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.

When we have our late night talks
We seem to forget what's written on the clocks
We get consumed with the stories that we say
And we anticipate another talk later on some other day
At the peak of night when everyone is in a slumber
We pretend our problems seized to exist like an imaginary number
We talk about life and the lack of genuine souls
And how we live with people that are monsters and trolls
So life moves forward as we shift our gear
But never forget the late night talks we had our freshman year

In your very pure mouth ( god save it )
clanked metal mouthpiece
by cold water in a strange basement
or perhaps even less

Morning doves catapult
leukemia
Astro goth acid wars
White fire black ****** mania

Could we just kiss
right here this September
not have to wake up
or sleep ever again ?

My nail polish
peels
like wallpaper
on a dead house

and i suppose
thats
what i am
a dead house

decrepit and torn
broken
down and old
from 16 years

of broken mentality
***
******-manically wanted
Lips, Hips, thighs.

But what if thats
gone
and my wallpaper is
peeling like ripe fruit