When our bones rub softly,
I can take my teeth out and
shine them like skin cutters.
A yellow-bird dress you wear;
the same matchbox socks
that you wouldn't bother.

Sometimes, all the time, I
shiver in the gelatin lake
and what a faux-shake
it would only take
to make you care.

Baby, maybe, you
could love your child
like the sultry sandman;
place them on pinkish pillows,
and pretend your stories are
as real as your lashes.

And what a lamb,
kneeling in the Irish grass,
drinking all that is in her glass,
before breaking it over a wet stone,
and holding it to her throat, singing,
"I've always been surrounded, but
have always felt alone."

a book with ripped pages
a recipe without spice
*** without love is hardly enticing
because you don't feel the emotion pour onto your skin
with every breath and he doesn't laugh with you when you
crash heads, he might call your name but it doesn't shake your bones
knowing that he loves you for everything you aren't;
*** without love is empty,
pleasing, merely, but empty,
it's an impulse move to fill the void
you deny is even there.
You faked your happiness for a year,
and now your ******* on a strangers couch
because you're afraid to admit you don't like *** without love,
you're independent now and it's all you speak of
so you don't need that kind of connection that warms bellies
and chills skin, you just need a strangers bed to sleep in,
right?

Until you can't sleep at night because you know that *** when you aren't in love is an act, one that will never bring the feeling of sharing yourself with someone you love back.