miracles are a religious experience, Jesus turned wine
into water--maybe I can get intoxicated
enough to not notice the difference.

lips that were shaped by cupids
saints could worship
and god did I worship
them--
from afar.
What can I do when
bible verses sound like
poetry on her tongue?
What else can I do when
her hips are my steeple
and I can't sully them
with sin?
The lines on her hands are
my koran
and I was so scared to ruin them with
my ***** palms that she was gone
before I could prostrate myself
before her,
in devotion.

abandoned at the alter--
or just abandoned.
I have nothing to hold on to
except the tatters
of this deceased
laced satin, this crumpled
veil, covering hope and covering light.
one shoe, its matching partner had scuffs to
begin with--what a fraud.
white is supposed to be the color of new beginnings
and black is for funerals--
but I guess white is the new black,
I'm left to fend by myself, nothing
to celebrate--
the cake was too pretty to be eaten
anyway.

and don't you know it,
we're all in our wedding dresses,
looking abstractly at broken watches,
dust-filled corners,
waiting for the groom
that will never
come.

Frost
creeping along the window
pane
that trails along with spidery crystal
hands
and blooms on the glass the
same
way she captured my fascination
until
I realized that I was the glass and
she
aimed to smother, to obscure, all other
views.

I don't know
why
I keep writing about you when
all the words from your mouth
forsake my existence
with an empty
"hi" or a shallow "how are you?".

when i've exhausted all my resources
i find that the material that i
use for inspiration
is you--
nothing makes me angrier and
nothing makes me happier,
darling,
you're killing me
you're using my own words against me
you wrapped up your insanity and sent it
on express mail to my mind--
oh yes, you know you're killing em
and you're playing me--
i'm another domino, and you're the  rolling
dice ready to knock me down, you're the
wild Ace that's gonna blow apart my plans,
the chessboard is your plea for power
and you just took my queen--
you own all the real estate in monopoly of my heart
and
twister is not just for flexible bodies, but for how much i will end up
bending over backwards for you--
you know i haven't mastered my poker face and you're already have made
a full house in my bones.
Games, you act like there are no games, but
i know you're trying to break me
and the saddest part is...
i wouldn't mind
being a little bit broken
by you.

Love me for my destruction, for my mayhem --
after all, loving you isn't so much different,
I could have chosen cigarettes, smokey ashtrays over your
smokey eye make-up,
Or maybe alcohol, sip at lukewarm beer, and become embittered by how
your lips are stained elegantly wine,
and then again, I might've had the opportunity to inhale car exhaust
but your breath is much heavier than monoxide
and much more deadly--
turns out nuclear warfare is much more easily attainable by
your explosive needs
for genocide -- you love those broken hearts,
you little radioactive succubus.
Knives, I could have made love to a knife, but I guess your nails served the same purpose, you've left your mark, okay?
I have a target in the shape
of little crescent marks on my back from you and
people keep
staring.
And yes, I could've injected myself with something stronger like morphine, but
you're already running through my ******* veins --
I looked up "infatuation" in the dictionary but the words kept
blurring because all I could see was your blushing expression
when I used my fingertips like paintbrushes
on your cheekbones.

You're not just "beautiful".

No, I mean, yes, you are beautiful, but jesus, when I say "beautiful"
it's not beauty like perfect "golden, glowing, soft halo" or whatever the hell writers like to glorify about some strands on your head
or having a "radiant smile" or "blush of a fair maiden" or things that wouldn't even make a lick of sense
if not for
biological evolution, physical attraction and Shakespeare.

No it's beauty that your mind is radiant, it's a tragic galaxy that I want
nothing more than to live in
and your heart is beating and it continues to
and you continue to, even when
you feel defeated
because it's you and your mind battle
and you scream out in
every way possible, your spirit and voice is  an orchestra that resonates somewhere in between my ribcage and my lungs and the words
the very words you use,
doesn't that tell more about you than
how "skinny your thighs are"
or how your "eyes glisten in the moonlight"?
Doesn't that tell me more than your "curving nose"or the "sway of the hips"?

