Wrap a scarf about your hairy neck,
something fur—something warm.
Drive an iceberg,
but don’t fall asleep at the wheel
(that is far too typical).

Follow the red dots lining the edge of the sky,
they will lead you to the drop-off
so you won’t be late for school
or work.
But leave time for coffee,
and always ***.

Listen to talk radio,
it will keep you in good humor
make your hair grow longer
fix your handwriting.
It is always important to listen with only one ear,
for you never know when God will speak.

Limit yourself to one meal a day.
You will shrink, sprout wings,
like the taste of beetles.
Remember the name of your grandmother, though,
it will be the password.

If your hair is long enough,
untie it and let it become a river.
It will stretch for miles
and you will never want for water,
but you might miss the stars
so watch closely, they like to play tricks.

Paint the trees blue;
they have never been that color.
And wash your hands—
the fine is hefty for changing things too much.
People become confused
and get lost when they do not recognize their own driveway.

When you arrive, present your passport,
show the whites of your eyes—
it is the only way to prove that you’re real.
You will melt and fall silent
your hands will become blue
(don’t worry, you are safe here).
No one will speak to you if you remember your ancestors.

Soon, you’ll reach the edge of the world.
Take off your shoes and drop them first.
Make your presence known
it is good to be small and silent,
that way, when you jump from the crumbling cliff of Earth
and you fly,
everyone will think you fell.

The window was open and the fan was on
as long drags of cigarettes filled the bedroom.
"Sure is a pretty sunset, Louise,” Mark commented
his eyes were on the horizon.
“Yeah,” she breathed,
her eyes were on her reflection in the mirror before her,
cigarette hanging loosely from her lips.
“You didn’t even look.”
Louise fixed her hair and took another drag of nicotine.
Mark watched her reflection too,
this time she wiped eyeliner from her face.

“You’re pretty.”
He got up and touched her hair.
“Gorgeous.”

He moved down her back to her waist,
his fingertips trickling like water
from a fountain.
His lips grazed her neck
and her shoulder
and he stuck his face in her hair
and breathed in her smell
and all the while she watched her own reflection.

Disgusted, she shifted and kissed him like she knew he wanted.
She kissed him hard and *****,
like she hadn’t kissed him before.
He wiped his mouth. She felt like an animal.

“You taste like freedom,” he said
after rubbing his face in pleasure.
“****, I am free,” she cursed.
She lit another cigarette and glanced at the sunset,
then back to her waiting reflection.

Some things are just prettier than others.

Dry tongues make for slow lies,
you prefer to use yours for kissing.
I can feel morsels of clam
between my nails, beneath the skin
but never touching—
that's impossible.

the time that counted your whiskers is still ticking,
and I am beginning to think you lied about being a cat
all I hear are dance beats in my shower.

it's not working any more to be red than it is to be any other color.
I'd gladly paint you
I'd gladly tell you exactly what you don't want to hear
even though it's not something I'm particularly good at
(it takes practice)
like ****** ******* with someone you don't love
or laying still.

there are people like you with ***** gym socks, who kiss their friends' older brothers,
who are always too late, who love something separate, who are small,
who forget to feed their cats,
who never say sorry,
who never say excuse me,
who never eat,
who never breathe,
who never remember.

tell those people for me:
if there is a time where no speech is readily available,
speak of something sad, or something incorrect.
ears are never ready to hear something they don't want to
they build up immunity
like blood cells,
but not really.

I must say, your skin looks nice when you lie,
we do like all the same things,
and have all the same mannerisms,
you are handsome,
I am gentile,
we are alone.
use six words.

I will gladly paint you any color,
as long as you supply the paint.

I followed your footprints for nearly three miles
before I realized what I'd forgotten, and by then I was three miles away.
It was neat, clean, and all in order,
but that didn't make it any less wrong;
you know all I want to feel is right.

I keep having this feeling that you love me, but you're afraid to say it.
It's almost enough to make me free,
and I've been liberated before, but not the way I am now.
Everything's new at this point, which puts you in a different section of my life,
and my heart.
I still wish you wouldn't change who you are
just because I've changed who I am.

It's that moment of seeing something you never saw before,
or the second where you know your hand fits perfectly into his;
the way you sound when you sing,
or look when you dance,
or feel when you cry from happiness,
or eat a something you made yourself,
or clean your room,
or shower,
or fall in love.

