in the dark
the sound of neighbors
miss Dark drinks oranges and peaches.
her struggle with a hot iron will end when the brim reaches the knee.
twisting naughty curls with her fingers
peaches floating. oranges flowing.
enjoying the solitude
always something's missing.
there is no thoughts in her head to arise today.
This verse is about nothing.

To be sure you’ve got everything you need.
Little fat ***** decorates her hair with flowers.
Little Miss Dark misses black.
It is way too shiny when she sleeps on the edge of her bed problems.
She covers herself with pillows and pills.
Gloomy days turned to be too light.
They’ve got nothing to be frustrated about.
they produce bunches of imaginary stings and sticks
to beat and hit and nail themselves to the floor.
Miss Dark got used to be too sad to be glad.
Buys cigarettes secretly and writes on covers of books
The parts of life that will never be revealed in any ever written story.
She collects tickets and failures.
Increase in number erases difference.
She is the one
Not trying to find something in common.
Lone. Separate.

He said “you’re beautiful inside”
What it supposed to mean?
I think I just can’t see those things
that he is tend to see.

Of course I cannot see them.
My eyes are tightly closed,
my eyes are covered with my forehead
that’s tensioned on my nose.

“You’re beautiful inside,
I’m gonna prove.
But you should calmly lie
and please don’t make a move.”

He doesn’t care about my voice,
the language that I spoke,
about my dress,
about my face
and feeling they evoke.

He said “you’re beautiful inside”,
and made three deepest cuts.
Now he can see what’s inside me:
my lungs, my spleen, my guts.

He put his hand beneath my heart,
his fingers slowly shrunk.
With other hand, so calmly,
he dug into my flank.

He does not care that I'm too heavy,
My vessels he likes more.
He said they’re cleaner than they could be.
The inner beauty of the sore.

My mind does not seem spoiled to him,
or crazy, weird or strange.
he said that nothing wrong with me
He wouldn’t let it change.

I told him I am dull.
There’s something he can find
cutting out my nerves.
I’d rather he was blind.

He doesn’t know what I
was doing all night long,
that I was drawing kidneys
with arteries beyond.

The only thing he does
is wash away my blood
from table and his shoes
to give another cut.

I’m paralyzed and sliced,
my skin is livor mortis.
Spread out on the table
small pieces of my cordis.

He does not think I stink.
For him I’m full of stories.
He’s making notes with knifes
He cuts away my worries.

He cuts hearts on my knees
Love letters made by stings.
With quiet me he’s playing
tic tac toe on my hips.

He has got to the heart of me,
studied my every cell.
disassembled and gathered back,
sewed neatly. He did that well.

He said “beautiful inside”
But nothing about the rest.
Thank you autopsist
You have seen in me only the best.

You know,
if you are in the darkness
long enough
items acquire
unusual form and content.
You know,
if you wake up in the dark,
it doesn’t become lighter
even in a half an hour,
even when the sun is high overhead.
I'm used to your silhouette in the dark.
Only the monitor and feeble light from the next room
illuminates your face.
I'm afraid when the light is up
I'll see how old you are,
how weak are your hands,
how fragile are your bones.
I'm afraid to be afraid to hurt you.
As if a light touch to the cheek
can break the heart.
We hide under the veil of darkness and drama
and you say, everything will be fine,
yet no one can see our faces.
You know,
when fall asleep under the neon lights,
it reminds of a pathologist’ table,
every night I am revealed
while I dream.
In the morning I am sewed neatly.
Just forget to remove the  tape out of my eyes.

15 minutes took me away to the forest,
Tied to a tree and left a glass of milk for me.
Civilization touches these places just to tell people the bad news.
My heavy boots still slip on the ice.
As well as those whose heels I am pursuing this cold morning.
Haste and noise to the right. Gray asphalt does not heat even at a speed of 150 kilometers per hour.
Colors do not encourage, even after they are washed and polished.
The snow and the silence to the left.
I twist my head to the left and right, but I do not know where to look.
Therefore lower my eyes  down and look at my hands.

Everyone dies in the end and there is nothing we can do about it.
Yes, we’re holding people’s life in our hands but it is just a pass that Life and Death do playing their game or maybe it is only their job.
We hold it until Death can take it and put into a garbage bag and
in the early morning wearing  a robe, yawning come on the porch, waiting for the garbage truck to pick up and take away all that rotting mess called humans.
No, we are not even holding life, but only fleetingly touch it with our pinky.
even if it was in our hands, it would just seep through our fingers like water or sand.
it is way too unstable. Any force of nature cannot make it durable.
any freezing or burning cannot make it stronger.
none of names or monuments are not able to hold the breath in the body.
Nothing can make Death not put that black bag on our head
and not tie it tightly that none of atom of our breath, not even a part of the molecule that comprises the scent of our decaying bodies is not leaked into the fresh air

Our love is just biological and physiological.
It is too many of prefixes.
I need less BIO-logy and more LOGICal.
When our bodies are moving together you bite my neck and I say “****, I hate this song”
We are not real.
Five minutes later you’ll be texting with someone else
And I’ll be occupying my new private room – kitchen.
we no longer hear each other, we just listen.
No longer see each other, just watch and look through.
All  that remains in common between us is only dishes
and then it was me who bought it.