me names.
   Don't give me that promotion.
I'll survive--
       probably even laugh about it later...

But...
take advantage of me--
or those I hold close--
     if I even see a glint
     of the knife
            you're going to put in my back
I promise--
    I promise
the pain you will feel
        leaves a scar much worse
than whatever could happen to me.