The light coming through my window streaks the ***** floor,
but there's something in the floating dust
and the garbage on the carpet
that is infinitely
beautiful.

She leaned in close to me
and She whispered, "there is no secret"
but I turned away,
and I held my hands closer than love.

She leaned in so close to me
that our noses pressed against glass,
and She held my cheekbones in the curve of Her thumb
until I was light
and pulsing
"there is no secret." She told me
again
again
still I did not believe Her.

She held me closer
until we were bone against bone, our flesh
unbuttoned and heaped on the floor.
but I turned away, bones clattering
we were just two skeletons in a closet, and I yearned for Her
"but there is no secret" she would tell me,
so I closed my eyes and wept, waiting only
for a simple answer.

“there is no secret”
She hummed to my cold, solid tears
Her thumbs held where my cheekbones had been,
eyes gleaming with my emotion,
“look at yourself.”

in a dark, cluttered room where nothing shone before,
Her fingertips glowed,
and I felt myself
covered in feelings I distantly recognized.
She unbuttoned my shell and laid it
on the floor next to my skin and bones
smiling, She said “there is no secret”
and I held Her, nose pressed against glass
nose pressed against nose
nose
nothing.

I'm a parody to mythology,
the northern star to ***** pilgrims with no teeth.
I'm a staring contest with Clinton,
who lied through his skin about touching someone else's.
He wasn't alone the way he thought he was
I'm behind the gardenias, ******* to **** them
just to spite you. He touched inside my skin.

Eyes like raisins or melting almonds,
touch like hairy, pointed fingers,
snaps so loud that Santa's nose turns red in anger.
He can hear the voices of politicians over his music
like the roars of cars at night, when you're trying to fall asleep.
He sleeps with his round-rimmed glasses on, a bow tied around his ears for beauty.
babies' cries twang through his dreams
from the strings of a banjo, making his lips
yearn to speak, green with envy.

I could write for hours; I could write for minutes
she caresses his silky hair,
his **** hardens in class, and he leaves for cake.
He made enough moves on me, I saw them as they fumbled
limbs are too long for grace, for lies
brain is too tall for truths,
and the belt around her neck tightens in winter, like words ringing in your ears
as you walk out of the movie theatre.
It's true, now feel it.

His nose is long, his hair is skin calling through the television in 1993,
when he saw a new light like heaven opening up
but it was just a practical joke,
he's stuck on the stairway, no way up
no way down.
****
****!
****
who can he call? he left his phone at home with his eyes.
All he feels are feathers and minutes--
long, dreary minutes.
Finally a taxi comes, but he left his wallet.

Time passes more quickly than he counted on;
he's not ready to leave, he's not important yet,
not coherent, clairvoyant.
**** humans, **** the world, he doesn't deserve it's kind of behavior,
but as soon as the clock is fixed
God will let him up. He has no doubt, no dreams
just fingers shaped like leggos.
He was a comedian with serious jokes, the kind that
made you weep solid tears and ice cubes.
The wives of men would watch him and frown,
thinking of how much money to slide under their sheets
for when they grabbed their kids from the shops and left their husbands.
Too much mess.
No sunlight.
Empty corners.
Fur coats.

It never made a difference what I did or didn’t say to you.
You didn’t listen to me either way.
I could have told you the truth all along and maybe
then it would have made a difference. But I’m too lazy,
and I’m too tired, and it’s about time I gave up for once.
You gave up on me straight away and I thought I could pull you back up.
I guess I’m not always right.
I guess I’m only trapped in what boundaries you give me.

You make me so angry, but its worthless pounding on the door of a sound-proof room. I did anyway, and it only made my knuckles raw.
You hurt me. Does that mean anything to you?

      I found myself screaming.
      I found myself losing it.
      I found myself in the middle of nowhere, with no one, and nothing to say,
      wordlessly livid.
      Every thought inside if me no longer made sense.
      It felt like I’d lost control of my own life,
      all because I lost control of you.

      I was simply a flea on a tick on a dog on a hill on an island in the ocean of the world, which is barely a speck in the universe.
      I was a moment that no one heard—especially not you—
      a tree that fell silently in an empty forest,
      a lie that was told to a dreaming deaf mute,
      a ransom held for 12:03 P.M. that no one can pay, that no one even understands.
      I was a thought removed from a frontal lobe
      (“Pass the scalpel,” whispered remorsefully from behind a doctor’s mask).
      I was trapped in a memory you’d forgotten,
      and it was all I can do not to be completely erased.

