I staggered through the desert, dressed
in brown rags,
ripped. I was surrounded by flies.
They picked at my sweaty forehead,
spoiled my food.
I had in an old wicker basket two crisp apples,
which are brown
now, thanks to those flies.
My feet are dry, cracked and ******,
not from flies—
from hot scorpions.
They hide under sand
and pick at my feet.
One day I left my house n’went for a walk; kicked open my front door
        walked over the old stone bridge over water bright and blue, for
        miles and miles,
on footpaths by little rivers, through mossy forests,
knee-deep in marshes,
hiking over rocky, cold mountains,
stammering across the plains.
I saw the desert:
punched me in the gut.
Beautiful,
I thought—
immortal.
A great tornado of sand
came whisking from the dunes. I checked
my watch: The glass was shattered. The hands were bent crooked.
I unstrapped
my watch and threw it
on the edge of the desert and
I sprinted toward the endless tan horizon, kicked off my rotten shoes
        to feel the hot sand between my toes and ran. I fell and fell asleep.

I was bored in my old, old house.
The floor was always swept to shine,
my bookcase:
big, glossy, oak monstrosity.
And no, I did not have a wife,
or children.
I lived in a sunny village,
paved with stone.
By the fountain, birds sang, merchants sold felt and mallets.
I’m too tired for explanations.
And besides,
there is no trick, I left to leave,
to run and jump and roll and howl.

I knew it would end,
like this or something similar.
I decided to
just lie down,
and the vultures came like a great black cloud to circle,
and the heat,
the headache,
my body buzzed cooled a dizzy, breaking feeling came and body was freed
        like ice smashing to shards . . . on desert floor, old rags drenched
        in sweat-body.
I open my eyes wide.
I keep them open.
Tears come to my eyes.
I let the sun blind me.
I turn over on my side and close my eyes, see red.
My eyelids are hot.
The vultures caw
and shriek like
squealing pigs.
I’m dizzy and my head feels thick.
The vultures will eat me,
rip my skin with beaks,
and the flies will buzz around me
until I’m bones, but
I came here just to come here,
and I lied here just to lie, and
I lived just to live,
so then I’ll die now just to die.

Most people have scars that run in
perfectly
              straight
                           lines
                     but
             mine
        are
hopelessly crooked
because
I hated myself too much
to be that careful

I hacked at the paper-white skin
that was my wrist
and drew
               thin
                      red
                           lines
that didn't seem to know
where they were going
or even where they wanted to go

Today
when I touch them
the pain is still
                        so
                            raw
­                        so
                  real
I can almost feel the tears
rushing down my face
and onto my arms,
mixing with the blood
trying in vain to heal me

When my arms were open
I didn't see blood
I saw
         hurt
                hopelessness
                               ­      fear
                                           insecurity
                               despair
                      doubt
              pain
       hate
anger
The pain is hidden
underneath the layers of skin
that rushed to cover the ones
that I had pierced through
but sometimes
I think
           it
              might
                         still
                                be
                        ­              there

Use your pen to be expressive
express yourself and be impressive
impress your will to be progressive
progress of the muse possessive

possessed by another expression
expressing myself is my obsession
obsessing over words in succession
succeeding is hopeful in every session

The great thing
is not having
a mind. Feelings:
oh, I have those; they
govern me. I have
a lord in heaven
called the sun, and open
for him, showing him
the fire of my own heart, fire
like his presence.
What could such glory be
if not a heart? Oh my brothers and sisters,
were you like me once, long ago,
before you were human? Did you
permit yourselves
to open once, who would never
open again? Because in truth
I am speaking now
the way you do. I speak
because I am shattered.

She has a tattoo on her left forearm. She gave it to herself when she was fifteen, with a pen and a needle in the back of her room…

                And I’d always thought that was pretty cool. It was just a little line, like a “z” or the trail of a honey bee, something from deep within a mind flowing with twisted fantasy, but I could never see that it was a “two”. Because we, the children of Ignorance and Bliss, are number two. And you, my dear friend, are number one, in both our minds and yours. So we lock ourselves behind closed doors and waste away doing chores that were yours, and lore of cut wrists or an air-tight noose for the gender I kiss is so cliché that you, in all your self-love and knowing when and how to turn push into shove, somehow missed that my wrists are scar free, and I love my sexuality, and my sole insecurity is that I am number two. To both me and you. And it doesn’t matter if you lead with your left or your right, if you flee or you fight, if you’re gay, straight, or bi, you’re a butterfly in my eyes, the thousand-mirrored eyes of a simple housefly that can’t even see the sky in which you preside through this opaquely glass ceiling…

                And that window of opportunity looks rather appealing, but I have this feeling it’s only reserved for those with pretty, powerful, or popular wings… and I am none of those things.

                And for once, I see that my story may never be quite as uplifting as I’d like to make it seem, because I’m quite keen to the fact that Act III will always end in tragedy. And those aren’t things I like to say, but to this day I pray that this grotesque display of shimmering wings and beautiful things would simply go away so I could say that a tattoo of the number two is something I will never do, but until that happens the concept rings true. Yet I’m told my wrists aren’t fit for a single number or slit.

                I have a long fuse, but it’s already been lit, so the next time you see fit to shoot ***** of spit or permit your self-love to turn push into shove, it may be my blood and ink that pools in the sink, mixing with my salty tears I’ve held through literally years of no self-love and knowing that the dove is you.

                And I am number two.

A swarm of horses sailed toward the sky
half in reverse of the ocean,
a heart that questioned the reflection of seaside.
Back in the south she melted bicycle gears to liquor
Quenching a million budding buoys becoming boys.
Inside her smile, a compartment of spit
beside the blinds sealed off to the color red.
In a room full of eardrums
a name like a knife,
rooting and sewing the ground of your yearning.
The moon shook you
As fast as headache turns to dust.
It hits harder then your hands,
softer then tears of antelope sliding down sails;
A reminder how you looked 
when you first caught my eye
Plastered on the tree of a chandelier
Hanging as high as suicide pastries
Under emerald flavored corneas.