clothes worn too tight
so it feels like there are needles who need me, who bleed me
a million parasites ******* and taking me.

he is *** and surgery, he is far too in love with life
wants to be inside of everything

but i like the miles
i like being so far that he cannot take things out of me
or even know they’re there.

i am a parasite, i want everything to be inside of me and
that
is why we
fight with him in my mouth (having is feeling.

builds midnight with paper stars and dark attics
because then the sky can be ripped
into shreds, stuffed down my throat and suddenly i possess
the whole world without needing to live in it.

it's not that i am always quiet,
or that I never have anything
to say.

i do have things to say.
I am simply waiting for a
pause in the conversation;

an empty space
my words
can fill.

but the conversation
does not stop, and the words
of others flow effortlessly around me,
not even noticing my absence.

and I know that I have
missed my chance
once again.

guiding
blank page muses
and muses riding *******
horses with iron honey legs
they combust in liquid
and finger themselves
in darkroom thighs
fluorescent ***
in the eaves of heaven
i wanna drip off your fingers
and
onto your belly
and
rollerskate into
your ****
and
tattoo your
lips shut
with sewn butterflies to the skyfields
the
skygrass
and
skykisses
and
name myself after your
blank spaces
and the forest fire days
of august new years

no one talks about you anymore
but i still
wonder the
way the salt
wonders about the tears
and the dark about
the midnight
if that really was
you
a valley out of the winding
sheets
and into the golden haired
hands of a long ago love
well practiced with incision

they tell me not to believe in hell
or fear it, even
because "all good souls go to heaven"
but I never told them how wicked my soul is
and that hell was already in my head.