My ****** bandages
cover the wound,
my imaginary band
is playing top of the roof.

Take
my
number,
take
my
victim
card,
victim
scarred,

singing
is
hard.

Standing center,
rage of frost
flooding
through arteries
to fingertips,
icicles dangling
from my ankles,
bass guy from the unnamed
session band cleared his throat,
looked over to the guitar man,
he was looking down.
I was dying with a flower in my hand,
making monuments out of the audience.

To the left of me was an angel
smiling,
drawing ***** on dollar bills,
stuffing them into the pants
of whoever passed by;
some feinted modesty
but most implored,
writhing,
******* themselves
crying "more, more more!"
To the right of me a
cricket heehawed-
involuntary- 
and played a clown;
there were two psychologists,
one ripped off his clothes,
took fighting stance,
beating his chest and howling,
eyes glowing toxic green as his
colleague got on hands
and knees,
held a stethoscope
to the puddle of *****
accumulating beneath him,
brow creased,
listening intently.

And yes, I finished your manuscript,
under duress I guess.
I felt like I'd perfect the phrases
in the only ways that I knew how.

By clenching curses into my teeth,
allowing the howling soul
to disengage and repeat itself,
completing that boundless,
ever restless, and eternal process.

My ****** bandages cover the wounds,
my imaginary band is much

cooler than you.

It's nothing.

It's nothing
that you'd be into.

Let's just,
pretend that we know there is a difference
     between our diamond truths and our slip of the tongue white lies
Our feigned porcelain skin we stitch to perfect ourselves
     begins to grow brittle, contorted by a breath of acid (truth or lie.)
Lies,
they've decide they love you "till death do you part"
     they can lurk within every awkward silence, so they can whittle their deceit
They wait behind doors, keep themselves hidden between cracks
     striking with their nails, they crawl towards light from under streets
Truths,
they will forever burn and scald our perfect and phony milk skins
     they tease our tongues, melt and scorch our falsely laden lips
Trickling onto chins like thickly fraught syrup made of gore
     they try to keep us from sharing, never will they let secrets slip (small or large)
Lies,
with an amiable but devilish grin they nip, splintering pounds of flesh
     they have eyes that visualize the world as a rotten corpse that needs a bite
They catch their nails upon our spines, digging in, pressuring pain until
     they can sneak into our pores, to feed their mirrored deceit into our kind
Truths,
always have their ways of keeping us "honest" to the gut wrenching core
      They fold our eyes inside one another, blinding us from reality and what really is
Crisp, kind ,and clean, they keep us frozen to how others may 'truly' feel
     they are making us diamonds and ice, frosting over the human beating heart (the both are painful)
Itty bitty,
little white lies, will always be living, alive with the holes of truth
     these truths, will still leave a faint trace of acid upon our tongues  
So, shall we continue on our journey, and pretend there's still a difference
     between our truth's and lies?

Hiding my feelings is a craft I have mastered
Steering my emotions to make people believe what they are ready to assume
Concealing even the most basic instincts
Convincing myself it’s for the best
But when no one gets to know who you really are
Life can get awfully lonely
I’m going insane trying to maintain
The sideshow distracting people from seeing myself

How disgusting is this World we live in?
Because I know I am not the only person
Keeping their thoughts from the surface
I am not dark and twisted
I am just a person looking for love
From someone who loves me back
And I don’t want people to hoot and holler for me
I’m perfectly happy with no one giving a ****
Just don’t bring your picket signs into my personal life
Because I don’t protest your love for another
I’m not attempting to do anything radical
I’m not even trying to change the World
I just want to love a man
And not be ashamed to say it

I tried writing you a letter the first of May but my heart shot my hand with a silver bullet.

I tried dancing in your dreams but the sunrise stole you away.

I poisoned your cup with my tears but in your smile they dissolved.

I tried walking into your presence but my head crippled this body.

I tried.
To stop.
Trying.

Now how do I nurse these wounds?

Let me die
not because of hunger
and thirst,
but of missing you
that would only
make me sick.

In the end they're just men; they're not the products of a Disney dreamer's imagination.

And I'm a three-beer girl with tattoos, trust issues, and a heart of gold.