Those nights in which I stumble to bed,
Makeup still intact,
Jeans and shoes remaining,
Uncombed, unbrushed,
Unwritten and undefined...

Bring on the days
In which I don't give two ***** about anything.

"And what then?" I asked,
With the fire roaring by,
And the ashes in the sky,
"And what then," I asked,
With a smile oh so sweet,
"What then when the world we know
Burns down to our feet?"

"And what then?" I asked,
With the waves smashing down,
And the wind whistling 'round,
"And what then," I asked,
With my shaky, trembling hands,
"What then will happen
To our once beloved lands?"

"And what then?" I asked,
Your tears mixed with my own,
And 911 calls on the phone,
"And what then," I asked,
With helpless cries like a dove,
"What then will become of
The dear ones that we love?"

Oh, those winding curves and me with no brakes.
Oh, those long legs and me with no reaching arms.
Oh, those pearly whites and me with no available floss.
Oh, those voluptuous locks and me with no comb.
Oh, those big revealing eyes and me with just a windowless soul.
Oh, those velvet hands and me with not even cotton fingers.
Oh, that woman of absolute perfection and me with no way to contain her.

They have been uprooted from the only life they have ever known,
the poor things.

New so-called family, new barred cage, new fake toys.
Scared shitless. (Literally.)

They will try to tempt you.

"Pretty bird." "Pretty bird."

Don't you dare trust the humans.
Don't you dare let them clip your wings.

It's like the unbearable itch of knowing somebody's eyeballs
are piercing the back of your sweaty neck,
and it's intimidating as hell.

It's like the rhythmic pounding of a migraine,
such a pretty and steady beat, but holds
such a negative association with
nauseating pain.
What a shame.

Waiting.

It's not something you can feel,
like the hurting force of hitting the ground hard.

But waiting
for you, someone, something,
anything at all,
it's the most excruciating feeling I have ever felt.

Of all the times
We have encountered each other thus far,
We have never been alone.

I do not know who you are when you are alone,
Or who you would be if you were alone with me.

The idea of it all
Makes me curious.
Like I just might want
To find out.

"Have a place just for me."

Even now, I'll admit he was special.
But he never did get his own box.

Thus began the rainy season.

Our secret journal, the emotions, and his taste.
It is all stashed
In in the same spot as the others
Mingled together, in a shoe box.

If boys were leaves
he would be one among many
scattered on damp ground in the humid fall
of my memories.

God I love Autumn.

No, he never did deserve his own box.

Spring is approaching.