Remember me! I wanted to shout, for waiting was no longer hoping. In my own sharp memory, I was surrounded by ice. It was fierce, yet completely withdrawn into the open window of your soul. All I could see was debris and packed boxes, stacked upon each other in the clotted, fatal shape of a skyscraper. The darkness of your fond shape wrapped me within myself, when I thought I was wrapped into you. You led me down a path that you knew I would be lost on, and you left me there without a word.

       I’m still stuck in this desolate world that we created,
       and as soon as you think of me, as soon as you return, I will greet you:
       “Welcome to every second in despair, every moment lost, every
       minute growing angrier; welcome to the storm is coming, to running
       from the monsters that aren’t even there, to burning fevers; welcome
       to dead but alive, to quivering and empty, to uncomfortably full,” I
       will say.

“Welcome to loneliness.”

let them slip,
                                       drip,
                                                           ­     fall...
as if part of a melting popsicle that drops to the cement
and leaves my face strewn with salty sadness.
I drew elaborate stories in her sandbox,
I told her the secret to being an adult as a child.

there was a tarantula in Martin's shoe
when you left,
                        not your fault for not seeing,
         your eyes were too shamefully stuck on the floor.

I've stopped thinking that moment is everything;
there are so many more:

His hand in mine, comforting and sweet
but just as exciting as when our legs touched,
painting my balance beam in swirling colors,
playing dress up in my mother's wedding gown,
almost breaking my tail bone in hysterical laughter,
singing in front of hundreds with no butterflies--
                               (not even moths!)
Tasting raspberries after a month of just cantaloupe,
knowing that you'll miss me as much as I miss you.

Everyone loses someone who they never want to leave,
but I've learned to
                                        
                                               let you  go.
                                                        ­        *every single one of you.

I stopped feeling anything almost a week ago,
you said that was normal for someone like me who always bites her nails
who doesn't like to shut up when people tell her to,
but I feel like you were just trying to make me feel something,
or maybe just feel better.
I still bite my nails so nothing's changed.

you eat equations as quick as you eat watermelon
and spit out the answers like seeds into neat rows and shapes,
trying to impress me because you think you can,
but I'm watching your sister and she's picking her nose
and she still looks like an angel.
you're trying too hard to get me to love you,
that's not how it works.

when I touch you I can hear your breathing;
it's disgusting.
(hold something in for once,
your thoughts, your breath, your laughter, your answers)
and when I woke up yesterday, you were silent.
I danced a little bit, until I thought you would wake up soon.
I wanted you to try and excuse your actions.

but you didn't wake up until noon and by then I was thirsty
and I was too gentle.
you told me that you felt something last night,
felt like I still loved you underneath my sarcastic skin
and you tried to prove it by touching me.
you only proved that you're gloriously stupid.

I’ve been sitting here for weeks,
and this is the first time you’ve noticed me?
Do you think I like being under this teacup?
I’m terrified; it’s dark and cold.

You’re out at your party,
and all I can think about is my wife,
all alone on the web back home just waiting for something, anything, to fly by.
It’s all a joke to you though, you sick man.
And would you believe that I climbed into a man’s suit,
got on a plane, flew all the way from Europe,
and lived with Johnny Depp for a while?
No, no you wouldn’t—
you work at NASA,
you drive a corvette,
you are dating the Aphrodite of your age
and it’s all not enough.

So let me tell you about me:
I’m not like you or him or anyone else here.
I don’t own shiny medals or have my own talk show,
I’m just looking for a chip in a cup,
some little imperfection that will set me free.

I’ve been thinking how I like
smooth jazz
poptarts
gushers
wheat thins.
I have hundreds of kids I’ve never met,
and a home in your bedroom window.

But none of that matters anymore
because I’m trapped under this ridiculous cup
and it’s dark, and I’m cold.
I’m beginning to think I should just give up.

Regretting the juice I spilled on your lawn
and lingering on the things I said that sounded like my mother,
I drank myself to whispers so I could stop myself from yelling.
There are books about people like me,
people like me whose whispers hurt their children,
but that's the only good reason to be forty and bitter and alone.

