As I listened to the
WORDS
spewing from your ugly
drama filled tongue(you're addicted to saying the word **** and attaching people to it)

        I tried to stay happy
for as long as possible

I knew that "****" would sink in
and take away my
contentment. (i was just sitting there, eating my cold lasagna
when i heard you begin
your disgusting rant)

Your words
                       would make statements,
make music full of hate.
not music at all, really.

more like sounds. noisy WORD
sounds
angrily
the way a crow sounds
the way a baby cries
the sound of that pathetic boy
getting picked on
near the swingset
by two older kids because of his snowflake winter boots
but

YOU don’t feel
bad for him

you aren’t here
and you don’t know that i
love you countless ways

in a different way than how
we used to kiss in that tall tree of hope

I love your thing
your whiskers
your coarse black  hair in the
    nest of where I spend my nights(a slugabed)
your trunk, rooted deeply
in your strong muscular back
and I love your
feet.
your
wide
toenails

c o v e r i n g   t h e   e n t i r e t y   o f    t h e   t o p   o f   y o u r    t o e.
I love your words
and I know that they mean what they are
nothing more

and I love how I trust you
I trust you with the,
Frailty   of   my,   sickly body
and my cardiovascular device
and you hold it with those fingertips that
--so often hold me

mistakes are mended by your fingers
hands are held by your fingers
mysteries are managed by your hands and
each finger does its duty


and ever and again you don’t understand why I do things
why I push you away
like a baby that won't open its mouth for medicine
I cannot make sense of these things either
and I wish
(on every kiss, sweetness dear)
that I didn’t do them
but sometimes life makes
--you wonder what am I doing
driving on the left side of the road

Three weeks ago
I was so sad I thought I would die

And now
I’m not sad at all
So,
I am living proof that
Time goes on.

Quit whining

Black ruffled waves crossing,
sweeping over the crinkled eyes and the
mysteries that hide there
Childhood is remembered when one brings a comb
to the head of
this lovely excuse
for an animal
Describe it, disguise it, dye it different colors
simply to
feel
real
I spend my days dreaming of softly ruffling, slipping oily tips into the ocean of black waves
Your roots and ends are worth too much,
I should shave it all off while you sleep
and keep it in a bag to smell during days that you are absent.

And when your attic gets chilly and lonely,
I will glue it back on and we will rejoice,
won’t we?
We have no need for hats yet,
and we won’t until you are scared of dying
On sad days I want to run my hands through it
and live in your scalp
where everything
will be soft and sweet--sweat smelling
like in a cave that is never dark
or frightening

I opened my laptop
to write a poem about a windowsill

and I found one of your ***** hairs.
on the space bar
it was a happy moment.

men write poems about ******* women
and vaginas and ****
and glorious juices and getting drunk after

and I can’t
because I have a ******
and ****
and I get uncomfortable if they want to drink after.

and if I wanna write about how I really like it
when he climbs on top of me
and puts his **** into my warm hot love-cave,

it’s just ****** poetry.
by a woman
and it doesn’t mean anything
but if I was a “****”
a “*****”
and I said “no”
and wrote a poem about “****”
it would make women love me as a feminist

but I’m not a feminist
I just like it when he ***** me
and his chest hair falls out
and covers my ******* and goes into my bellybutton


I don’t mind having to
lint roll
the sheets

my breath
couldn’t keep up
with our rapid kissing

and I suffocated
right there
in your red arms

and when I died
you kept right on
*******