As breakable as plastic wrap, one little slit
and out come my pink guts and colourful secrets
until it all pools at my feet, like some gruesome
flooded garden with rotting zombie flowers. But at least
it forces you to have nothing to hide, no more hidden skeletons
in this closet of a body, where I hang half-whispered dreams
in the hopes that one day, one year, I'll finally have the chance to put
them on for size. If you have transparent skin, too
you may realize that you've never felt this light before. Don't be alarmed,
the important parts inside you will regrow (a heart,
a soul, a spirit) and you can finally discard the things
you never really needed before (a conscience). You may
be falling apart at the seems. You may not know where your insides
end and your outsides begin, and you may inexplicably find
your heart duck taped to your sleeve in an attempt to
hold you together. But now that my truth has finally been exposed
to the air around me, I finally feel clean.

Isolated, behind windowed curtains. It's at 2am,
your room feels like jail and
insomnia
like venom injected in your veins.

These days I'm looking at the moon for guidance,
waning away until I find a layer inside me
that isn't sick
with longing that physically hurts.

I'm searching
for loopholes in fate
and connections between drowning
and black holes to **** me dry.

My blood is just below
simmering,
but I lack the spark
in my eyes.

I need
to go to sleep
so I can dream
to be alive.

I will base our relationship
on what the stars say
because I have nothing else to go on.
It's all eggshells dipped in lighter fluid
with us, hot blood, ping pong pupils
that never know when to rest. When
we enter the same room I swear
I see sparks ignight in the static air.
There's blood behind our words
but I don't know if it was spilt in vain
or if this is all part of our story to the road
of forgiveness. Maybe I'm crazy
but I just want to take your hand
and make you agree that we are
both unwarranted.

I will write my secrets upon petals
and rip them up, bury the shreds
in the hallows of my ribs, and ****
your seeds of doubt in the process.
I will sleep till spring, so that when
I awake, maybe something besides
trouble will finally
bloom. Its heavy, my skin
soaked with stress
the nerves in my spine have electrified
and now my lungs are smoking
and crackling like a burnt fuse
and my heart ticks down
to the explosion.

I don't know what I'm looking for
when I look into your face. Maybe
reassurance
that it's not just a mask.

I don't know what I'm writing for
when I pick up a pen,
except that I want
desperation
to make sense.

I'm beginning to think
I've either forgotten
how to sleep
or how to live.

Dear-

Whoever
Will listen. I'm jealous of the
Places you call home. There is blood on the floor
From my heart clenching so tightly
And it's starting to stain my skin like
I'm a crime scene.
I know that this is lust
And if people have affairs with cities
I want to sell myself on street corners.

If the doctors told me
I had only one more day to live,
I would have a heart attack
and die right now, before I had another chance
to swallow fresh air like a
drowning man
or soak up sunbeams
like a black hole one
last time.

I'm making promises to myself that soon
I will be conducive, but first I need to shout
my anxiety away
from the top of the tallest building
just so somebody knows
because
on Sunday mornings
you realize that solitude is very different
from loneliness.

I am alive but at a cost of being a breathing cliche,
an old metaphor from bad high school poetry,
scribbled on a used napkin and thrown in the trash.
I am writing love letters to ghosts because I will
understand if I don't get a reply, and because being rejected
from the dead isn't so bad after all.

Each "Yours Truly" scrawled at the bottom
of the page is actually a whole other conversation.
I am telling you I was born to chase
things people can't catch. I feel terrible when
I can't fight and every word of explanation
might as well burst into flames.
Arson could tell it better than I could.

This is where I am in the margins of history,
lost, numb and trying to discover what's
good for my survival. I need to quit
cannibalism because eating hearts in pieces
isn't as good as being given them whole.
Keep your distance.
I am wicked and inside a nice box called disorderly.


                                                   ­                                               -YOURS TRULY,