So alone that I forget to check the expiration date on yogurt,
so bitter that I like 100% cocoa  chocolate.
I can hear you forgiving me, as if everything I do is okay
at least, maybe until I stop chewing something that isn’t there.
You make me feel like I overreact, when you're the one who loved me;
when you're the one who left.

And when you went the door was left ajar
because it doesn't matter who sees into my house,
but it matters that I could see into your heart (******* hypocrite).

Three years makes you feel like you've had your laugh lines forever
but you didn't make me smile
and you couldn't see any difference in my eyes
when I'm obviously seeing you in such a different way.
Facing you earlier in the backyard was like looking at myself
(when I was twelve)
and it made me happy to be eating 100% cocoa
and paying for my rent in cash from my back pocket.

I’d forgotten what it was to be afraid of speaking,
to be afraid of being alone.

You were the only one who held my stares,
your eyes were moons
invisibly courting me, sleeping next to me,
whispering to me gently as soft as you were.
I was not soft,
but angry and calloused and alone.

I cradled you each night as if you were ice cream,
or pills
or anything to take the pain away.
You were warm and solid and alive,
but I wasted it;
went out buying lemons and mouse traps
until I could figure out what I really needed.

All you had to do was sit with me,
watch me,
play with me,
nap with me,
to teach me how to live.

But it wasn't until you were gone
that I knew I was in love.

Sometimes I wish I could drive for once,
instead of always watching the way you hold the steering wheel with one hand
as if it doesn't even matter that you're driving,
as if it isn't my life in your hands
or our child's in the back seat.

You're crazy and unrelenting,
you're stealing and hunting,
and it's not something I understand.

I like it when you hold me and I can know your being,
I like it when I can feel what you feel for me  
and I can empathize and be hurt and you can smile, and forget it.
But it's how we are, not who we are.
Because you let me go too soon, and all I could feel was warm.

They lied to me through the gaps where their teeth had been,
and clutched at my purse with their eyes
until I was unclothed and wise,
causing fate to follow behind me as I walked blindly on.

There is no measurement of time in a moment when you feel something,
and I held that moment for as long as I could,
cradling what I thought was different in me.
I stretched until I could see it going around the corner,
and I called to you, trying desperately to get your attention.
But this is fatal,
and only what I don't do will spread quickly enough to get to my lungs.

I don't feel what I used to,
like maybe I can make myself change in the same way that the hand moves over the face of a clock.
I'm just reminiscing over created and discovered memories.
Maybe I found them on my way to the third floor,
I cradle them as if they were yours and hope to god you're an idiot when I know you're not.

It doesn't make sense to be in any body but mine,
thinking anyone else's thoughts,
or feeling anyone else's emotions.
It doesn’t make sense for me to feel sorry
or for me to wish I could handle these things better, like I always seem to.
It doesn’t make sense to be what you think I am,
but that’s why it was fun.

When we used to go to the same supermarket,
I would watch you pick out fruit
and buy the same kind.
I felt close. I felt like maybe someday you would notice
and say something like,
"I've always loved you," or "I like blueberries, too."

I can imagine your face
lingering between blueberries and raspberries,
the teetering glance you gave to each price,
and even the way you opened each carton gently,
as if it were a precious music box,
and tasted the slow, sweet juice of each berry.

When we used to go to the same movies, I would sit near you,
imitate your reactions.
I only wished I could come closer,
and maybe touch your hand.
Your eyes made me wish I was on the screen.

When we slept in the same bed,
I held you tight enough to scare you.
You said let me go,
but I couldn't. I won't. I didn't.

You gave me AIDS.

The bruise on your left knee is yellowing
and I watch it when you're speaking.
Your breath is straight from the oven,
your teeth clattering like a rattling spoon
as you feed me your words,
hard and fast--my stomach so full I can hardly take more.

You talk at me like I'm a chalkboard
and I should be able to create your words at the same pace that you can;
you stop feeling my gaze on your knee
and you try to tickle me with your eyes,
as if this simple movement will make your words softer.
As if I will stop feeling something if you stop too.

You tuck your eyelashes low, like that counts as an apology,
and you face me like you're strong.
You're always like something.
And you have fingernails like a girl's, and you are one,
and you have fists like an ex-lover
and eyes like the city,
but the city is ugly in the light;
you're only beautiful when the sky dims to night.

