how i long so much to be
the clothes that cling so selfishly to your skin
the skinny jeans and t-shirts that lay with your flesh
or the pillow that caresses your cheek
wishing you good morning and willing your nightmares away

i hate the house that contains you
it keeps you safe wrapped in its arms
watches you dress and undress each day
a shameless spy with the perfect view

i am also quite envious
of the warm water that glides down your form
slipping in and out of the crevices
of perfect skin
like a gentle waterfall of pleasure

what i would give
to be the books you finger so longingly
fully captivating your attention
feeling you tremble on each of their pages
And stare at them intensely

perhaps someday
i will become the mosquito on your wall
drinking you day in and day out
appreciating every flavor
until i eventually die in your palm

finally

satisfied

The passenger seat of someone else's car
is a place that I can get lost in.
The seat that was off limits
until I was 10 years old,
now my introspective throne.
The world passes through my window like
memories I've long since forgotten.
A blur of aced tests and overachieving I want
to soak my brain in.
The wasted time in long lines,
my first standing ovation,
emotions that blend
with the Little Trees Lavender.
All the pain of the world can't penetrate
my secluded steel fortress,
so I sink deeper into the cushion.

To experience something through another's eyes.               
So different, yet the same,         
like McCartney and Lennon,               
like jam and jelly.                       
          
Different characters featured in paintings,                              
scrapbook
the cast in an artist's tv show.                                        
Some sitcoms, some dramas,
and others a genre of their own.                           
      
There’s Madonna’s and their babies,           
looking innocent as the bible.     
Why is it that baby Jesus         
in Renaissance paintings             
always gives me nightmares?                                          

The self portraits take their place
among the respected walls of color.
Their eyes draw you in,
burning holes in your skin.
They seem to appear wise.
Looking old as the moon,
but with significantly less bumps and crevices.

The modern pieces stick out,
like a lone spoon in the knife drawer.
They appear more youthful,
wrinkle-free and vibrantly alive.
“A child could have made this”,
I hear someone say.
What a beautiful thought to have.

Colors so bright I swear I could smell them,
     a perfect kaleidoscope of hues.
Blinding me with excitement,
deafening me with their awe and beauty.

Roses curled up in a lovely kiss,
in shades of pink, white and red.
Tempting me with their ****** ambiguity,
waving like a stranger
in the wind.

Daisies giving me a friendly smile,
with their innocent, white petals.
Inviting me to sit and chat,
and perhaps share a cup of tea
to discuss our days over.

Lilies sprawling about,
with their elegant, flamingo pink flavor.
Drooping like a chandelier,
and revealing the secrets hidden within.

Tulips as purple as the plums
I picked from my grandmother's tree.
Mocking me with their vibrant personalities,
yet contained and uptight all the same

Their identities shine
through their wordless expressions.
I find more comfort here
than among the loud and thoughtless.

I bend
and you extend,
collarbones to the ceiling.
Beads of sweat glisten
and the whole world watches.

Vinyl catching fire
beneath the curling and scuffing
of our toes.
Struggling against each other
to gain control.

You leap out of reach
and I am distorted,
left alone to face piano trills
and nameless faces.
I grasp blindly but of course
you find me,
trapping me in the fermata.

I break free and spin for the wings
but you ****** my slender wrist.
My veins bulge as the music turns desperate,
a spattering of minor chords
as my heart breaks,
and a major longing emerges.

A lift to the heavens and I taste the sun
again were in sync.
Wrists sprained and lungs deflated
we continue this endless waltz
for the rest
of
time.

I was just 13 years old when Vincent Van Gogh took me out to a wheat field and shot me in the chest. He said I'll let you in on the easy way out because eating yellow paint just doesn't help but god, doesn't it sound poetic? He said he craved ***** things in a letter to his brother but when the paint didn't make his art any better he used bullets and blood instead.

I was just 16 when Sylvia Plath opened up the oven for me. My snow boots turned to puddles and the smell of cookies muddled with the gas filling up my head. She said putting words to paper just doesn't hash it and a poets mind is nothing but ashes so better to let the thoughts burn.

