lips sit
lips on lips
sit lips
that lips split
by split lips

lick X lick

to where a bead sits
between lips
by lips split

lick X lick

A catfish laughs.
It thinks of other catfishes
In other ponds.

It was as if the world was spinning spirals around me that got smaller and smaller, and more and more distant with every whirl until it was just a spec floating before me and I was nothing but an observer. I was no longer dancing circles in the center of it all, just to keep up. I was no longer a part of it. It’s like… I don’t know have you ever said a word so many times in a row that it stopped sounding like the thing you were describing, and instead started to sound like this separate alien entity? “Crayon, craaayon, crayooon, crayonnn” I used to do it all of the time when I was little… just repeat things until they weren’t even things! Or, when you stare at yourself in the mirror for so long that you start to question who or what is actually looking back at you… and you reach out and touch the glass and then you touch your face, just to believe it. Just to make it real. I felt my heart breaking inside of me, and then all of a sudden… nothing. I was dizzy for a moment; I felt the beginning of a headache let in but then… silence, silence of mind, silence of physicality. All was cut off. I was so numb. So separated. So tragically indifferent. It only felt like a moment’s time that I had sort of escaped my body, but when I finally came back... back to feeling… back to myself, the sun had gone down and I was alone in my tiny flat in London with the door locked, and a dresser lodged under the handle. All of the lights were off, and I was sweating. They say that by the time the police got there, twenty seven people were reported missing, and by the time they cleared my flat, twenty six body bags were sent away… Orange, black, orange, black, white, white, white. Bread. Bricks. Bars. Bolts. Locks. Keys. Psychiatrists… twice a day every day, “What do you remember from the night of the murders?” , “Why did you do it?” Some of them got so emotional, the men in blue escorted them out & I never saw them again. For the first couple of months I had a different psych every other day. But I’ve had the same lady for about eight years now and she hasn’t got a single thing outta me. Mostly because there’s nothing there. Have I thought about making up a memory and a motive? Sure. But, what if by some beautiful twist of fate, it wasn’t me. What if I was framed? What if I was drugged and the schizophrenia is just a misdiagnosis based on an event that had very little to do with me… I mean, I was the twenty seventh missing person… what if there were twenty eight of us in that room and the guy who offed those twenty six victims left me to cover his tracks? I think about it all of the time. Twenty four hours a day, for the past ten years. But I’m here. Here for life. “Most notorious serial killer in four decades.” I hear it every day. My name, and my face plastered all over weird, low rent books twisted teenagers dance rituals around or whatever. Me. The schizophrenic, ******, sociopath murderer. I was a normal kid. Went on dates at local coffee houses. Sang along to ****** rap songs in the back of my best friend’s car. Took beach vacations every summer. But now, now I had twenty six lives I made myself responsible for… and I haven’t had an episode since. Makes you question, ya know. Question everything. This life. These facts we learn and know to be true, the surroundings that we perceive to be reality… all of it, does it even exist? Do I even exist? Honestly, I think I’m dreaming. I’ve been dreaming for a while now. I just can’t figure out exactly how to wake up.

Sometimes the mornings are restless
and the hangover is heavy
and the heart is heavy

And everything goes quiet
The body goes quiet
Maybe the sheets rustle
But the body is quiet
In silent prayer

This headache a revival
Back into existence

She has awaken already
She does not even leave her scent behind

I am thankful
Mostly for the quiet
As the sun illuminates the blinds
Like the beginning of light
exploding through a wall

And I am thankful
That no matter where these nights take me
Every morning
feels like home

in all of me there is you dying
and in you dying there is me

dying though less perfectly more

frailing ugly than.                                                          (I

like all are who
each less day
than more
darkness becoming.                                                                     Up

do you and think do you
me a bit of nothing want
to briefly more in kissing
have my body as your own?                                                                Shoulders have

in me where keep your lips
your heart and fingers too?                                                                        Prevailed

perhaps or instead
the wetness of your dew?                                                                      Lips

i think i think
i think i want that too.                                                                    Ecstatically

so please the dying more
of perfectly you                                                                         Ineloquent

the less of me to frail so ugly
a tender sprig of blue                                                           To

of common sky to enter
the dying perfect you                                                                          Eat)

1.
Because you are lonely too. And you know what it's like to spend hours waiting for a notification that someone values what you say. Verification that some of the people in your box of friends still walk through your forests waiting for trees to fall.

2.
Because you didn't understand the metaphor and so it must be deeper than your reach. Because people who appreciate poets are more approachable than poets themselves, and are far less likely to spend Saturday nights alone.

3.
Because the words look like family. Because when they pass your teeth it's as if your heart joins in chorus, and their syntax wraps cozy round your shivering bones. Because their eyes look like yours and because they know how to cut you, but don't.

4.
Because you are in love. And if a raccoon tore a hole in your garbage bag, ate last week's green chocolate cake, and returned it to your porch shortly after, you would see poetry in it. Because poems look like pies through rose colored glasses and it's really hard to find a bad pie.

5.
Because you hate this poem but won't tell me. Because our relationship hangs on your approval, and you know I'll expect you to make me feel ok about writing this. To tell me people don't appreciate real art anymore, and that's why no one else has responded.

6.
Because it doesn't rhyme, and there are numbers separating the stanzas that force you to read the last line slowly. Because it references Facebook and so it's something you can relate to. Because it's cliché enough to be memorable, and a little out of the box but still inside mine.

7.
Because you know why I wrote it. And you know that seeing your name beside it will be all the consolation I need. Because their is loyalty in a signature that even our forefathers acknowledged, and because it's the best way you know to take sides.

8.
Because the last thing you liked was McDonald's French Fries and you're looking to diversify your portfolio.

9.
Because you want me to remember you. Because we haven't spoken in years outside of birthday wishes and silence is a hard habit to break. Because neither of us is sure who the apology belongs to but because you're willing to take a step on faith.

10.
Because you know the impact an echo can have on its target. Because we all scream from stages built with fearful hands. We carry microphones in our pockets on nights too quiet to sleep and purge our lungs of their angst. Because this cave can not be empty. Because words are not like family unless they are spoken by someone we love. Because some nights all I need is a name to believe I still have my own.