Pure love
and hate
as weapons.

Reminiscing of the wife that drowned in the oven.

Experimentation on ourselves is our only identity.

So she cut herself open and pinned back the folds
to go over the formaldehyde
with her eyes closed
and made herself a body without organs.

And when she choked

she dreamt of being on a plane.

Are you a master?
Are you a mess?
Are you a lover?
Are you a test?
Are you a past?
Are you impressed?

Did you get your wish?

I felt nothing when you kissed me.

Only your paper lips
moist with words you said to get me here.

But it's just the words I want
and all the rest feels like chalkboard dust on my hands.

I remember what this excitement was
like the memory of grabbing a sparkler that just went out.

Some days we are passive,
but nighttime must be filled with kinetic terror.

Given or gotten,
like a rash.

It is how we sleep
or don't.

We are learning to make fire.

It's always the moment just before the gunshot.

Why do I remember it as summer all the time, then?

They gaze at me and see a chainsaw ****** just before it happened.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.

It looked as perfect as a watch,
but twice as lively.
Just as little
with little hands.

The way it smiled was gorgeous
and made me understand why my mother called me that.

Something to fight for
Something to live for
Something to die for.

It had begun to take on a slow
aching, mile-long, groan --
one with a backup battery.

A kind of hysteria set inside of her and gave her venom.

She would destroy him
and everything in him
one way or another.