the devil dances with me at night.
he makes love with prose  
and by morning he will not have remembered what he said.
before sunrise,
he falls asleep and i am left with unsaid words.

willingly, ive become his.

i believe that you are too chaotic for me
     but my angels are
      screaming for salvation.

you are my escape under the moon
and a deal with the devil has made
        everything all right.

strands of my hair
       tangle around your fingers.
you're pulling on the strings
                    of my mind.

so delicate
with your touch.

        it reminds me of
sunday mornings
making love.

you do not say goodnight to me anymore
  and because of that my nights do not end.
  my days do not begin until i pretend to forget
and i will fall asleep hoping that
you
did
not say goodnight

to someone else.

you know two months ago i was still trying to make these rhyme and now i'm using a scalpel just to extract the words from my lungs, fumbling and failing to fit them together on the page, wondering if writing is killing me or keeping me sane, fitting thoughts into so-called poetry almost as easily as the rings i fit on each finger before i leave for the party i'm not wanted at. i could keep drafting these and waiting a day to publish each or i could accept the fact that my habits and realities will never coincide with the apathy they hope to see in me (even though really they hope i'm never wanted because then i'm a threat, or a tease) and while i may never be self-aware enough to cease i see enough of me in your eyes to know i shouldn't care anymore what you think of me.