the moonlight caressed her cheeks
as she took a long drag from that cigarette
between those
long, thin fingers.

cotton *******,
***** socks,
skinned knees.

shimming along with the rich sounds
of guitar and French tongue.
soft coffee bean coloured waves in her hair
bounced along with the rest of her body.

warm vanilla perfume,
dabbed behind her ears.
i wanted to be behind her ears.
i wanted my lips pressed up against there.

i wanted to line her shelf-like collarbones
with strawberries
from my teeth.

i did not just long to taste her,
i wanted to savor her.

she's the kind of woman with the scent
you'd remember forever.

you could write an entire novel about
the slight curvature of her spine,
and the way it would mold into the
pit of your stomach perfectly.

she's a 'once in a blue moon'
but with the warmth of the august sun.

BUT NOBODY TOLD ME THE FUNERAL NEVER ENDS.

IT'S BEEN ELEVEN YEARS NOW, AND THE CASKET'S STILL LOWERING.

*"LEAVE ME HERE MOM. LEAVE ME HERE. I'M DEAD TOO."

it’s cold and you’re warm and the sun is
almost about to rise and you are
going to tell me you love me and i
am
sick to my stomach
because you’re filling voids i didn’t know i had and
it’s scaring me
it’s scaring me to be whole and it’s
scaring me to feel
it’s scaring me that you are growing this close
and i cannot even believe i’m letting you
and i am worried you are going to say i love you
and i am worried i am going to say it back

*k.c.

My stomach is a lake of red wine and pills that are supposed to make me feel better about my life.

They didn't.

My hands vibrate and clench themselves into fists that are sometimes full of my own hair.

My eyes are heavy and decorated by deep purple half circles from lack of sleep.

But

Sometimes my stomach is filled with butterflies,
and I silently hope they don't drown.

Occasionally my hands are in another pair of hands.
They're held like a prize.

Some nights my eyelids are kissed lightly to sleep.
My pupils dilate from the drugs,
and from that boy's love.

The white circles I swallowed every morning are supposed to make me feel better about life,
but I don't think any scientist, pharmacist, doctor
ever once anticipated the thought of another human being like him.

I wash my face of an overly busy day
and your fingerprint on my wash basin mirror catches my eye
then it all comes back to me
how we spent the afternoon 
in each other's company
in a flurry of panic 
to conquer yet another deadline.
But that imprint seals an inwards part that becomes my final assessment
and without uttering another word
I conclude without doubt or reservation
that whatever you touch becomes part of my history, becomes a milestone in my life's journey and that part and more of me has been absorbed by all of you.

Girls with round faces
And dresses cut short
cant love you the way
You've been begging
they lust and they run
With smoke in her lungs
A cigarette loose in her teeth
They drink coffee at midnight
And ***** at lunch
when they finally *******
They're numb
Their tattoos are ships
But their hearts are their anchors
Live by the ocean
the waves are their guide
They get high to pretend
They're not drunk half the time
In fairytale castles
They built out of string
They find solace in being alone
Their bodies are naked
Against white stained sheets
Lost to a haze of old smoke

as he stared at her from afar
in a sweet, loving gaze,
with sweaty palms and a hesitating voice,
he never really realized
that someone else
loves him the same way he loves her.

When the sun goes down
I have my first drink
standing in the yard,
talking to my neighbor
about the alder tree
rising between our houses,
a lowly tree that prospered
from our steady inattention
and shot up quick as a ****
to tower over our rooftops,
where it now brandishes
a rich, luxuriant crown.
Should we cut it down?
Neither of us wants to --
we agree that we like
the flourishing branches,
shade like thick woods.
We don't say it,
studying our tree in silence,
but we know that if the roots
get into the foundations
we've got real trouble.
John goes back inside.
Nothing to be done in summer --
not to those heavy branches.
I balance my empty glass
on top of a fence post.
In the quiet early dark,
those peaceful minutes
before dinner, I bend down
to the flower beds I love
and pull a few weeds --
something I've meant to do
all day.

Onetime I let a boy inside my ribcage

I warned him upon entry that the path to the     space     between my lungs was a oneway ticket

that I had never smoked a cigarette,
but the walls inside me were tar-filled  

and sick

that sometimes my heart failed to beat with my brain and instead fell into
perfect
uneven
synchrony with the faucet

where I threw-up cherry red the other night.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife inside my ribcage

and I had seen the knife

and I didn't care

he climbed inside me so gently
like he belonged there and was just taking his place

like a missing *****
he made me his home
reassembled my insides

vital pieces of me now resting on his body,
depending on his body

one hand on my heart

the other on my throat.

Onetime I let a boy with a knife and a bottle of bourbon live inside my ribcage

he cleaned the tar off the walls
but didn't cure the sickness

I think he liked the smell of it.

One night he carved his name everywhere

spine
clavicle
esophagus

and I pretended to sleep

cut
nick
slash

he tried to claim me
he tried to clean me

but lost souls can't be claimed
and I'll never be clean enough

my heart follows faucets
not boys

and that scared the boy

so one night he poured the bourbon down the throat he held

and I didn't stop him

and I almost drowned

gulp, gulp, gulp
slash, slash, slash

cursive illegible sorry's
over every spot he had once cut his name into

and he kissed the wounds
and I woke up heavy.

Organs are worthless without their host but

Onetime I watched a boy tear his way out of my ribcage.

Knife and empty bottle in his place,
nothing's been working right in there since.

I haven't let anyone in there since.