liquid will swirl into the shape of it's cradle as hearts will mold to the minds of their successors. background checks?

tl;dr.

______________

­brave girls have cranberry ***** running through their veins, isn't that right? drink up, buttercup.
what's it if you and i goes on a ride? i got a paintbrush, you've got what needs to be painted. i'll paint you so good you won't even recognize yourself.
-
portraiture is dead and landscape is only dying.
let me
-make you
-in two
-into
a landscape.
you're gonna be sittin' pretty for the rest of your life, 'cause i'm not giving you any other options. open up those ankles - we're out of paint.
-
this prototype calls for one cup of honeydew, one cup of darling- stop - .
if it's on the market, how illegal could it be?
throw 'er in the ***.
the bottom drawer plays labyrinth to movers, shakers, mixers, fixers.
all those faces are too hard to tell apart, if you ask me. ten can-can dancers, please, and make it snappier than jaws on concrete!

no, not like that.
you're spending too much money on lipstick anyways. girls don't need makeup. girls will look pretty no matter what angle i've determined your elbows should be. your short-haired sister doesn't appear to be using this blood.
-
lay her on thick; and make sure you write those scars off as business expenses.

part one is where i said "if we don't handcuff ourselves together i am going to lose it."

i said, "if somebody could just clean all that ***** out of you we would probably weigh about the same. if we looked in a mirror at the same time there would only be one reflection. if we lie at the same time we'll just be lying together, physically and mentally. and what could be better than together?"

part one and a half is where things get out of hand -

hands covered in finger-paint and hands that forgot to wash themselves in the aftermath of many a sticky situation. hands that held mine and hands that held yours, hands that couldn't be evidenced no matter how hard any arithmetic teacher tried and hands that wrote about every sketch artist but never any criminals.

part two and i'm hanging myself with an iPhone charger, hands wrapped around swan neck - bird girl messy hair tiny hands girl bushy eyebrows cross-eyed ocean eyes girl between life and death
- and solemnly stepping over that mysterious dining-room table on your front porch. my last words have something to do with Jackie Chan and i whisper
"nobody ever saw a cowboy on the psychiatrist's couch."

Part Three is exactly that: three. welcome to past present and future, i say. can i take your order and can you hold my hand and you do know that meat is bad for your heart, right?

____________________­

we sat shut-eyed and snickering and reaching our hands into a crumpled brown bag labelled "Fatal Flaws". "no tradesies" said the big man. you and i unknowing one another, laughed unknowingly. your slip of paper read "superiority complex" and mine said simply "inability to love" and i thought about how good our tragedies would look together, how our stars could align in all the melancholy we both believed in.


__________________

on your right, you'll see a picture of me awake in the middle of the night; sweating feverishly and falling over a little fence somebody built to keep me grounded.

look to your left - there's your eyes following me; but here's the problem: i've never set foot in a room like this one.

__________________­

I have a lot of questions to be answered but I'll start with the hardest and work my way down.
First of all, what time is it?
Secondly, do you love me?
Third - how did I end up here?

Look me in the eyes and lodge your hands into my armpits to keep me from falling into those black spirals you try to play off as corneas. Don't be alarmed at the sight of blood on my hands, I'm merely returned from the very operation you put me up to.

First question -
"I say! It's your birthday and we're late! We're late for your very own birthday party! Thousands of guests - I mean insects - I mean quests - will cry and cry, and their tears will fertilize the very soil I made your birthday cake out of! Pay no mind to the plastic tablecloth strewn over that solemn rectangle, I had very little time and time is money and what did I just tell you about how the best things in life come free? C'mon, baby. C'mere. A birthday's a birthday, eh?"

Second question -
"It's hard to find somebody to love in a big gray wire maze. However, it is easy to like somebody you've only seen in 240p. Just joking, just joking. I have this crazy idea that if you spilled maple syrup all over your keyboard, it'd be like taking warm, sticky naps together in the summertime. There's an ice hotel in Greenland that I want to **** myself i, and the only reason the whole place isn't drowning in a puddle of my **** is because you said you'd be here. Where are you, and how many inches thick is your jugular?"

Third question -
"There are clocks inside of our bodies, biological clocks. Yours seemed nicer than mine, and I want your biological clock in my room god-****-it. Kiss me through ticking tocks running amok in your immune system. I'll skin you alive looking for the perfect shade of furniture polish in your veins. I'll leave your shadow to slip down the drain so you can finally get some peace and quiet. I pulled you peeling from the walls, and I'll leave you there to dry when I'm done.

