They think I’m not like cellophane,
as much as I try to point it out.
I want them to find me,
when I’m coiled up on the floor,
something having seeped
from the paleness
wishing it was the unwrapping,
absolved of the hurt
but it’s just spit from my mouth
gifted to the watchful air.
See, why are your eyes elsewhere?
I put myself on show for you
and you walk away
as if nothing happened.

I’m pulling away
like a ripple in the sea
slowly disperses.
I’m missing so much,
there’s not much of a future here
except for with her.
The deadlines are heavy
but so is my heart
and I need to sail away.

To lower myself to their watch
with their black eyes,
knowing eyes,
would be bad on their part.
There's no love poems,
just eyes and lifeless bodies,
non feeling, not levitating
like you would think.
I moulded myself out of nothing,
they might use me
but I am their muse.
Their Medusa.

She took a dive
on a particularly lonely night.
It’s when women play.
Pristine girls who pick brains
dream of ******* in the rain,
wives in the same predicament,
sixty years with a man
go ferociously with the familiar.
The man was now like cadaver,
traces of him in her footsteps
though she had a woman’s tongue
on hers now and liked it.
Perhaps nights would never be
so lonely again.

I myself am vacant.
He is in it for the violence,
she is lazulite sea,
I still see his bullet wounds.
You know it’s sultry,
me finding my red refuge,
skin in blood satin
like live people will notice.
I plead to join them,
for the ripples of my dress
to be like the winds
killing jewels and men.
For I myself am vacant.

I see so many addictions,
special labels.
These clean surfaces
are getting old,
I want to be white dust
but I fall away
and you can clean me up
but I’ll still clutter
in my own little way.
The day is like a dream
except I don’t sleep.

When you think it is over
there’s a gushing light
and then it’s blue.
I can make out my clothes,
my covers in the shadow
but it’s dark and I
I just want it to be over.