I was only 18 when Virginia Woolf tied stones to my hips and led me adrift into open waters. Gasping while my hands struggled to stay above the waves she told me that this was the only way and that stories were just stories. She could write a million of them but never escape the loneliness of being unable to evaporate inside the pages.

I was 21 years old when Ms Monroe told me it was as easy as falling asleep and swallowing some seeds that would feed and feed until they felt like yellow paint. Easy down the throat like the men that she'd known who now tear at my curls. She said wanting to be loved comes at a price that money just can't buy and pills will always be cheaper.

I am 25 years old and have carried their woes down my arms and legs like Marley's chains. All the gun shots and flame rots and drowning spells and yellow pills have beckoned me with promises of a happy ending. They convince me that all artist's lives end the same but I know that they don't have to. So—here I still stand, clutching their art in my hands, braving a world that they were too good for.

She walks home from the ball, glass slipper in hand      
Underneath the stars,
the fairy-tale kind.       
Hair falls sloppily over her neck,                                      
and her dress turns back into tatters.                                  

She must pass through the forbidden forest,                    
the one that all women must travel.

As she enters, the handsome princes smile at her
before turning to dogs and howling.
They follow her from a distance,
but she still feels their hot breath on her
neck.

The trees come to life and taunt her,
laughing at her messy appearance
Until all their leaves fall to the earth,
and ***** at her curves and legs.

The bubbling stream forces her to view her reflection
in its cold and distorted mirror.
Then shows her beautiful queens
much prettier than her
Forcing her to make a comparison.

The princess makes it out,
though she hardly feels like one at all.
Scraping for some semblance of identity
She holds herself
in the harsh wind.

I bet no one’s called you that in a long time!
You'll always be Moony to me.
I guess it was so much simpler back then…
when we pranced around on stage and could hide behind names that weren’t our own.
Reno and Moony, the stars of the show!
Anyway, I guess those days are long gone now.
Even if I still remember them clearly.
Your hands were torn but your hugs were warm and no one thought to connect the two.
The smile you hid behind was similar to mine, but you wore it better.

Anyways, it’s really been a while huh?
Since we used that stage like it was a therapist’s office.
Better than therapy, actually!
Backstage we could share tears and laughs that lingered in the air.
That ugly, patchy couch that absorbed our secrets...
I bet they’re still in there if we went back and asked it nicely.
Although, maybe we wouldn’t want to know.

I guess it’s okay that we don’t talk as much anymore.
As they say “friends grow apart” and all that.
I never thought it would feel like losing a part of my soul
when you decided I wasn’t what you needed anymore.
Do you remember dancing and singing our worries away
on that stupid high school stage?
Did you know you were the closest thing to a best friend I’d ever had?

When other friendships have been forgot,
ours will still be hot!

I still sing that song in my head from time to time and wonder
if you do too

Forever,
your Reno

You used me for a lot of things
But I let you
Thinking you'd thank me
You never did.

I've started hitting the brakes
When I come to green lights
Even the things that seem certain
I hesitate to trust
I slam on the gas
When the light turns red
I've always been self-destructive
So what's one more ticket
I'll add it to the pile
Of problems to ignore

A building so bleak and endless
The multitude of fluorescents
Blinding me with their truths of death and decay
Until all I can feel is numbness

The floor is frigid and stoney
It peeks through my weather worn all-stars
Unable to leave survivors
I stomp it to carry on

That smell so clean that is stings
Bleach and clorox pierce my nostrils
To meet reluctantly on my tongue
Tumbling and fumbling along my taste buds

A feeling of death roams through walls
Searching desperate for something to cling to
It finds my ripped jeans and plaid flannel
And nestles in for a restless slumber

Hit the needles together three times
This is where you’ll awaken
A tumultuous trip from your veins to the brain
I’ll meet you there every season

I'm envious of that deep blue,
how it glided over skin and bone without a second thought.
The last living thing to hold you
before the earth.
My touch a forgotten memory to your skin.

