cold
finally dark, damp
cold
eating at my bones
spearing my nerves
was I forged in
a forst draped with snow?
why does the frost
call me?
I long to be covered
suffocated with freezing hands
returned to
the hardened ground
a land covered
in ice

I will be drunk in a few minutes.
It's only noon.
Just the perfect time to throw
Everything up
And out the window again.
The river of blood
From my thighs to the tile
Runs a mere .13% BAC.

When the sun rises over the mountains,
the air is still cool,
                   meaning that by the end of the day,
                                          when the sun has crossed
                         the main ridge and gives light to
                                    the other side the air is hot
                                                             ­    and dry.
                   This means that trees growing on the
                                         northeast face of any given
                         mountains flourish, while the southwest face
                                                        is generally left barren-

              there are, however, always a few brave
                                    tufts of foliage
                         who dare to challenge the
                                                       infernal heat
                                        and survive.

                                                       ­                                      so too,
                                                            ­                        with people.

I hate getting the shivers.
You give me them, but I love you.

I hate getting butterflies.
You give me them, but I love you.

I love getting told "I love you."
You never say that to me, and I hate that.

I watch you tend to your eyebrows
in your childhood mirror;
your parent's showroom.
You're not dressed yet.
I fix your necklace, breathe in deep
to smell your perfume.

You once told that settling down
is a kind of fatal error;
papering the walls to your tomb.
I'm staring at clouds,
your eyes are wet.
It's the coming of sleep,
shaped like a mushroom.