You are the boy-hood
That my girl-hood desires.
We are a true-love story that may very well
never transpire.

For years, under my nose
I know you've always been.
But when I discover your moss
growing under my stone
You turn right back over again.

Oh how I long to press my cheek to your velvet
curling sweet, dark and cold,
while fingers pine for mutual warmth;
An attempt at what the future could hold.

Still soundlessly honey drips, sticks
between your silent speaking eyes and my dry lips.
The perfect spaces where forbidden fruit grows
inevitably decays--look, darling --
Our branches have welcomed the caws of the crow.

Isn't it funny?

Not the  "HA-ha" hilarity,
But still.
Isn't it funny?

How we don't laugh anymore,
how when I hear your little snicker
it turns my heart  to cold blood,
how your echoing emptiness chills my already numb flesh
to my strongest bones?

Isn't it funny?

How the hollowness possesses you,
hurls all the light right out to dissipate the warm smile greeting you,
so all that remains are
little shards of teeth
in my gaping black hole of a mouth?

Kiss me.

*Isn't that funny?

Thick silence invades ears that ache for fulfillment as
I unwrap your skin draped with
unspoken words ran thin.
My fingertips tremble with expressionless angst while
Identical intensities unravel astrological blue ribbons
Cooing sweet dividends, divine in a simple letter
Two chambers apiece for each,
For my heart has unwillingly become a fetter

Scarlet hot river emanation
Dried itself up
Ultraviolet white hot is
Even still an understatement of the ringing in my aching cotton stuffed ear canals,
echoing overrated nostalgia
pathetically recounting the first **** and only of my youth.
(If you don’t count those apathetic fishes)

You are the clumsy, left hand shot
That somehow occurred at the right place
And wrong time
A grotesque tear through an unlucky beating vessel of space so soundlessly
Bursting through
A time where blush derived from shame
But now completely overwhelming adulterated glances
intent on sending every bit of sincere air
Hurling out of your lungs so that a poisonous pining may refill those
Antlers with tokens of times first
And flowers on the grave
Of the color pink.

I tried to make pasta salad for dinner
but my "healthy" pasta was spoiled.
The only little critters known to man that are able to microscopically sneak in to prepackaged wheat have won again.
So I settled.

I figured I'd make up for my starchy negativity by using "veganaise",
but,
of course,
it tumbled out of the fridge that day in my absence
And shattered.
....So I settled.

Cleaning the kitchen behind my
half-satisfying
yet
I- ate-too-much-of it anyway
meal shattered my glass across the tile,
Persistent tiny shards
just jutting from the grout
like my bruised confidence after trying to clean my soul
of the filth that holds me hostage.

As of today I've gone without car insurance for a month
I've been absent from school
because my attendance is hard-wired to my lack of a
functioning.....wallet.

I got caught in the rain this evening
wondering how long I've got before defeat
catches me by more than a single strand hair,
drowning me in a thunderstorm of
uncontrollable emotion,
pattering and piercing  my consciousness so hard
that when I finally got indoors,
I approached my filth with open arms of surrender--
soaked,
sitting,
And settled.