With every shower, I'm reminded. No matter how long I stand
under the rushing beam
I never really feel clean.
You wasted away in the ocean
for 32 hours.
I stand in the shower for 33,
and can still feel the maggots.
They worm their way into my blood and my brain
and pour out of my eyes like tidal waves.

Ten winters pass swiftly,
and I return to this beach.
It feels like no time has passed,
yet my hands are being squeezed from both sides.
The water is unforgiving and beats the shore
over and over and over.
Laying down in the sand, like you once did
I'm enveloped in white washed waves.
Instead of drowning along with you,
I’ll float
on and on and on.

I can’t count on my ten fingers
All the ones who have held me while I cried
Which means very little
Because I know I cry a lot
And I know most of those boys
Would have used any excuse
Just to get their hands on me

I desperately needed a friend
You desperately needed to be more than friends
I guess we got lost somewhere in between

She slumps in bed and thinks about the day,
The pain is rupturing inside her head.
She knows that she will never have her way,
At least, if she does not want to be dead.

A picture of her son sits on the shelf;
That face which she can hardly recognize.
She always thought that he looked like herself;
The same round cheeks, the same piercing blue eyes.

She desperately wants to go to him.
To hug his bones; so clean and so untouched,
But now she fears the light is growing dim,
So on she runs, for fear she might corrupt.

She shoots the liquid joy into her veins,
With dreams of death and hope for better days.

Depression is like a shadow
When is seems no one is there for me
It always seems to be there
It holds me in its arms
Whispers in one ear that things will be okay
Then
Just as I start to believe
It turns to the other ear
And whispers
"Nothing will ever be okay again"

America.
A place where guns used to be raised in freedom, but are now pointed at the lives of the innocent
America.
A land founded on the belief that anyone could come to start their lives over, but now prohibits those with a different skin color
America.
A country established by immigrants, but now closes its doors to them
America.
Where our founding fathers feared nothing, but now we fear everything even remotely different from us
America.
Where red, white and blue once meant innocence and valor, but now stands for black blood and terror
America.
Land of the beaten and beaters,
Home of the spineless leaders.

When you arrive the pristine gates open wide,
Gabriel and Lucifer uniting.
I finally understand
what those bible folks say
about believing in God.

An embrace like the dawn,
engulfing me in luminary beams of comfort.
Blinding me from surreptitious sins
that are now just an inkling
of the past.

The air surrounding us dances and mates,
rubbing our skin and shaking our souls.
Pushing us closer together
until it evaporates completely
and I am left gasping.

Static echoes our eardrums as the world vanishes,
tasting heaven and hell for ourselves.
Hues of blues and greens
heavenly halos
singing hungrily on our tongues.

Our own Garden of Eden,
between messy sheets and half eaten apples.
A chorus of serpents and lambs
stagnating the air and everything around
until we become one.

“Gloria in excelsis Deo”,
a brilliant halo illuminates your face.
Finally arriving at church
I am pulled to my knees
And wait
For the offering.

You ask me questions
I don’t know how to answer
Taunt me with thoughts
of a dawnless future
Plant ideas that you know
I’m wary to act on

Praise to you, battered brain

You encourage me to look
twice over my shoulder
Remind me I’m never alone
and never peaceful
You keep me awake
with delicious destruction

Praise to you, bitter brain

You give me such dreams
hues of blue and the cosmos
Mountains and storms
tucked away deep inside
You grasp a pen
and transcribe them with ease

Praise to you, boundless brain

You turn tears into art
and create quite the sonnet
Twist my insides around
just to see if I’ll bleed
But you need us
and together we’ll be

Praise to you, and praise to me

Death is a stalker of my mind,
passing through my thoughts. By night he beats his wings
against my subconscious,
chiseling away at my brain.
He is a bat, sinking his teeth into my flesh;
slowly ******* on my will to live.

By day, he is a charming businessman
dressed to the nines;
black suede shoes reflect the light missing from his eyes.
All suit but no tie,
for he wraps it tightly against my skull
and pulls.

