My dog is eating me alive.
I picked a mosquito bite.
It bled, of course because I bite my nails.
His tongue his scratchy and it feels
like he is eating me alive.
Like my dog is eating me alive.

The clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.
I'm suffocating in their woven hold.
The craftsmanship is fine
it's my body that's confined
and I swear it feels like
the clothes I wear are swallowing me whole.

My hair is too unruly for my head.
It takes up knotting when I am in bed.
Crocheting, colliding, fitting you under me
Finally in the morning I can see
My hair is too unruly for my head.

Life scares the hell out of me.
Things like garbage, masks and poetry
make me want to ***** my lunch
or just smoke and dance
because sometimes thinking kills you
and that is why
life scares the hell out of me.

Gone are the flowers
gone is the smile
the kiss and
the real-life person
now
so far away from me, eating apples and watching over me
now
so very close to me, sweating in the heat and whispering in my ear

read my lips, "*******"

How old are we?
Too young to remember.

We're stupid people
person, I am a little girl

quivering

Lunchtime! it's a calling.
I am sure of my steps, they grieve as I do

under the matte color of peach
is a ****** mess.

Swearword, swearword, swearword. Slap.

I know what's good for me, because I've spoon fed myself since babyhood
I've worked on projects with myself. I've killed animals with myself.
I've been in the shower with me and I've slept every night with me,
holding me close.

Forget winning or losing, which is manmade, and change me for the better.

Little fingers
making dresses

I put pleasant things in my mind
for living's sake, for beauty

high on Halloween
drugged up, boozed up
practically living in the ring of mushrooms I heard about as a child

when I checked out
every fairy book in the library. And then they weren't real.

Pretty thoughts are like los aves, the birds.

They fly in around in my caged mind until they are shot down
forcibly taken down

and used for food in winter.

The smell of church reminds me of my childhood

but over the years, the priest becomes a foolish man.
I've pondered over my faith for so long.

Sometimes I reach into my conscious and pull out steaming fistfuls of pop culture
like,
I watched Rosemary's Baby on Saturday. Was God dead in the 50s?

Not nearly as much as he is now.


Today was Palm Sunday, and I felt like a baby, so naked in the desert sand.

Delicate church, how do you reel me in?

I have this friend who's an artist.
She looks like burnt hair and chapped lips people say we look
like twins,
like poets

and we are both
short
and painted Paint the Town Red
from all the rough particles

The only difference between us is:
she is beautiful now that she is rough around the edges.