I can't smell the night air
because your lyrics are getting in the way
and I don't like them enough to listen,
but you're everywhere, it seems.
And I don't mean to be rude,
but you're being very rude.
Just thought you should know
in case you thought you weren't.

And I can't see the stars because, crazily enough,
I can't see through solid objects.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
But you must think that I can
because you sit with your back to me
like I'm Superman or something,
when really I'm less:
I'm nothing (to you).

I knocked on your door at 3 AM because I was cold,
but you let me inside for different reasons.
I was wearing my mother's jacket and perfume
and I think you thought I was her,
but my lips are fuller and my hands are harder.
I felt your smile and you felt mine,
and you told me about being gone
so we left.

I held a whirlwind of your emotions in my hand
and it was the first time I'd felt so much
without even moving.
You asked me to throw them, but I couldn't do it,
so I put them in my coat pocket and cried without telling you.
There was something you whispered to me
at half past six that is sitting in that pocket, too,
but I just can't bring myself to look for it.

And the whole time I was waiting for you to hit me;
I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't her.
In the passion of your memories
you would grab my hand and shake it,
the weird part was that I let you, I didn't protest.

You were kind at 9 AM when I left because I was warm,
but you pushed me out the door for reasons I don't understand.
Maybe because I wasn't her,
or maybe you just needed your sleep--
but I am content with a pocket full of your emotions and memories,
and you are content being alone.

Buttercup, she whispered to me,
your hair is falling out.
I began to worry, and I wanted to scream
but I stopped myself because
I had already screamed once that day,
and she always seems to tell me
Once is enough.

But my dad found out what she had been saying to me,
he told me she was lying,
but then I had no idea what to believe.
I missed the feeling of loosing hair,
and I missed the way it felt as it landed on my shoulders.

At the grocery store
while choosing between strawberry and grape jam
some twenty years later,
I glimpsed her humor in my peripheral vision
and I turned to dance with her
but faced only the peanut butter.

I have seen the sun at night
but only when I was sleeping,
and she always used to tell me
Night time is when things aren't real.*
And I believed her.

2morrow, I will go 2 a dance party.
I will drnk chocolate milk.
I will fake an orgzm,
or mbe I won't try that hard.
It's all up in da air at dis point.

I'm sure that 2day my mother died,
I felt it & I knew ILY,
IDK if my mind is R;
each breath I take is JFF
and I can't seem to con't.

simple reminders:
beach towels,
mustaches,
grilled vegetables
beetles,
time.

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.

Whisper, she said in a voice that was not real
because it did not exist
it was not true that she lied, for she was not real and neither were her truths.

there is pain in my eyes, she would feel it, and she would not fix it.
there is no cure for relentless tears which sometimes come of will,
but today stung and dried out my eyes. she can't touch them.

who is real anymore? god, i will be on your side if you agree to a few conditions.
(i will think later—now i am writing.)
keep in touch, alright, dear? she asks but there is no answer. typical.

it is okay, it is not okay, there is a choice i have to choose.
and she can do it for me, i am tired of being the one who knows.
maybe the leaves carry enough weight to fall on my shoulders,
and that is better than the load i currently carry.
(oh the beauty of alliteration.)

i don't want to know, i want to face the sun, even if it blinds me,
and i will be just like everyone else and that's how it is.
(i can't capitalize, i hate pressing the shift button.)

take into account the fact that i am not a bird, or a deer, or dead, or alive.
and at this point you will see who i really am.
i don't expect you to understand until your late thirties,
at which point you will not even remember this moment,
this moment where you read the thoughts that flow through my mind and onto here,
taking up a space that matters to nearly no one and effects none at all.

i have no choice in the matter, i can't make me into someone else or something else.
can i ask you politely to stop ******* making me feel like it's not enough?
here is fall, where the leaves shall drop and land on my shoulders,
and god help me forget the reasons i am asking for weight in the first place
and help me remember how to lie and make things okay;
because, god, what is life but one ******* lie you have told me?

Whisper, she says in a voice that is not real, make sure no one else will hear this lie.

there are some secrets that are what they say.
there are some that tuck back behind your earlobe and I am not obligated to say which ones they are,
as you are not obligated to ask.
but I will say I cannot tell myself at times, and then I have to ponder why I even know that this is even true; or how.

