We console one another, or at least try to do so,
and feel sad that we can't,
so then the person being consoled-
consoles the one trying to console
for not being able to console.

Next to me, you're tiny
so small
Compared with me? weak,
you're just a doll

But you need affection
I just want the best for you
Bad at detection (you are)
But you're good at what you do

Let's just...
Take this off so daddy can see what's there
Oh you're uncomfortable?
Well, life isn't fair.
And baby, please
I can't feel a thing
So let's just lose
This rubber thing

Don't say no
It's not polite
I won you fair
In that barfight
You're mine now
Skin, bone, and all
So open up now
You're taking the fall

(So weak, so small...)

I am not getting what I want
Persistent I will be until attainment
Come on baby, please don't be a ****
Now cry a little now for my entertainment

Being on your own
being intimate with oneself
in silence
and still...

...enables the monsters to emerge from their shadowy places,
to egress from their hidden agendas,
from their porcelain, painted masks...
out into the free air to indulge in one's fresh flesh...

much like monsters who hide in closets.

And you'd call Mother and swear and swear
you could see, hear, smell them in full
in that ****** dark thing
with the creaking door...

but when you implore Her to look,
she finds nothing
but a fluffy stuffed pink bunny...

But O She leaves again and there they are.

Ready and salivating to reveal their evil templates
and in all their glory watch you squirm over the knowledge.

And they watch you, tell you things about yourself-
things you've tried to ignore all this time...

I. The Hard

I want so badly
to be your finger puppet.
My libido tells me so,
as the bible would say
Jesus loves me.

Undenying,
raw machismo.
I'd like to wear that pretty noose
you hold in your daring hands
around my tender neck
in a string of fresh-water pearl
vibrating warmth on my skin.


II. The Soft

(And crass as I am,
you make me feel bold.
Brass as I am
you make me feel gold.
The *** that I am
you say I'm a sweet one, at least,
that you'd hold.)

the famous windmills of... wherever
sitting hollow in a photgraph
standing tall, dark, anonymous
in a greying contrast to the fray
and hope to see the sun someday

I have been named Darkness, as a term of endearment.
I have been said to be an itch that one cannot scratch.
I go to extremes in no direction,
but do so quite intensely.
I long to ***** poisons from stranger's candies, but know that I never will.
I have obsessions and urges of a feral nature.
And I like it.
I'm a ******* good woman, and a woman good at *******.
I glow from a place you haven't explored yet, but have always longed to do so.
And you'll let me through your forcefield with ease
because you know these things already.

rough, flush, posthumous lips.
exposed, crisp imperfections.
rough, barbed fingernails.
frost wisps eyelashes into splintered cords.
moist lyrics in the foggy solicits of a conventional partition.

My fingers are powdered with vitamin C residue
as I place the smal pill on my tongue
and taste the bitter thing
with buds eager for something strong and overpowering
...too strong...
and the taste matches my mood
with tangy, heavy shock
I swallow it in hopes that it will help
with my swollen bronchial... whatever...
I finger the bottom of the bottle
for a second pill
2 left...
2 to go...
2 to overload my body with it's immune health properties
more powder on my fingers
I **** it off in a mindless manner
as only a bitter stillness has taken me over this morning
eyes still swollen
from the night of crying before
...more powder from the bottom
I need more of that bitter taste

Should have stayed benevolent through it all
But I let my venom course it's way through my own veins,
Poisoning all with my bite.

I am a dracula, blasphemer, killer, liar, emotional tourist...
an Eve, a serpent's pet.

And it's just that when I am on fire
it's hard to put me out.

I feel like the bitter ghost of a woman
that descends over calm waters
and spews forth her black-tongued
malice.

I never even recognized the poison
in my own heart.

And I shall die this way.

(Excerpts from my thought process of today.)

I've been implored by conversation and my own pieces I've taken from it
to find comfort in the absence of perfection.

I told myself today:
Find comfort in your flaws, my friend
for they are a part of you
and you must love them
just as much as you love the good parts
because it is you
and you are always going to be your greatest love
or your greatest loss.


Torn skin stings where it is starting to heal....

