I enjoy the word "sweet," it accurately describes the succulence of your lower lip
I wish to ****
and bite, and bruise.
"Hard" is your body, lean and tough
and assumedly rough
intense
passionate, all those lovely sensual adjectives that cheesy soft-erotica novellas
(that I "don't read")
use to describe a Man on a horse,
or in a fireman's coat, covered in soot,
saving kitties and pleasing cougars.
You are quite the male that I crave,
absolute perfection in human form that tempts and tortures my guilty thoughts and heaving breaths
so that I feel like one of those helpless heroines who swoon over a sensitive, wounded man.
But God do I want to inflict wounds on you, and lick them clean.

You have been a bad boy;
go to my room.

Not sure why
I ever expect anything else
but I always manage to feel let down;
I know what I want
and I do nothing to get it except complain when I don't.
I know that I want to be happy
and what do I do?
I be sad, and afraid
and not very happy at all.
And why?
Because I have bugs in my brain that just love to make my life uncomfortable
and as unfullfilling as possible.
I want to be free and what do I do?
I become a slave to everyone and everything so that I am no longer me
but an image of passivity and repressed desires.
If I were free,
I would scream from the top of a building my opinions
and kiss that freaking stupid boy
and then do terribly explicit activities with him,
but none of that can happen
until I can accept myself and reject the possibility of disappointment.

Tea that was once imaginary in the *** is tilted into her gilded, delicate cup.
Thin, like a butterfly's wing, the handle will crumble if  pressure is applied.
"Thank you," she whispers like a lovely little lady to her host, a giant stuffed rabbit.
He is missing a button eye and fluff is foaming out of one of his ear holes.
He nods, and rips a stitch turning away to greet another guest. Her eyes widen.
Fast forward to tye dye and LSD. She is in the mud, covered in rain and ****** fluids,
in a crowd of strangers-turned soul mates, swaying in the vibrations of guitar strings,
thumping palms and fists against rapidly disappearing ground that is no longer solid,
but liquid, Earth, and soon it will all errode until the molten metal core is revealed
and then
all will be one.
Rewind a few lifetimes, pause.
Others are watching from outside a glass cage.
She is inside, curious, observing the observers though aware of  why they stare.
She has a growth on her shoulder, a cyst the size of a sister,
a mini sibling not fully right or grown.
She is a freak for these onlookers, it is her job, duty and fate.
They laugh and grimace as a spot light focuses on her form(s).
She feels numb to the gaiety and exploitation, absent from the popcorn grins
and sticky cotton candy fingers leaving blue prints on her window looking in, so  she can not look out.
Record,
her children all know the moments of her past, the past she never can remember because it wasn't fully her,
but they feel it, in their hair, and their nails and their dreams
that their are their mother's problem.

I feel naked  in your eyes
skinned, dissected, analyzed
like you already know my thinking,
my secrets, the things I hide even from myself.
You must already know I'm a worrier, and I get high on anxiety like it's my ******* job.
You know that sometimes I make myself eliminate my meals in unhealthy ways to avoid love handles.
I'm almost positive that you know I feel naughty when alone at night and ease my frustration
while thinking of your body.
Your probing eyes
must see my weaknesses,
how I am only a human, a little girl who can not stand to be disliked yet will not accept affection.
Those eyes have seen my fears and insignificant dreams,
like how I wanted to teach immigrants to speak American and give my organs to small, sick children.
Your mind must have some opinion of it all,
all of me, my characteristics and problems and how they mate to create my personality and mannerisms.
I feel so judged and critiqued under your scientific stare,
but the way your eyes stay still and barren, void of all emotion
makes me feel that you are an epicenter of passion that craves to bite into my skin
and I want to let it happen.

Profound profanity, he says, is the key to germination.
But why, I say, would one ever want to procreate?
For the experience, he says, which is about the journey and not the destination.
I can understand this,
it's like riding a bike
a stationary bike
that goes nowhere but see, you're going! Going and going.
I do see
and so does he
so what do we do?
Not a whole lot, just sit and talk of trains and temperature and how pirates walk.
He likes to do litmus tests of our saliva and hang them in the windows for all to see
that we are not acidic, but  on acid, and sometimes a bit base in nature,
like the trees and the crysanthimums and corinthian columns in Greece.
We traveled to Greece, once, on our stationary bike
it was beautiful and real and there was much salt in the air-
they grow olives and fish in the trees
and their water is just teeming with rust.
We put our rust on buttered toast like cinnamon and munched at the oxidized metal,
crunching like captains and cheesin like goats
just a random bunch of fools with our silver and tenticals and suction cups of steel.
We are like robots, fighting crime and boredom with music and shrugs
because frankly my dear we don't give a ram or an aries or any other kind of anything.
We simply do not
because we will not, and refuse, above all else, to sleep without a star in the sky.

Truancy is a ***** with ***** stamps and skunky hair
her constant need to blow smoke up the ***** of those trying to try
is inconvenient at best, irresponsible at worst,
maybe amusing in the eyes of the elders.
Been there, done that
she rolls her eyes and pouts
slits her wrists with carnival glass
so she bleeds the multi-dimensional colors imperceivable to  human eyes,
an entirely different color spectrum,
ultraviolet, super violent,
tasty and warm.
This young lady is no lady at all
just a little girl,
vulnerable and scared
and a total ****** *****,
grabbing her ankles and thumping in dumpsters,
pretty little thing,
with scabs and gin
and cute little *** stains.
Leave her be,
this street walking angel
she never learned her lesson,
too swag for education.

Our Father, who art in heaven
I have some confessions.
I am terrified.
Of what?
Everthing.
I break into plague-like bubonic hives when I worry about THE future, my future,
any future because it does not involve any of the nows.
Moments of newness and unclarity, of strangers and distant conversations of topics I know not of yet,
weeks in agony trying to earn money for rent,
days waiting for a sign, in the form of a plus or minus, to dictate whether or not
a parasite grows in my womb.
Father, I sin daily
for I am a glutton
in my eyes.
I see flaws in my appearence,
though no horrible disfigurements exist;
in my thoughts, this is even more unforgivable,
the invention of sorrows that are not mine,
the pitiful desire for perfection.
I feel I do not deserve the wonders that I have.
Grant me the ability to feel secure and grateful
rather than worthless and guilty.
Oh brother, woe is nobody
for all is too good to waste,
yet nearly impossible to entirely feel.