Look, buddy, I whisper in your ear, I don't want to hold your hand anymore. I don't want to touch you like I have, or share my apartment, okay?

you act like this is some surprise, like you never expected me to hate you eventually.
like I am totally ******* you right now.
you even have the nerve to laugh.
I know what kind of secret yours was, and I know what kind of secret mine was.

until you get serious I will not move, and when you're done I say, I'm done ******* with you and I'm done knowing you **** with me.

So this is my fault? you ask.

Now you are just being a ****. I'll give you three of five stars, okay? I say, and I let you figure me out on the corner of 7th and Mott.

Three and a half? you try, and you follow my across the street. C'mon, the *** was ******* delectable.

This is what I'm talking about, I tell you as my hair whips out from under my hat and I know my nose is red.
it is too cold to be fighting.
Nothing was ******* delectable, go shove your **** somewhere else, I'm sure you'll find it just as enjoyable. Because I'm finished.

I touch your nose gently and kiss your cheek.

I stand by my original rating. Three out of five, I say and I walk down 7th until I reach the corner.

*******! you call and I just wish people knew you were talking to me.

your secrets were exactly what they said they were, and that was boring as hell.
have I taught you nothing? keep them tucked in the right places.

you never know what you'll stumble upon.

It's a mirror in the doorway that tells me I can look no further.
I am not experienced, like you.
I don't know how to defy this.
I don't think gravity is on my side;
nor luck or love.
I wonder why, sometimes.

It feels like summer in winter
if I think of you with my eyes closed.
And there's something kicking at the edge of my mind,
like a skeleton tired of being locked away
and tired of trying to read in the dark.
The bulb is burnt out.
I can't see anymore than you can,
but at least you have the key to the closet.

I meant to be this and that
and all the things you used to get mad at me for being.
I'm not sure why you're so simple,
so feeble.
When I used to admire your heart I would sit on my knees
so that when my feet went numb I could feel the pin-***** of waking up.

Now you've been sleeping for years,
and I know, at this point, that I'm not Prince Charming.
You've told me nearly a million times.
Or at least your lips have,
as they mouth the words of your death,
like a diabetic child ******* on a forbidden lollipop.
I still can't seem to miss you.

She is an angel, I think. At the very least, she can fly. A few times now I've glimpsed her stretching her wings in the privacy of her bedroom, naked in front of the mirror or in front of the windows. All I can see are the curves of her legs and hips though the tall keyhole, and often the feathers that cover her bare, dark skin. There is something empty about her when I see her there that I feel the need to fill, shadows pushing her closer to the crimson curtains that flutter with her movement.

I often linger by the door longer than I should and imagine her flying, a contrast to the soft sky and clouds surrounding her, the light air only lifting her farther up.

I've knows for three years that she wants to leave me. I can often sense it in the way she breathes and blinks slowly and moves about the kitchen. She eyes me as if we speak completely different languages, and sometimes I believe we actually do. I'm too this or that for her, but her image is unchanging in my mind. I will let her fly from that open window any moment she chooses. I can do nothing; I watch her life simply through a keyhole.

She seems reluctant to jump. With my mind I will her to test her wings, as a child tests the water of his grandmother's swimming pool before diving in, limbs flailing. He can swim, though the cold water is hard to breathe in at first, and he moves from side to side in chilled giddiness.

The rustling of her wings keeps me up at night, as I lay in bed half asleep, half dreaming, in a hot and clustered mind. And I keep one eye open, too, for I know in some day to come that she'll be gone when I awake.

It used to be that your stares held me in a captured moment,
framed and mounted on your wall,
as if my current expression would be stuck forever on my face.
Your eyes are cold, and so am I.

It used to be that your skin radiated heat like a wood stove with only the coals left burning,
I loved laying in your arms, imagining that you had laid in the sun all day.
Your fists are cold, and they are hard.

Now imagine a secret so powerful that it could carry the weight of your father--
for God knows he is a heavy soul.
I cannot hold that for you; I'm done.
My imagination is dry, and it is used up.

You slur your dreams and
pour black paint into the mouths of those you care for
until their eyes run still.
My heart is frozen in a block of ice,
but you used the icepick to hack off your toenails and then put it into the recycle.

What do you want?

It used to be that your heart blanketed the stars during the day,
holding safe the dreams that were almost close enough to touch.
My fingers yearn to grab, my eyes ache to close,
and all I can do is miss the feeling of wrapping myself inside of you like a blanket,
until my dreams took me, and you would slip away and fly.

