he liked to count his ribs
( 1 2 3 4 ...)
and brush his nails against his collarbones
(so prominent...)
his palms cupped his knobby elbows
(years to perfect...)
and the sun shone between his thighs
(lighting up his world...)

his body was so very
     a l i v e
his heart beat in
   o v e r t i m e
meanwhile, his eyes were
     d e a d .

she missed the red hot trails
covering her thighs and bones.

they were her  a r t w o r k .

I drag my nails down my thighs
creating furious jagged lines
surrounded by cloudy milk white.

it stings less than the sadness I feel.

at night the insomniacs come out to play

they grab fistfulls of their hair and howl at the moon.

she would pull her hair
mouthing silent screams
of anger
pain
frustration
guilt.
the tears would be coming too fast
and she would be choking
on her own saliva.

she was a frozen child
for all eternity.

her bones were strong
her skin still soft
her hair always silky

even though she was six feet underground.

writing a poem
is like
setting yourself
on fire.