He seduces me with promises of peace,
then slits my throat in hungry, violent demands.

I try to fight him off, but he is beautiful.
So I instead reach my arms out
to the boundless void,
and desperately grasp for his hand.

It is cold, but it is something.

I want him all the same, for he is safe,
and love,
and all things good.
A mirage of the senses.

There he lurks.
Ever present in the back of my mind;
bouquet of flowers in one hand,
a broken promise in the other.

Which one

will he present to me

today?

A house that’s just a little bit too clean
beds that are always made
several empty bottles of beer and wine
walls that appear to trap anyone who comes near.

A mother sitting upright, wide awake at 4 in the morning
an anxious dog who paces in the kitchen all night
a weary father who feels older than he should
     and just wants to rest.
Several phones nearby just in case.

The youngest upstairs hiding in her room
        unable to understand.
The eldest moved away
    focusing her thoughts on anything else.
Empty pill bottles strewn around the house
     like christmas lights.
Air so thick breathing almost becomes impossible.

The middle child gone
    maybe in jail
    or the hospital
    or perfectly fine.

Kisses the needles left seen visibly on her arms.
Something eating away at her mind and her soul.

Empty promises of a better future
    swirl in circles with the ******
        in her black and blue veins.

You feel a relief and you let out a cry,
two parts struggle and fight for control.
Do the heavens claim them and open up the skies,
or does Lucifer swallow them deep below?

Perhaps they remain on this earth for a time,
relishing in their newly found fame.
The word *****, the insufferable ooze and the slime
excreting from those who hardly knew their name.

You long to sob tears but they never come,
so you fake it and hope no one’s noticing.
Twist up your face and personify your glum,
display the illusion and own the sting.

The trauma they bred comes flooding back now,
slamming your ribs with a punch.
Their lies and deceit stain your brain like a vow
and topple your spine with a “crunch!”

But below they are now and below they will stay
till’ the maggots have had their fun.
Outside all adorned with tears and bouquets,
inside it’s all over and done.

I’ve always been afraid of dying
Because I don’t believe in god
But when I look into your eyes
I see mountains and oceans
The curve of the earth
The cosmos colliding
Infinite space and time
Beginning and the end
Now I think
It’ll be okay to die
Because I’ll just find those eyes again
Waiting for me
In the next life
And the one after that

I’ve stopped seeing my reflection
In the mirrors I frequent past
I can’t remember if it’s gone completely
Or if I’ve just forgotten to look

Last I checked it had escaped
Traveling in the dimension between
Overwhelmed by the polished glass
Tired of seeing only me staring back

It doesn’t seem important to check anymore
So I rush past mirrors with my head tucked
My reflection still wanders invisible
Sometimes I hear it slip through the cracks

I wonder if I’m still here
When I pinch my arm my reflection cries out
Lost and misplaced in the labyrinth of space
I continue on without it

Give me everything that clings to you
All the anxieties and aches
The sickly sticky pain
I’ll pick it from your tree
Like oranges in the summertime
And because it comes from you
It’ll taste just as sweet

I will leave the light on.

I remember you liked it left on
when we were kids
and it got too dark for sleep to come.

But now
waiting up all night
for you to come home
has become too exhausting.

So find comfort in that light
like you once did.
For sleep must come to me
before I lose myself.

Or continue on
your reckless path
into that
dark
night.

Just once
I long to bring heat to the chill
Wish I could flip the switch
Find the emotions hidden away
Shoved away
Banished deep within me
I want to show something on my face
Show the cracks within the mask
Just so that someone
Anyone
Would ask if I’m okay

I think that god and I
have a lot in common.

For example
he doesn't believe in me

either.

Lay your fingers on my skin and dig
claw, scrape, and degrade me
until you feel the rot that lays beneath,
beating and secreting into my bloodstream,
desolate and dead but searing to the touch.
Grip it and rip it away
**** it between your smile, throw it to the wolves.
We’ll howl with them
as the full moon rises.