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?

I can't ******* tell if you're squinting or not.
I am, and I can't even see any better.
When I have trouble breathing it helps to close my eyes,
I imagine the stars, and I imagine death.
The sun is beautiful when asleep.

I keep trying to hold your hand and you don't get it.
I thought we already established that we're in love.
I guess if I had any courage I would have less trouble speaking.
But I can't sleep when you're breathing so loudly.
My mind is more alive when I'm gone.

Consciousness is a dry topic to those whose concern is ego,
but neither one of us knows what either one of those means.
So stop pretending like you do and be admittedly in the dark.
I keep finding it pointless to talk.
I see more with the back of my head than with my hands.

Everything's a mystery at this point.
I'm getting so huge that I can't see my feet.
I guess you could say it's a problem,
I see it more as a pathway.
Each pound is a streetlight that goes dark on my walk home.

She held her fists between her lips
and chewed them
as if they were caramels
or beef jerky (she loved meat).
Stopping only to taste her own fear,
she became an enemy of herself
and dreaded the taste of her hands.

She kept her eyes averted
or crossed because she was crazy,
and chuckled silently
behind her eyebrows.
Maybe she was keeping up an image
to show that she was afraid of change,
or maybe she wasn't.

She kept her mind
under her tongue
and pressed down on her thoughts
until they were altered.
She let her ideas mix with her spit
and swallowed them until she was full,
or until her mind was empty.

Your fingertips are on my mind,
pulling up from the roots into each strand of hair.
It’s wet,
and my hair is dark with molecules.
I can’t feel the tip
or inside of my nose.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s just better that way.
If no one guesses
or hopes for anything,
then there is no reason to live anymore and there is no reason to do anything and there is no reason to be happy and there is no reason to lie and there is no reason to tell the truth.

Will you forget for one moment who we are?
Sometimes it works better to feel when you don’t know.
Like a blind man: your sense is heightened.

And I can feel your emotions in my toes—can you do that? Can you do anything?
Over a bowl of chocolate ice cream, you decide it’s a good idea to tell me you love me.
For a while, all I can see is your nose, red and cold,
until your face comes into focus.
And I’m still not happy with you. Is that odd?
I’m sure I’m not at all what you expected.
Once I turned the lights on, you gasped.

Is it chilly now? Or am I the only one who feels a breeze?
I get it,
I ask you too many questions; I ask you too many favors.

But have I ever asked you something
that you couldn’t answer?

No swing, no ding
no kool-aid mix for my *****,
my car's stuck in a ditch
I'm off to Norway
for my holiday
to see a band play
and visit my grandma on her birthday
where we hired a magician
but she didn't like it because she's a mathematician
and a *****
she hates dudes
she'll make calculations just to be rude
and spit in your food when you're not done eating
she's always repeating
different sayings
or her high school day-dreams
and whispering things you can't make out.

Forget it, I dread it
the day is looming
like the shadow of a blooming
sunflower,
I've lost my power
and my will
and the money to pay my bills
all because of the chill
you sent down my spine
that one time
when I said it was okay
but it wasn't.

Consume me—

touch my throat and toenails,
and I will touch yours
if you close your eyes

then I can see behind them,
and it’s like trying to read the last words
of a letter thrown into the fire
from a lover unforgiving
and a time that needs forgetting.

But don’t forget me—

don’t let me slip from your fingertips
because I can’t see that far
and I don’t want to try

unless you can tell me I will be safe
and you can hold me in moments
unlike others,
as I linger before death
without yet grasping the concept of the life you gave me.

You told me I was **** when you touched me
on my chest and stomach,
but I am sure that I wasn’t **** at all.

I have memories of you
cradling me like a lion with his cubs,
except there was nothing paternal
to your touch or words,
and I felt no safety when I was
in your bed.
Not even when you told me not to worry,
not even when I came to you
to escape my nightmares.

You didn’t seem to understand
that you simply led me into new,
scarier ones.

The wind used to carry your whispers to me
gently,
lifting them from your distanced lips,
carrying them to my distanced ears.
The wind loved our delicate romance
and would do any favor
simply to hear
your next beautiful dance of words,
or to watch me smile,
heart melting,
at your whispered adoration.

