i can’t picture you i can only
feel your hot touch on my skin
bastardizing your voice in my head
begging myself to carve my heart for you
i know i will, just sleep next to me in the shed
just wake me up for morning honey

on you like a lotus flower!
blooming in my heart
this shirt is yours and it doesn't feel right, too tight, full of seams that cut your hurt body
"i feel like a kid"
well, you're not anymore!
i pull off the blue plaid so i can see you

how wonderful to have found someone kindred
I like to think of you in white, me in a prairie dress, us together eating strawberry pie under a red-hot moon
you'd laugh at me and hold my hand
fall asleep in the grass, content to rot or bloom

careful! if you've got it right it shouldn't be so hard to fit
I couldn't tell if you were lingering on my eyes because I was on yours
but you looked at me while I drifted asleep, and then I knew!

warm flannel like fire
icy gaze to ease hot touch
i melt in your hand

soft campfire mouth
have you been waiting for me?
trying to stretch time

hold my waist, eager
but not hasty. seconds pass
just like molasses

you make winter warm
you make rain come melt the snow
i like you in red

"someone you love can be so damaged!"
the human body is not sacred as we believe it to be. everything is a house for a soul! but flesh is warm and blood flows so we treat it as if it lives. it does not live. love, reason, sorrow live.
flesh is not sacred so much that it is protected, but it is not sinful and it is not a cage. we cremate the body - prepare it, manicure it, embalm it. the cynic says we do these things for the living, but it's not true.
we care about the dead because we can tell they are living somewhere outside themselves.
it's like making the bed, steaming the curtains of a room inhabited by some lover on an indefinite voyage.

blood will creep into the soft, cream cotton seams of my pinafore and it will never ever leave.
will they torture me first?
I don't think so.
does a killer hate or love their victim? is it the same?

i.
will you starve me? hit me? **** me? the answer is no because you sense that I am alive - you sense my warmth, what makes me move. I wonder how a killer feels life. does he feel it at all? what makes an animal deserving of life or not? does it need to speak or sing?
killers maybe are afraid of conscience and the power of the human mind. maybe they **** other deserving creatures because they hate the guilt we give them for wanting to hurt
or for being hateful.
I wonder who made them hate or why some of them cannot feel love anymore. it's romantic to think about saving a killer with love.
but we can't and we shouldn't think about it.

ii.
I wonder why I like to seek out things that disgust me, or if I like it at all. I heard someone say that if you believe you're worthless you'll work hard to make sure everyone else believes it too.