I fell asleep with your smile on my face,
tears in my eyes twinkling like the stars
that rest above me: mirror images.
What are they crying for?

My mind is spinning in circles and
I'm dizzily trying to find something to grasp--
a way that I could possibly
stop loving you.

There's no mystery in anything when I think of you,
but I'm losing that luxury and
winning nothing but a game of tug-of-war
that I knew you weren't even playing the same way I was all along.

It's not a fair fight when I'm the only one at war.

From lip to lip your secrets transfer,
sincerely, I am sorry for kissing so much.
Love is sitting somewhere behind my teeth,
cordially waiting, legs crossed and hands folded.
Your friend reached down my throat.
Respectfully, it didn't even feel good.

Thank you for the blame and pointed fingers.
Take care to clip your nails where I don't dream and
write soon of some excellent ****** endeavors, for
my best regards are long gone, along with
yours.
I miss you when we hate each other.

Wishing the best of every moment is childish,
thinking of you is even more so. But somehow we
always seem to sleep in each other's arms.

It touches so softly I and barely feel it. Like a tickle down my spine.
Over under, in and around, up and down.
I made a choice when I chose, and I told them, I told them I couldn’t be more than one.
But here I am, trying to be four or five, sometimes six.
I’m nearing breaking point.
And I need rain. And a walk.
Will you take me?  I’ve been meaning to ask you.
It’s a treat because I just became seven.
I’m sorry? Do I bother you?
Deal with it.
It flutters so softly, and I can’t tell where it goes.
But I know its not here and I’m reaching breaking point.
I made a choice, I told them, and somehow I’m seven.
Why can’t I just be me?

it lifts like silk from the skin:
soft and slow, extremely sensual,
and gives goosebumps
that shiver through my eyelashes.

it whispers to my senses,
gently pulling
until I am lifted from the ground
purely ecstatic; purely silver.

it is in my eyes when I see you
and under my skin when I don't
tickling me to madness--
I think I need you.

I float like a rock
and sink in clean air.
The scent of me alone
is enough to make any head turn.

I can promise you nothing
because I claim the title "starving artist,"
and every time I bleed,
I do it for the sake of humanity.

I live on a crucifix created by Picasso
and crawl to work on my knees.
The Pink Floyd blaring through my headphones
is louder than the sound of my heartbeat.

I cry when I see art that doesn't make sense
and I feel sad even if I do understand it.
I don't use razors to shave
and yearn each moment for rainy days.

I am nothing to no one,
I am not real or imaginary--
simply a popped balloon at a six-year-old's birthday party.
But let's not cry over spilled paint.

The window is open
and a bird flies in with your voice
I want to keep you--
but you would **** all over my house.
Plus, I know you don't want to be here.
Birds hate it indoors.

How many songs can your wings sing?
Holding the same memory,
as if the mind floats above you
and carries you like a puppet.
What kind of holding is it?
How short are your talons clipped?

I'm sad to see your life on strings,
but you won't let me help.
You think you're flying away?

I hope to God you aren't.

On tiptoes,
I am finally feeling
the coldness and tears
falling consequently from your heated choice.
I do not credit you passion
or even courage—
simply the naïve ability
to run away
as if life is a game of tag
where you will never be "it."
But, you must see, what would be the point of playing
if the same person was always chasing?