Following the path less taken
Over all the low roads and
Routes plummeting towards the craven
Gateways of Hell takes the travelers
Into enlightenment. Those who avoid Satan's
Vengeance and forked whispers
Emerge from the waters of the lake in
Nature's womb veiled in holy layers
Encompassing their soul. This ache in
Society seeps into the bones of naysayers
Slandering the purging powers of equal pardon.

All the flowers in his pocket and
Bruises covering his knees
Couldn’t hide the satisfaction
Decorating his chubby little face.
Every surface inch on his
Favorite pair of jeans was unprotected from
Grass stains and dirt cakes. Oh,
How our father would tear
Into him later. It was worth it when the
Junior high school quarterback
Kindly accepted his confession instead of
Laughing like the adults surrounding the pair.
Mom thought it was cute how the little oblivious
Nine-year-old boy had gotten down on
One knee, arms outstretched, as if he were
Proposing to his babysitter. They joke when it’s a child, but
Quickly shun their once loved ones by forcing them to
Run away from home. It wasn’t funny when our
Sister vanished from existence after coming out
To our religious family. They don’t laugh at
Us when we mutter her name. That girl,
Valerie, left all but one shred of existential evidence    
When leaving us for good. Hidden amongst the trees are
Xylographed initials made by lovers over
Yonder in the suburb parks where the human
Zoo couldn’t keep them under watchful eyes.

Xylographed initials made by lovers over
Yonder in the suburb parks where the human
Zoo keeps them under watchful eyes.

Owning a cat relies on give and take.
I give the beans a tiny squeeze and
she takes a chunk of my skin.

Always here to almost
There but sometimes
Near and just barely
Alive to cease to exist--

Wait a minute.
Who are you?

Words only cut skin-deep if you
Don't take anything to heart.

“You’ve got a friend in me.” –Randy Newman

You spread your lies through the disguise you’ve
Mastered so perfectly. Your sticky, honeyed words had
Me tangled in your alluring web. Each thread smothers a
Different part of my mind and body refusing to see the friend
I once knew had faded away. My thoughts belong to the parasite in
My conscience, trapping the truth in the rotting shell of a new me.

They were laid in the road and ****** to death.
Seemingly innocent sins of yesterday yanked
Them from the pedestal stacked high
With promise. Stolen glances stuck
To eyes so warm, so soft, so quick
To deny. Quick to forgive his fault
Of the heart for carving Scarlet
Letters into the skin of young girls.

Sounds of rubber against rubber
Scraping a sandpaper Q-tip through
Your ears will raise hairs from your
Arms and neck to be tugged
On by little ghost hands
Of electricity coming from a tiny sack
Of nothing that fits anything and everything
Wrong you've ever said
Or done and thought rising above
Your head out of reach to be
Popped outside of Heaven's
Domain.

Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower

If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.

If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.

If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.

Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.

Attached as if our skin
is patched together
by the red strings of fate
that signify forever.

Down to the end of a wooden dock
That sticks out a good way into the water,
She sat legs crisscrossed in a knot, hunched over
With her elbows to her knees, head resting
In her palms. She tries controlling her breathing,
But holding her breath makes her throat expand
Like it is croaking. Saliva pools in the lower corners
Of her mouth under her tongue, and she barely has time

To adjust herself as the bile climbs out of her throat
And down the front of her yellow crop top, dripping
Onto her stomach and crossed legs. Tears are forced
From her ducts as her stomach convulses. Capillaries
Around her eyes are popping from strain. Feeling weak,
She falls to the left on her side and curls into a trembling ball

But she wants to get the ***** off her
As soon as possible. Her shaking palms
Press against the splintering deck, pushing
To her knees to feel what was once in her stomach squish
Between her fingers making her stomach spasm;
She scrambles to her feet as fast as she can
When her only source of lighting is dying
From the wind. Before righting her balance, she slips

Backwards in the bile and tumbles into the blackened lake. Her head
Plunges first and water came rushing into her nose. It burns
Her nasal cavities as her eyes tear open in fear. She’s disoriented
From the alcohol in her system and the water is too strong
Against her weakened limbs. She tries to position herself
Up right, but the more she moves, the deeper she sinks.
She holds her breath and tries

To ignore the burning sensation up her nose and on
The surface of her eyes in her head and she can’t
Hold on. Oxygen isn’t going where it needs to and the edges
Of her vision darken. As a last attempt to fight, she reaches
Forward to grasp at anything she can get ahold of. Her fingertips
Stretch and curl only to move through the murky prison. Her vision

Is almost completely blackened out as she surrenders
Her losing fight. There’s a burn in her chest that grows
As the rhythm behind it slows. Her body,
Like the water, is still, cold, and tinted blue.

Inflated egos float up
to the summit with fates
cradled in each hand to
decide whether we peak
or plummet.

people
                                                                                      destroyed




blowing
              forcing
                                                   striking



           water
                    deep
          deep


      lost
                                                                            wrecked





                                                                                                   unknown
               helpless


                                                   sailors.

She fell into me and I couldn't let go.
I wrapped around her, climbed
Inside, and waited patiently. Soon,
She will join me; become me.
Her color,
Her temperature,
Her scent
Will be me.

In times where reality
is restricted and numb,
virtual spaces become
the commonality.

like the space,
i am square
because i was
was not there.