the amount of flames and gems you are absorbing,
you smile like you aren't afraid of anything
you bloom in the shadow of the sun you receive
the only flower in the garden, I believe

you hold a flag of your own
strong combination of colors to be shown
a woman of an island
a woman of the cave
even ghosts are shaking, trembling,
for being totally brave

made of wood from trees for creating fires and watching on forest
made of rock for building fortress
made of city lights, a never ending light
made of magnet, attracting everyone so tight, intimidating at first sight
made of paintings by soul, crafted
a dauntless stone hearted

60 Seconds of Anger is
60 Seconds of Happiness
you've stolen from yourself.

Coming home from a fair,
cusped between your lap
a globe of darting eyes,
your hands rested atop
the thin film of a world
as you endlessly peer in.
Are you scrying over
your future career?

Here a tungsten bulbous
body, a chunk of flame,
swills itself in spins
and mindless dances,
as you think you could
be so careless like them
to live hazily in a framed
bubble of treasured youth,

fed by some divine fate
looking over you. Golden
scales make your skin,
binds you as if you were
a chocolate in a wrapper
for people to circus over–
every flicker being edible.
Or maybe you're like

those tinned peach slices,
posing in a cage for all  
as a marvel to feast with
until you end up rotting,
there in your tomb-space,
muttering an open mouth,
“help me” before they serve
you up on a silver-lined dish.

I assure you, you'll forget
these childish thoughts
of aspirations and dreams
sooner than you think:
no matter how much
you think they want you,
I'll bet they'll let yourself
drown in coming weeks.

I have this friend who lives in between my lungs
and decides to whom and how I show expression.
As my breaths grew larger, the space for her shrunk,
so she moved away.
She waits upon my sleeves preparing itself to pounce
unto the sleeves of another.
She attempts to jump but those people who have the nicest and thickest sleeves
always walk away watching as she falls to the ground and shatters.
She is too dependent. I must teach her to love herself;
she does not see the beautiful things she already has.
Those people with other long sleeves have their own problems,
they can’t handle her's.
She is too gullible.
I feel pity for her, for she will never be loved.

and now that i can no longer stand myself, i find solace in you.

dark eyes and dark hair and long legs and artists hands, all pale skin and a lanky figure stretched across my couch, gesturing and laughing and resting a cold arm across my shoulders.

tips of fingers tracing across my own flesh like slim ice cubes, soothing and tickling at once, and my pulse finally slows and i get lost in someone else for awhile.

you plan to get high on easter and nearly every other day, you rarely speak but let soft touches and tight hugs convey what you can't say.

you told me you had never loved anyone and may never love anyone, and your favorite memory is of a cat you had as a child.

you smiled, but your eyes were black holes.

I'm sick of this.
The constant numb,
the want to devour every blazing sunrise just to feel.
The need to claw my way from my marrow
and escape this old cage of bones.
The rotting happiness and cracked heartstrings.
I'm sick of myself.