In the house of the unsaid
Tears are glass beads that drop
The ***** on the bone china

Blood spittles the lips, hair
Raises the dead the cut
Rosary roils and dents

Harmony’s rumour spouts
In the sink. The clock’s twitching
Strikes a mongoosed hour.

And the scattered stations run
The rude wood splinters
As the unsaying are floored

Clouded eyes pain the glass
Outside the house, bare
Trees are leaved with ravens.

the crisp morning air
embraces my skin
greeting each pore
with a welcome
to wake up

We were a little too formal
as I gave you the usual tour of the house
that my mother would not approve of
and we were a little awkward
as I laid down next to you because
I was ready to jump into whatever this was
but at the same time it made me hesitate
because this was the first time.

The first time:
we’d ever gotten this close
and
I’d gotten to really feel
the way your muscled arms clenched
a little when you put your arm around me
and
I looked into your eyes
and you were looking straight back at me
without telling a joke or jabbing my sides
and you were serious
and I was nervous
but I kissed you anyway.

We were still slightly sweat-glistened
from mopping the dingy
and eternally sticky floors at work
but I liked the way
that I breathed you in
and it was a mix
between your quick spritz of cologne
when you thought I wasn’t looking
and your natural musky scent
that was exactly how I imagined you would smell
when I sat just far enough away
in the passenger seat.

We were a little too eager
and
your hands were a little too fast
to throw my tank top to the floor
and unhook my favorite bra
and
you were a little too fast
to get me exposed
despite our hesitations initially
but
I was a little too fast
to kiss you harder
to let you know that
I didn’t give a ****
about the lipstick that lingered
on your slightly swollen lips
and I wanted more
than just to rub my clothed body
against yours.


*August 5, 2014
11:55:19 PM

It's amazing,
the way I was drawn to him
because he looked
like summer at a time
I craved only the hollowness
of winter.
It's amazing
that his love
compensated for my
self hate,
and that he was able to make me forget
who I was.
The simplicity in
holding hands captivated me and
I forgot that I was addicted to speed. Everything about the way
he let me love him was slow and innocent.
He fixed me.
He sewed up my
spine, expanded my
stomach,
and thawed my
lungs with his
warm breath.
The scars faded,
but it was amazingly easy
for him to change his mind: rip out the stitches
leaving them to
bleed, open to
infection,
and wanting
anything that could stop
the pain.
****** in the back seat
of some guy's car,
lines off an unknown
man's kitchen counter,
smoke in my
parents house
with the window
open so I could
pretend they didn't know,
cuts
up my legs.
Anything
to forget that someone could be
so
**** cruel,
anything to forget that someone could be
so
happy. Lost
in the tears that run
with the water
in the shower
twice a day, lost
in my mind that cannot
escape
itself
no matter how
intoxicated...
No matter how
exhausted, was my sanity. Everything has
escaped,
he still looks like summer,
I finally found the hollowness
of winter.
It's amazing how
it happened:
it started; it ended.
Eventually,
one of us will die
And
the other will regret that it didn't
last.
It will be amazing
the way one of us
feels again in those first few moments
after the other is
gone. If
I last, will i watch the
flashes
of our lives and
feel again
the ignorant perfection of our
love or the
pain of removing the
stitches?