touch me again, I
dar*e
you. I will string out your
crown-jewel insides and bite
off your hands  ~or would, if following through was a strength of mine-

Sounds of him moving on from downstairs, bludgeon me.

Today i will resolve my emotions for the men I've loved who are incapable of loving me. I will fill my throat with things that wish to stay there. The water will rush to greet me with infinite reassurances, engulfing my favorite secrets, kissing them in recognition, stroking me into peaceful slumber, lasting. Oh, lake, love, keep me into forever.

even
hold my hand in public but
said my name, first and middle, echoing it around our bed as if daring me to look him in the eyes. Swaddled me in beargolve spice, unstitched the painstakingly-put seams in my lungs while i slept, cut off fingertips once mine and rooted them to the fertile country of his gums.

I knew I'd never love him but
      tried to grab for the lining of his esophagus or the old-time winds in his eyes. I'd always miss, so I guess that makes me the lemon.

Last time I checked, there were arms attached to shoulders and teeth studded gums (yesterday). The sky was if one were to look ^up^, and, when passing food trucks in the alley, the nose would  envelop ***** scents with its own series of flares and snorts. Yesterday

I came across your bones in the backyard~ they'd been crusted over by small, cloud-shaped lichens. I fed them with holy water and met no response. The sky may have been purple but it probably wasn't ( I didn't look). With one deep sigh, I lobbed a femur to the neighbor's dog.

I've been eating zebra cakes. Partly for the taste [creamed-up skies, maybe a swan or two reflected in a lake] but also for the animal on the package with his confetti and rainbowed smiles. Four days till Good Friday, lord.

In eveningtime, I sit inside myself and bang on the cockleshell walls with my ribs. Given time, the vibrations start to numb-up the cells of my nerves and lose effect -anyways. Sleep is with a machine who touches me through perfectly oiled axles and aching laughters. He doesn't hear me when i tell him I don't want his incisions and leaves knives by my bed to desensitize any qualms.

Last weekend, I didn't go home with the pineapple boys. I climbed through arms and fingers and faces, but my lover (machine) had since ascended - I kept asking which of the walls i could follow to find him, but They laughed and told me i was blind.

Daisy boy, (rote eyes, hand-me-down lips)
you could
open your sugarsnake veins to me, polish my silverware,
outline my edges.* If you listen a bit harder than not at all,
there might be a cha
nce for us to paint our skin with sunrises or
make it to the movies.