1 shot
I remember the way you looked at me,
the way your eyes undressed my soul
exposing all of me.
i hated that.



2 shots
i remember my heart skipped a beat
at the touch of your hand,
our sweaty palms refused to part.
i thought i hate that.



3 shots
i remember the wetness of your kiss,
how your lips on mine
they tasted of cigarette.
i try to hate that.



4 shots
i remember your body on mine,
the way we intertwine.
you scent all over me
i couldn't hate that.



5 shots
i remember it all
the vision bright in my mind.
this isn't what shots do, right?

6 shots
maybe it'll take a lot more to forget.

He asks her to write a song for him,
She composes for him, her poetry...
                                                      ­  
                                                        He asks her to tell him a bed-time story
                                                        Sh­e lulls him with her poetry...

He asks her to sing a song for him,
She recites to him her poetry...

                                                     ­            He asks her to dance with him,
                                                            ­   She moves him with her poetry...
                                                  
He asks her, to be his girl.
She smiles, *and gives him her poetry...

Time wasn’t very kind to us
It brought us together
Gave us a lil bit of itself
And then left.

Left us miles apart
Left us with lonely nights
Left us with a void that slowly swallow the little love we had.

But you were not very kind too
Time has already done its damage
And you decided it wasn’t enough
So you left too

Left me with poison to my heart
Left me gasping for cure that’s your affection.
Left me dying.

I’ve tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
“you can’t wear red lipstick”
made me believe
I never wanted to in the first place.

for every time instead
I’ve stained my lips with cherries
learning how to tie the stems
so I can slip forget-me-knots
to the back of your throat—
do you feel my restriction now?

the razors that fly off my tongue
perk thorns on my skin,
another down stroke on my wrist
will teach me that
you were right,
shyness is a virtue.

no need to speak,
go spend one hundred dollars
and some percent for tax
to cover up,
even though I’m sure your mother told you
that cotton stains.

so make it black.
get your hair stuck
in the zipper of that sundress
and pray as you pull it out
that it will lose its pigmentation
in the process
mark a down stroke
for killing two flowers
for one bouquet.

hold it
close your eyes and throw it back,
I know we shouldn’t be wearing white anyway
but tradition can take a lot out of you
like what you really think—
don’t say **** in public.

instead drag your first impressions
all the way to the altar
and dress in your Sunday best
a flower on your lapel
clear on your lips
a stroke for the neat decline
of the son

I tattooed a line across
the veins of my wrist
and marked a down stroke
for every time
my image
was my fault.