Theres a pit in my stomach.
A Peach.
My skin is so soft.
Like a Peach.
I bruise.
Must be a Peach.
Sometimes I'm hard and bitter.
Wait to see, I'm as sweet as can be.
I/must/be/a/peach.

I wish I could soak my brain in narcotics.
Then maybe I could sleep at night.
Maybe if I pour Nyquil into my ears.
If I drill a hole in my skull and funnel down some Vicodin.
Some Ambien, Eszopiclone, Ramelteon, Triazolam, Zaleplon, Zolpidem salad.
And a bowl or two on the side.
But then I may never wake up.
And the sky looks too perfect in the morning to sleep forever.

I meticulously pick the cracked and peeling fingernail polish from my fingers.
Staring down.
Focusing on anything but your eyes.
The beating of your heart like a metronome,
setting the rhythm of the room.
You've whispered me your secrets, stumbled in love with my evasive glances, blotted out my smudges and redecorated them in your mind.
I am your thrift store find,
a treasure, nonetheless.
I put my head against your machine of a chest,
My mouth shape the empty words into something resembling truth.
My hungry soul is a picky starving child.
Not so innocent,
I greedily collect hearts in my hands and groan as they grow heavy, too afraid to give them back.
Yours is the freshest.
I am the one weathering your heart.
With my silence. / With my tears. / With my selfishly stolen kisses.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.
"you're beautiful, you have cute feet, and I love you."
As you slip a delicate silver shackle around my neck.
The tiny silver heart dangles above my own.
I want to tell you to run away, but my own fear of loneliness paralyzes my tongue.

All our pains and all our fears
drowned out with tastefully selected beers.
We dance and laugh to forget all night,
we stay up kissing until morning light.
You wake up gathering your things from the floor
your face now different
not like before.

New mantras yoked around their neck.
Songs of sorrow and embellishment.
Some with smoke filled mouths, twisting through their teeth just like their mothers warned and taught to chatter.
They gurgle and blow,
steamed tops.
Secretly afraid of the iron fist,
Fair weather anarchists.
One day domesticated, but not tonight.
Raging against the machine in the moonlight,
cocksure the sun would never rise.

You secretly slip away to meet this dark mystery by his car you've seen skid out of parking lots late nights.
His black hair veiling his pale body and dark face.
His skin is covered in drawings of words and creatures that torture him.
You jump into his small car as he nods his head towards you. Smoke pouring from his lips. Something is frightening in his eyes. But you obediently buckle your seat belt and take the blunt from his hands.