A bit of coke,
little drag of smoke,
nothing suits me
like the
sip of gin
trickling down

               your lips

I’m hoping for an ashtray,
a pinch of crystal on
my wrists to feed
these veins
from a dehydrated paroxysm

Never settle for a
sober embrace or
the scent of your

             showered skin

But I’ll take the drug,
the need
             (a scar)

to burn naked purity
if it means I’ll
always be gone

She bit her lip, blood let in her gums,
on the picket fence, staining white houses
with her sinful finger tips

(Said stars weren’t meant to shine but burn)

I watched her chew
Gnaw on her skin until her veins shown
in her scar tissue — not deep enough to shadow;
but visible like the bones that poked through
                            her buttoned dress

She would unbutton, tear and ruin
the tethers that held her upright
Keep her body **** for boys to
touch and gamble upon

I watched her feed off her dead skin,
hear her whisper in the dark,
remember her cries when I forgot how to feel,
and always think she is she, burning above
dim-lit strangers in the night of a car

*(The moon mourns over Jezebel, the lone lost star)

There were words wilting on his tongue
and I could smell them from across
the bed, between the sheets —
wrapping his vowels between my thighs
and smoldering in every consonant.
I could not breathe for I was gulping
every muted word, thought, image;
his choking lips depicting dying needs.

And I began to soak the mattress,
screaming into pillows while the sun
set between our waists —
darkening my curves and shading his face.

I no longer smelled him in the quiet,
no longer reached for static.

                     Instead I kneaded his language
             into my taste; until I spoke
         for him.

Parched –—
From these salted wounds
Hazy, smoke-filled rooms penetrating
The scabs on my wrists, the stitches
On my heart where I’ve placed it on my
Sleeve for you to wipe your tears upon

Don’t want to put myself to sleep
For these dreams take away realism by
Releasing the seams and all
I want to do is feel alive

And I guess I was born to swallow a
fist full of pills ‘til the smile on my face
drains the color in your eyes;
Because you called mania pretty
Where I could not see it

Can’t hold onto my fingers no longer without
Picking up layers of my skin where you
Have kissed impulsive touches, fainted cries

There is no breath in your strokes,
No reason for me to pull and push
Your every thrill if I’m going
To bury these walls I have
Yet to build

Be gone, my dry mouth
Forget me still

Paper cracking,
pen is bleeding
but she’s a-silent
while the world
sleeps

Beneath her bottom
quivering lip,
smell last night’s
goodbye —
another tomorrow
wasted in bed

Midnight slow dances
teach her how to step
on her own feet,
her own dreams

She is spinning with
the world,
dwindling with time
and empty breaths

I crave for women like you
The kind who vanish  
under the covers and into
tunnels where no end
meets light —
cementing your curves
along the way for me to
find in the dark,
in the space
of your eyes

I feed on a lust that
has no require,
no must;
but a want of lack of
motivation to get out
of these sheets,
and out of you

I have an itch for women like you
The kind that settle beneath
my naval, the arch in my back
And like a rash you spread,
you dwell in
all the possible places I
cannot get rid of you

I have bled and
I have learned

Dark knowledge,
poignant truth —
everything made of
flaw, and dead ends
have justified the
purity in a sin

Wilted gardens,
sleepless eyes

    *(you are all so beautiful to me)