But now it is restless, itchy summer
and though the wind rarely blows past
my ears,
I know your words drift slowly to me,
floating,
lingering,
whispering:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.

A knot is tied using my small intestine,
but I keep forgetting the reason
for my ultimate indigestion.
So if she will touch me any softer,
I'll let her into those inner-workings
that cloud me with thoughts of her,
but I swallow them and am left choking on copper
like a child eating pennies for an easy dollar.

She comes and goes in patterns,
keeping the shades drawn
and letting newspapers pile on the lawn
as she blows sultry smoke
from her cracked bedroom window.
And I know she's feeling low,
but I wish she would throw me a bone—
or at least something to gnaw on.

I'm choking on words caught somewhere
between my stomach and lips,
feeling bare; naked, counting the tips
that were tucked slowly into the underwear
wrapped in lace around my hips,
trying to remember the last time
that I—or she—was happy.

What is you or me or anyone anymore?
To have no definition-
be us opinions, facts, or fairytales-
is to be no one;
or rather to be everyone
and who says what she is
or I am (by definition)
with a glance,
for her eyes are empty and cavernous
seeking solace in something she imagines
until she is stamped
to become no one
            someone
everyone;
until she is defined by this/that;
until she is who others say;
until then, she is not she,
but rather, "she"-one question:
Is it a choice?

Take your time with the touch until it is too much
and I can't feel my toes or eyelids.
It is like I have become a new person on your account.
I wish you could be this way all the time,
and I could be lost too.
I can curl and twist the way you speak into my body
and it is not painful—no, the very opposite.
Thank you, I would say if you were here to hear it,
and that's not all
stay with me, I would say.

I sleep shut in your door
and I hope your eyes are on the lock
until I wake up to the warm sun.
Is that all?
You forget sometimes that we are in love,
well we are, and keep that door locked a little longer
so I will remind you of it.
These are my favorite.
As soon as the paper lands in your front yard
we will be finished and fighting.
Your hands are warm.
That is a sign to me that I don't understand.
I wish you would take me with you sometimes
so I could hold your hand and watch.
It is like I do not exist to you when I am not home with you,
for apart we are separate and together we are the same one.
I don't want you to tell me no anymore so I wont ask anymore
and then maybe you will like me more
because I know I am good enough for you
and I am not afraid of what I think.
It may sit in my mind,
and you give it time to fester
and I think of little birds in the nest
waiting for food
but I don't know how to teach them to fly.
And I want to cry because they have no one else
until you are home.

Touch me like the morning was touched
and I will become a bird,
until I can curl in and twist away with new wings,
teach birds to fly and I am human but I will wait
until you build me up and in that one moment the separate times seem worth it.
In that one moment we are the same and I will stay I think,
and the birds will teach themselves.

don't let her say it
she asked me nicely four times,
but I cannot listen to falsities
such as the ones that fall from her deep, full lips.
and I wait now
for the time when she realizes me,
for that is nothing here and now,
I am nothing here and now
not to her.

It's alright (this is reassurance,
which just happens to be one of my reflexes)
and I am still left wondering
why she cannot see
what I have put plainly before her eyes.

She felt the rocks and glass
beneath her feet.
They pinched and tugged at her skin,
pulling themselves through each layer
and burrowing in-
as if to hibernate
between her toes.
The asphalt was cold
and had a certain degree of pleasure
in its sharp, penetrating lumps.

She needed someone to hate,
or wanted someone to blame for where she was.
No, not her mother;
no, her mother did what she had to do,
and it was what she had to do
that had given her daughter that first gasping breath
which sets the course of an entire lifetime.

She stood at the corner
clenching her teeth and fists and toes,
taking turns resting one foot on the other.
Blood spotted her feet
and tickled her bones in patterns
like snowflakes:
each one different,
and like kisses:
soft.

Cars sped swiftly past,
dimming their bright lights in respect for her tired eyes.
One halted,
the door swinging ajar,
and only a pale, hairy hand presenting a one hundred dollar bill was visible,
floating ominously in the dark and grimy city air.

He washed her feet and touched her nose,
and when she woke in his bed
the pain had shifted to somewhere familiar,
somewhere that constantly ached;
empty and cold
just like a chilled beer mug.
Her ears rang when he kissed her.

Greedily, he took more.
And he touched her heart with his cold, pale fingertips
until she could no longer feel any
pain.