I scraped the skin from the mannequin I made of myself.
Beginning to graft it back onto my slippery insides.
Numb and dry,
While everyone politely admired my outsides,
carefully poised behind the glass of my storefront window.
Reaaranged and redisplayed to fit the scene and season.
But I dumped my bucket of innards on my crusty bones and as my skin grabs hold-
It hurts like a sonuvabitch.
Have I died?!
And if I've died, who is this frankenstein rising up from inside?
Will she be kind to me?
Will she wash the matted dirt from my hair, and kiss the smelly flesh of the hands that put me back together?
Will she tell me goodmorning, and tuck me in safe at night?
Will she listen to my heartache when it's 3 AM and the rest of the world is in deep slumber, unaware of the pain of the observer?
Will she love me better than the one before?
Together we've cross stitched a body that looks like a girl we used to know-
So tender and red with a long way to go.
Her hand is left, my hand is right-
We grab tight,
fall to our knees,
and thank the GOD WITHIN
for bringing us back to life.

Lying beneath the stars longing to feel your honest heart beet.
Returning to the dirt we came from, I can feel your breath hot and sticky filling the gap between us.
Scrupulously steaming us vegetables.
I can't help but imagine biting into your savory peel.
Some say the skin is the most nutritious part.
I inhale the ripe droplets dewing across you,
and wonder what we'd look like mashed together.
Stuck in a blender.
Ripped apart and delicately reassembled.
And then I remember,
That we already were.

I've fiercely rejected the monotonous
monogamous
mainstream
madness,
for a forest of lovers.
I've asked for a bouquet of boys freshly cut beaming above my bedside table.
Spruced alongside sprinkles of sensual femininity offering scintillating chatter as I slip asleep.
As I am many galaxies in one girl,
giving myself can be quite gaudy;
One wooer would soon wither away under such wavering weathers.

If you feel lonely,
I was lonely too.
I long to know, you, pale cryptic thing, beyond my reach.
If only, I could breech-
space and time for some sliver of a moment-
to tell you-
I'm sorry.
You'll never know
that the sound your boiled blood makes reaches me-
I'm sorry.
Believe me, when I say,
I meant to build something to keep us safe,
together.
But the tempest was too strong.
And my will to weak.
And I can't help but linger of your graceful physique.
I mourn
for my shards that came smashing through your pastel stained windows,
tumbling onto your nicely kept white sheets.
A home made of skin,
so delicately adorned.
I think you're tasteful.
I think you're tastey.
I think you're.
I think you.
I think.
I.
What it all boils down to.

You are the East, and Juliet is the sunrise.
My hedonism tangles the 3 of us in demise-
I despise-
Myself for it.
I long to be punched by your

"soft little fists"

as he once said.

I long to know.
I long too.
I long.
I.

I am thankful for the way his soul sits on my lips.
It lingers there like sweet citrus on a hot sticky florida day.
Tangy and reminiscent like the joy of youth, my face twists in sweet and sour pleasure.  
He reminds me I don't need to carry the load of the past alone,
as he picks up my basket of oranges, sifting through the rotten ones, biting into the saccharine remains of who I used to be, while planting seeds and whispering to me all I will become.
The future never tasted so ripe.

Let me love you! Let me delicately ****** you into enlightenment.
I promise you'll like the way the lights lick my jaw line,
speaking- sharp and pointed.
BANG BANG BANG-
I knock harder at the pearly gates of Hell.
I WANT THE WORLD TO KNOW MY TRUTHS!
What truths?
The truths that tumble from your mouth half thought through?
The truths that are untouched, unused, turned to dust, and kicked up by your own dumb shoes?

If I let my eyes glaze over just right, I get a nice film quality picture.
I hover out of my body- like a mad director, evaluating what we've got, I snip the film strips from my memory, franticaly re-piecing together the story.
I didn't get the shots I wanted.
I feel hollow and sick.
Playing and re-playing the scenes where it all went to the dregs.
Maybe if I were paying closer attention- I could have gotten it right.
I could've rearranged the shot list- so "major life accident" was at the end of the movie- not the beginning.  

Sorting through what we're left with,
I hear no mellow music scoring my mothers choked sobs.
No soft glow to hide the harsh lines of grief described on her face.
The bottles of liquor weren't props.
And when the sound of silence rendered her breathless-
no one was there to yell "CUT"!
I grit my teeth and hold back my seething anger at such a **** writer.

This is not a sci-fi film.
No alien plummets to earth eager to turn back the sands of time because there was a fluke in the configubobulator.

Not a romantic comedy,
where his smashed body miraculously recovers and my mother, him, and all the kids pursue their dreams as a family of comics on the road- The jackson 5 of stand up!

No inspiring action film where the government tests a bionic exoskeleton, connects it to his brains nervous system, and after wild success he dedicates his life to intergalactic vigilante work, as well as a remaining a reliable family man.

There's no sending it back for re-writes.

There is no 1 hero to lean on.
No villain to hate.
Only us.
I hope one day, it's enough.

I hope one day we have a film we can be proud of.