____________________­___

I won't even leave so much as a footprint.

come with me, you!
i'll show you how to do things you never tried and i never knew to be true.

watch as i turn your tongue into a cherry stem and blow bubbles with your thoughts.
i'll twist all my fingers into a bundle of forget-me-nots.

keep the lights off! i think the sun shines out of your behind.
i think that rivers flow out of your bellybutton divine.

would ya look at this? the dictionary has a new definition:
'onomatopoeia' means "us kissing in your kitchen"

in this licorice spit-stained envelope blushes your love letter, simply put:
close your eyes so i can sweep it underfoot.

parts of you think that things are better left unsaid.
parts of me says "whatever, ******. drop dead."

"We had all these crazy ******' dreams together, Me and Her. We ate our weight in marshmallow ***** pancakes underneath the stars and kissed each other with tongues of fire licking roofs of open mouth. Her mouth was like a ******' inferno, like in the sense that it seems so small and insignificant until you actually get there and then it just swallows you whole, gets you hotter than you've ever been in your ******' life and you're there for eternity. It's endless. If you weren't thinking about it before, now you're thinking about it.

You're thinkin' about her, and thank the ******' heavens for that. If I could get every man on the face of this planet to think about her the way I do, at the length that I do, til we all ******' keel over, it just wouldn't do it. She's somebody that gets stuck in your hair when you're not looking and somebody you trip over in the mornings when you just ******' cleaned the place up. She clings to the bottom of your shoes til you can hear her name in any number of footsteps on any number of paths."

_________________­_

Baby, let me sit in the driver's seat.
Let me drift smoothly, subtly into your lane.
Remember how you always said I was too **** skinny?
Guess what, baby?
When the tail lights call to me I can slide right in between them, like a fitted sheet or rungs on a washboard. I darted between the raindrops like you always said I would but I got wet anyways. What do you know about that?

I don't know much about it, myself.

The doctor said I can't drive anymore. I told that *******, "my eyesight's 20/20! I seen every single puzzle piece on those office inkblots for the knives and daggers that they are! The **** I look like?"

I'm exhausted, Baby. I'm leaking black smoke out of my lungs. I don't brush my teeth anymore because the fluoride ***** up my third eye. How do ya feel about that? Meditate on it. Meditate on me. Meditate on the stars, on the heavens, on God, on babies that died inside of us. I always told you, Baby, you're the best idea God ever had. You ******' did it. Tie me up, baby. If I can't drive anymore, drive me out of here. Tie me up to the god-**** tracks and cover my naked body with those whaddya call ems? Tuck me into your blanket statements so big I get them confused with the entire god-**** sky.

"**** the *******!", they said.
Okay, but let me at least take you to dinner first.

___________________­

Now wait just one second.

This skin you're in - it's mine, is it not?
I am fairly certain that these sighs belong to me, that this warmth is a byproduct of my night terrors.
Now just who told you that you could wear my skin?

Hey! Hello! You There, With The Eyes!
I am not something to be pulled off a floor and draped haphazardly across such a treacherous clavicle!

(Well, I mean, as a general rule. There was that one time.)

As I Was Saying!
It look me a lot of time to get stretched this thin, okay? What makes you think you can just crawl headfirst into my own exquisite casing? I know you're under there, you sneak. My own personal ringworm. Let's ring around those rosy cheeks of yours, exhausted by my less natural coloring. Clap your hands, why don't ya? Distract yourself with a melody and I'll come up for air to finish off that last verse.

MY hair sticks up more on the left side. MY forearms are prone to alien speed-bumps. MY very own flesh (and blood!) smells faintly of orange peels. Got it?

Listen closely, you.
Not only are you not welcome here -
You may not be excused.

“When I was younger my friends and I would all have bonfires every Friday night and we made up fake names for each other that related to our spirit animals and we spoke in a secret language where every word started with D. Dumb, dight? Dokay, de dan dave da decret danguage doo. Dut DI don’t dare do duch dor ‘D’. What letter do you like? V? V’s vinda vunny.”


“I have in this bag here every fingernail clipping of each of your exes. I have in this bag a 14 inch long braid of every hair you ever sleepily smoothed into submission, lying halfway underneath the moon and halfway in a pile of the aforementioned’s sweat. I have blue-tint pictures developed from a baking disposable camera that weren’t taken seriously  when Instagram wasn’t cool. Film clips of them getting ready for work in front of you, where there’s no film because it’s just your eyes and no real memories because your eyes were flickering between open and shut, blinds behind you that winked at them when you were too busy reveling to. I’m not saying that your eyes are blind, I’m saying that they’re blinds. Do you understand what I have in this bag? It’s like a never-ending stream of catharsis, like a rain puddle in November with streetlights swimming drunkenly in it, that reminds you too much of coming home to the smell of gas stoves even though you didn’t live there. A feeling that reminded you of a war you didn’t fight in and shoots through your bones because you never consciously had a skeleton until the magnet in your throat attracted another. All of the things in this bag are shaped like U’s, you know? Or shaped like You.”


“Actually, I like U. I like U a lot, but it seems impossible to speak that way.”