No I'm not going to ******* love you for your "porcelain skin" and the
stupid "contours of your spine", I won't worship you like a poet --
I'm not going to praise your "romanticizing self-destruction",
which is so over used,--
can't you understand, beauty is not the face you wear but
the beauty that rakes itself over coals,
the sacrifices you make and the passions you care for,
the darkest secrets that you harbor
at any given midnight, and
even the way you like your ******* tea in the morning.

So when I say you're "beautiful", just know I'm not a poet.

He's concrete and
I'd love to be sidewalk chalk --
wash me away with rain,
but first let me lay a brief mark of my own
on all of his sidewalk cracks and all of his
broken pieces, the little slabs and pebbles that
weathered off from storms -- let me spill drawings there
with neon bright color
that are almost obscene in their hue.

Yes, I know it's temporary, we're temporary,
but maybe that's what makes it so
magnificent.

Drive me
to the
moon and back
and maybe we can
take a detour around

the big dipper
and get lost in {the}

s         p      a        c           e

between us...

She's every thought you ever shunned out of horrid curiosity, every flower that you couldn't bear to pick up because you were unsure if it had thorns, and every book
you've ever wanted to live in
bathe in ink and paper and drown in words
just like I want to drown in her mind
but I can barely skim the surface, barely
penetrate the depths,
and I guess my thoughts aren't heavy enough to carry me to the bottom.
Her fingers are cold and timid -- the way the first snowfall flurries down, unhurried and forlorn -- if they ever traced my skin I'd get more than frostbite, but
chills are okay as long as they stem from a place
that makes goosebumps a sign of anticipation
and not fear --
but I fear the way this makes me feel and I can feel so much already --
it bursts through my ribcage stronger than a heartbeat.
The eyes she has -- I can't tell if they're more full than mine, full of light and rapturing blue, or less full, empty like oblivion, and I just look and think and die and suddenly -- it's like she was never there,
she smiles and looks my way, but it's not a true smile,
not the kind so sweet that it will make your teeth ache,
but the kind of smile that's half-hearted like a shy blossom in spring or a polite stranger in an elevator on your way to a tenth floor cubicle, but ******, I'm not a stranger, --

I'm just trying to find the reason
why all of her "hello"s sound like goodbyes.

There's something beautiful
about the way people drink
their coffee in the morning,
with rumpled clothes
and bed head, and
even tired eyes.

In their gaze is slow long
sips of determination,
routine,
hope,
and
caffeine,
and
I can't help but wonder–
what battles
they're
preparing for.

The darkness was more your significant other
than I ever could be and it's easy to see why
since you spent much more time conversing with your father's pistol than you spent admiring the way my curves are shaped.

I've always wanted to ask you if that cough medicine tasted better than my skin, but you fell asleep before I could tell you. I wonder if that's why you would cradle your bottle of pills, the way I used to wish you'd cradle me.
Is it better company than my eyes?
Or is that where you go so you can't see my eyes?
I'm not the pinnacle of judgment -- you can't escape every pair of eyes that follow you.

I would knock on the window panes sometimes because there was no **** on your door and no doorbell to let you know I was there. You never really answered.

I became a shadow -- I thought you'd love me darker.

So I faded my smile and faded my jeans. My nails were black, I wore my lips dark maroon and I began to acquaint myself with your reaper on Friday nights when no one else was in the house. I never touched your pills though.

But I'm finding that even a shadow has nothing on your fondness for picking out your gravestone. Cigarette smoke fills your lungs better than my perfume and I can't compete with your harem of dark habits.

So I'm going out of town tonight with my lips colored like berries and I'd ask if you'd be the one to smudge it but
you're more into dying and less into a kiss of life.

If you ever go to war with me
just be aware that I'd
more likely run away
than confront my fears,
my anger,
or fight
{in any case, I would direct it on myself}.
I'm embittered by too much fighting,
I've been a veteran of too much
Tragedy.

So when you start a war,
please do not use bullet-coated words,
or arrows of logic,
or cold stone truths.

Only, look me in the eye,
smother me in love,
**** me with kindness,
And I will surrender
gladly.