i forget what happened next:
i fell asleep and woke up to them also waking up.
the pillows were sandalwood,
and the covers were of sweat,
the carpet was a friend i lost,
and the doorway was my pet.

i fell in love again with a mouth
made out of agate, and a nose from
quartz. Saliva that is rose scented,
and pleasant non-newtonian skin.
We ate rocks on beaches made of
linen, and skies crocheted of barley.
I whispered with the help of a bird
whose feathers were made of petals
and feet made of stone: I hate to be
alone.

Kindly disappear if you care
about the pristine status of the grass/wood
that you refuse to walk on.
Only suns should sparkle.

She pressed blue flowers,
She lived for love,
and smelled of emerald roses.

I like the way I hate the Boston metro subway train.
It's actually called The T, I think short for train, but
I know it doesn't matter much to me anyway. I like the way that
subway train sounds: The Screech, The Dust, The
"HEY! Do not touch my ****!" The question:
"How could they possibly have put another advertisement up there?"
There's a person at the counter saying "ma'am, your ticket didn't go through" and there is a baby crying
and someone else who's rich and
probably, they're whining.
There's a person reading something and I crane my head to look
and I'm disappointed it's just another stupid John Grisham book. It's all the same:
the way I like to hate the Boston metro subway train.

Love and power.
Bodies materialized.
Bodies that matter.
Pariah.

Pariah, on the subway train.
Pariah, speaks in her ugly name.
She is power: Pariah.

She is love.
Pariah.
She is power.
Pariah.
She is this:
Matter.

When I used to fall in love with rocks I
admired their smooth and jagged cuts.
The way they stuck up from their earthly ruts
or how they rolled evenly inside of caky sand.
Rocks were really my only love life plans.

Yet always still a rock.
And always from the earth, the rock will
form from violence into chalk.
When I used to fervor rocks

I would notice with great care
the way they curved and bent, allowing me to stare.
Indeed, I feel deeply in despair for my romantic love affair
with the always quiet rock
who would always fill me with hours of endless empty talk.

And after some years of this chatter and also through
witnessing the secret
violence of a smooth and steady stone
against soft and brittle human bones
I agreed that I would no longer fall in love with any type of rock.

The conclusion is now that
I no longer fall in love with any type of rock: a stone.

The first time I had *** I was wearing a pair
of army green stretchy pants.

I accept
that they were probably not made with my body in mind:
The army green legging pattern or design.
But I have rather wide hips and
somewhat larger thighs,
so I had no choice but to go up in a size.

The leggings, of course,
were not on during the process of the act, but
worn at the beginning, as I lifted my back,
allowing for a quick peel
down the unshaven length of my legs, the leggings indeed
fell smoothly away.
At least for a little while anyways.
They got to my ankles then,
the ripples of fabric slowly unfolding, smoothly rolling,
like frosting from a baker’s hand, openly curling.

Then stopped with a peel of bludgeoned laughs
as I lay not vertical, but at some kind of acute angle, hanging nearly
precariously from my small and dainty ankles.
Then I wondered, how many drafts?
How many moments of pondered artifacts that
would eventually come down to a
pair of army green virginity pants.
The anticipation: At last!
It was interrupted by a peel of softly bludgeoned laughs.

I welcome this fact,
taking a moment to pause
and listen to the noise of the fabric’s applause
as it clung to its last moments attached to my thick and heavy rods.
Stretched in spandex I felt them let loose, feeling my feet
curl up snuggly around you.

I came to decide that I love my virginity pride and
the pants that will wrap neatly around my open and gaping
thighs.
To me, it doesn’t even matter that you never said
Goodbye.