I have conflicting beasts inside me
duking it out for the better half of the meat.
The juicier, larger half.

lonely, maybe?
afraid to be anxious
but afraid to pop a Xanax
just to feed the addiction
and die a little more inside.

Seeking out comfort in seemingly more oedipus-like fashions.
Take that as you will.
(I don't care.)

my thumb gets near my mouth
I have the urge to **** it in between my lips
and roll my tongue around its sweet comfort
like a child I can no longer be
but such comfort
I get in warm bursts
from this pleasant incursion

I feel like an animal trapped in a hot car.

Listen to these whispers
you're going to find a terror you haven't encountered
in your peaceable years in your masculine form

wait with baited breath on the edges
the blood will flow slowly
so don't move just yet

i'm not done

you'll cry out
and i'll smile softly to myself
as if I had any mercy
or will to unbind you

you have made yourself mine
by the bitterness you've instilled
therefore weakening your state
strengthening my blood
my taste
my bite
my dominance

so cry out
as if I have mercy
as if there is anything
that will stanch the flow of blood
at this given moment

and know
just know

i'm not done

I think I've been tricked into thinking I'm sick.
If you want to know more I can give you the Bic
Just give it a little click

Write me a little 'script?

I'm moody enough to be an emotional poet
And I'm desperate enough that I'll have you know it
I will even all-the-way-down-to-the-bone it

Fake a pretty personality and tell you where to stow it?

I'll sing out "look what I did Pappa!" in a British child's accent
Starring Me! o just me! in a big name musical event
Possibly open a space in my chest for rent

Call a British doctor? "She needs put down, innit."

My emotional range as classical piano keys
Jet black and stark white, smash a fist down and see
But you'll never guess, you'll never guess what's to be....

I've got a vendetta with a psychiatric decree.

I think I've been tricked into BEING sick
And ******* all, I want that ******* Bic
Give your jugular a little stick?

Now write me another 'script.

he feels he is doomed
such as Frankenstein, and the like.
he is a brute force though he is not marked by depravity.
unbroken
and with veiled language.
strange and landlocked,
with breathless eagerness he pursues nature
to her hiding places
dark eyes,
******* yet softly gleaming such as the wolf.


(in that he is a changling, he tranforms me.
lets my own strangeness identify
another oddity.
a sparkling twin
from nature's womb.)

the pulsing blood inside his body
reverberates the sounds of my own darkness.

my glow
is your bust
i know it so don't tamper with my individual
wrapping
it's not
something for you to unravel
so don't pull on my strings
it's not for you to say
it's not for you to see
i'm keeping myself,
my mind
a secret, so you see,
it can't be
for the love of me
don't let it be
such a bitter thing
and don't let me see...

you're playing with fire
by the pulse
of my wrists
you're playing with fire
by the pulse
of my neck
you're playing with your own ****
get a grip on it
pull it back in
pull the strings back up
get a grip on it
and you'll see

you can be
alone

He arrived home
dead
with a still beating heart
He woke up
still asleep
though with sleepless eyes
the child is absent from
where this man now stands
though fragile still in his repressed memories

i've created me a monster
i built him and i set him free
i've made a man-like monster
i breathed electrical breaths into his body

i've created me a monster
and he hates me for it so...

now, my creature- he is lost
wild and decaying out there
only by my mark on his skin
can you know that he is mine

and his strange gutteral sounds
they desparingly resound
from walls all around
in my head abound....

what have i done?

the men, they like to jab me with their loneliness
jabbing, in-out, in-out
and they like to do so with intensity of the precursor to love
they like to instill their energies within me
as I collect in neat stacks
the long, hard rides they've had

You like to pretend there's no poetry in you
while you are
...drifting, drifting, drifting...
as it were.
Creative forces weave their way through your soft hair,
out through your voicebox,
down through your hands.
Doubt swims about
in your freshly trodden mind,
however.
But a voice I do hear
in soothing baritone swells.
Strong hands that do heal
straight from a good heart alone.
Your courage speaks louder than both, I feel,
and the poetry exists-
in the fern colored Seven Seas that are your eyes.
Glistens like a sharp needle
which pierces sharply through my own delicate skin.