i.
silent words are mouthed through silent bodies ,
and if my love was not enough i don't know what to tell you ..
i have nothing left to give .

ii.
heavy hearts come with loose sleeves , but you're wearing your great grandfather's cuff links ,
so i won't have to worry about your soul slipping .

iii.
sleep doesn't do much for me now ,
neither love , nor singing , nor reading Shakespeare out of an English textbook with twenty owners ..
but when words snake out of those torn lips , honey , my breath travels with them .

iv.**
you're gone ....
honey doesn't flow as easily now , but the bees still sting just as fiercely .
flowers hardly bloom this time of year .
snow piles on the driveway , and my car is stuck .
i can't come visit you ...
you're gone ....

use your body ;
use it to put me to sleep .
the warmth of your breath on my skin ..
i have become a plant , taking in your carbon dioxide and making sugar that forms on my lips .


love is warm , but not as warm as you are ..
your hands are 200 Kelvin ,
and sometimes i have blisters in the morning when i wake up , if you have been there the night before .


love is cold , but not as cold as you are ..
your lips are far below freezing ,
and sometimes i become numb on my chest , and my mouth , and my neck .


love hurts me , but not as much as you do ..
but I have algolognia ,
and that pain transforms into instant pleasure as you bite , and pull , and pinch .

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

unless you were there and you heard them cry out
hold me !
unless you sat beside them and listened to there hoarse breath and saw the blood they tried to hide
in a napkin ..
unless you saw then try to pay for their own funeral arrangements , and hospital bill ..
unless they asked you what they should get carved into stone and placed on top of their skull .

accuse me .
tell me i'm the one who let them go ..
who let them slip through my fingers , which are just as cold and as numb as the dead ..
tell me i'm the one who sat in the hospital for some extra cash ...

death is pretty with white funeral lilies .
death is expensive with the new black dresses and shiny mary - jane's .
death is quiet .....

where were you ...?

she was 10 ,
and love was measured in bruises
in her house ,
and when father got home from
work
she and her brother would race to find
the best hiding place .
her tears picking up pace with each
foot step that she heard .
she wouldn't dare to utter a word as she saw
his shoes , too close to her face .
she hid under the bed ,
hoping that springs and sheets
were enough to keep her safe .

she caught a glimpse of her brothers toes ,
sticking out from the space under the closet door .
father moved toward him ..

she felt herself **** in a breath .

father would skin him
and wear him with pride
and fold him upon a wire hanger with the
rest of the
coats
in that closet .
........
that night , they counted up their cuts and scars and bruises and brokeness ,
and decided that they had collected just enough to move away .
and so ,
they packed blankets
and apples ,
and not oranges because they were both allergic ,
and 5 nickles and 7 pennies she had been saving up for a doll ..
and they snuck out the front door ,
but they both hardly thought of it as sneaking
because father was sleeping with a shine in his skin
and shine in a bottle that was at his fingertips .

they crossed the street
and a light , so bright smacked their vision ,
came at them before they knew it was a light .
but they awoke in clean jeans and white t-shirts
with their backpacks still on their backs -
feeling as light as air , and walking on clouds .
someone had spit-shined the roads --
they seemed to sparkle like gold .
and mother was at the end of the glittering path ,
smiling that angel smile she always had on in the mornings
before the morning when they dressed all in black .
they looked about to see gates made of mother's necklaces ,
and smelled the sea salt
and knew they were

**home .