I hope you believe me when my I tell you my body is composed of more than a skin and bone frame.
My body is a picture book of times stained to me like tattoos of memories unable to be washed off.
If you stare closely enough my purple knuckles tell a story of walls caving in on days I can't remember.
My fingers are a light shade of skin because they have traced bodies who's pigment fell in love with my hands.
My palms are empty from receiving and giving a little more than I should of let go; some things I should of clutched onto for longer.
My arms are made of clenched embrace and have a scent of regret laced from wrist to elbow.
My shoulders hold individual carvings of finger nails and teeth marks from more than one individual night.
My lips are a discolored red from every poison stained mouth in which they've met.
My neck is a canvas of rough hands, ropes not tied tight enough and purple stains of affection from those who have lied about loving me,
and my eyes have turned grey from staring for too long into the forests and oceans they've met at three in the morning in the caves of unfamiliar faces.
So if you happen to walk into my room, don't be alarmed by the smell of apathy. Don't concern yourself about the bottles buried and broken under mounds of clothes that reek of Marlboros. Don't turn the light on, and don't open the curtains.
I have lived long enough, my body will tell you the story.
But before you read it, please trust me when I say "there is more to me than this."

For ramblings, for a few toasts, taken from this and that, I do not pretend to be some sort of an original, I'm the muskrat, the pack rat who remembers just about everything, don't be so confident I won't steal from you, poor dear thing, I'm glossy and fresh and violent when necessary, contemplated evil, however sided with jesus for irony, follow for baby steps, inches and millimeters, confusion over systems, systems interacting, my fascination with inter-workings and word play, please, take a consideration.  Let yourself take a whiff of wide, whistling rings of time, leveraged by power from the gut, from a bowel movement, for me, often quite pleasant!  

Healthy and full-hearted, hacking at pretentions, though pretentious myself, making up new words, questioning the ones they keep making up, for their little webster, webster had a baby with google and their going to come out with wooble which wobbles on a stick that is sanity, there isn't a reason for your searches, misgivings, triumphs!!! no you flea, check the weather and then check back in with me

follow for diddies, I've done them all, song the senses pleasing themselves, you see, I've read too much Nietzsche, and philosophy is for the few though it influences the many, though they don't know it it crawls under their skin as a parasite disguised as aroma therapy, no, more like a prickly pine cone that pretends its harvesting majesty, philosophy!  BAH!  tyranny, majority, minority, factions, interactions, blah blah blah

I can be amusing, amusing in the sense of, forget where you are for a little while, that is my objective, to amuse, and while questions of power are more easily polarized, amusement is more chaotic, grounded in taste which is brought on by surplus, trust me I'm just getting started

follow for a friend, or foe, I like a challenge

signed,

Muskrat

I woke up with my arms boa constricted around my pillow,
Superstition says that it means you miss someone.
For six weeks it's been about the distance of the speed of light for us.
When we are far away with the switch turned off we worry,
Or we are scared,
Something is just out of place.
When we are with eachother,
The switch turns on and feelings are there instantly.
Ever since I've been suction cupped to my parents rules,
I've stopped walking over to your house.
It's haulted me from being myself.
You say you have patience?
I hate to be testing it,
But let's wait these restrictions out.