There are things withered up inside of me.
Dehydrated memories
Sit like apples under a tree,
And not even the wild things
Would touch them.
They dried up slowly,
Not from the sun in the sky,
But because of the season without rain.
And then the maggots came.

There are things withered up inside of me.
And I am sitting
Under the tree from which the apples fell.
And I am drying up slowly.
But not because of the sun in the sky,
Or the season without rain,
But because I refused to eat the apples.
And ate the maggots instead.

Do your scars ever insist
That you touch them?
Do they hover above your skin,
Just so you'll scratch them?
Like maggots
Crawling over a carcass
Wounds that will never close
The burrowing mouths
Leave permanent trails
Because the flesh is dead.
So contrasting,
The pink of healing
That was once an angry scab.
But you scratched at that, too,
Because it stuck to your body
Like some parasitic tick.
And I wonder now,
If the circles of scars
That trail down my forearm,
Are like a line of dark ants
That will follow me forever.
Or if in their ugly hatching,
I can see metamorphosis.
But in the corner of my mind,
I know
They will always follow.
And in the corner of my room,
I hear the buzzing
Of a fly.

A stupid boy who
reminds of the eighties;
He has gone away.

Not stupid at all.
But with him I felt something.
And we weren't on drugs.

He is beautiful,
I felt his voice when he spoke
And we didn't have ***.

I said, "I like you"
then he said, "I like you, too".
But it wasn't the same.

I made him breakfast
My heart was swollen tightly
Then he went away.

The hair that fell to my waist
Heavy like a curtain
And blonde
And parted on the side
That covered my bare *******
and got in the way of kissing
And It got stares
And It got petted
Like some fine horse
With some fine mane
A rare prize
And the drunk boy
Sitting next to me
That I didn't notice
Who was twirling it around his ***** finger
And that other man
That I didn't notice
Who became obsessed with It
His ***** fetish
And in the middle of the night
He did Those Things
So one day
I just cut It off
Above my shoulders
And everyone was sad
Why WHY why
Did you cut your hair?
But we still like It

So I just cut it off

Until it was above my ears
And I can see the disappointment
Of Everyone Else
Who doesn't understand
So sad
about It
And I smile.

Any reaching that is done
Is a groping fumble far from sun
Hours away in black hole memory
What's for hostage when you're the enemy?

Where are my clothes?
So ugly with sin.
How many hands,
have been on this skin?

Moaning like some sick animal
Chained to a porch begins to cannibal
All it is is ugly flesh
Whining pitifully with every breath

But the howling was always in its head
Put your clothes on,

You are far from dead.