my favorite girl is honeycombed
a heart of bitter jelly locked
the ants crawl but dissipate
amidst, i blush coquettishly
i am her prince, blue and fond
stranded in abundance of wild grass
somewhere in Texas
my throat is dry and my mouth lingers
on the sunflower seeds i spit aimlessly
into the dirt
Waiting for seedlings to crawl, a spurt of
"this love will grow someday"
i can taste the spit of the tongue
that knows my name by heart
and wouldn't have it any other way
no i wouldn't have it any other way

i am a blade tucked safely in Tupperware
my lonely teeth hidden under clammy pillow
feel these nightmares like they were yours
i could blush with you all night
when my mouth feels dry
it is not from the absence of presence
but from the rotundity cascade
that your hair ebbs as it collides with mine
i'd like to think this folly is something
i can put on the centerfold
a gift too pronounced with an utter
of my masked gravity inside all the
beer you pour into a proud papercup
days shrink into nothingness

For the longest time I've kept my immediate family away from myself.
In retrospect my introversion and quietude as a child bordered on hostile. Most of the time i thought things but never said them. I now wonder if half my memories and excursions with people were all made up in my head while i sat there and said nothing. It's difficult opening up to people because no one ever asks and when they do it's never the right questions.
For a while i thought perhaps i had been autistic without even knowing but without proper diagnosis i am unable to say for sure and i highly doubt it now.
The thing is, while i very much enjoy words and nothing brings me pleasure like listening to my favorite people speak to each other while i pleasantly nod and wait for my turn in order to produce a monologue i had been preparing all the while with the proper pauses almost like i had gone back and done multiple revisions i find it difficult to banter. I am unable to jump from one topic to the next. I cannot for the life of me poetically jump from book commentary to the latest gossip as to why the barista at the local coffee shop wastes so much time talking about tattoos when all you want is your daily dose of caffeine. I must admit that this never really bothered me before. Yes, I comprehend that without dialogue it is not possible to keep relationships or even a simple job. I understand that without having anything interesting to say you will quickly lose friends and resort to whatever internet personas do all day. I've always been seen as the sensitive presence. Most of the time that I am zoning out people will agree that i'm just thinking about important things even though really i'm unable to stop myself from disassociating or even severe daydreaming at times. In fact, most of the time i am just there. However, when i'm alone without the impending life-or-death situations of being responsible for acknowledging the existence of other people there is a sense of liberation. I will go about my day hastily jumping from one task to the next. I am often bewildered by those that cannot bear being in their own company. They will seek any alternative rather than being alone and let me just say that there is a difference between being alone and being lonely and while i have felt both these with the same intensity i cannot say that which I am more perplexed by.

I am alive in a home-made dress that was bought for two dollars at a yard sale
there is domestic bliss in routine
in the inching of my hand on a knife that will be used to slice the
tomatoes growing outside
there in no harm in loving you eternally
I think about everything often
about the way I tried for years to soothe my fathers’ psychosis
and my mothers’ sadness
I think about the temporary loss of my body and the way I absorbed it in sweat
my bones constantly caught in bushes of bramble thorns  
and I wish you could see how far you have to go to come back home

the television sings
the satellite dish keeps twirling on the rooftop with no signs of slowing
I think I've meant to catch it, keep binoculars close
in case it gets too dizzy and ends up on the front yard again
the neighbors sunbathe **** and the sun
hides behind the trees of second hand embarrassment

soup in the spring
I can taste again
there's a photo of me riding a horse
but I wouldn't be able to describe the feeling to you
always the horse
never the horse girl
he kissed my hand like a gentleman
and I fed him an apple
coming back home they ask why my knuckles are bleeding
I say I got too close and a kiss sometimes involves teeth

there's a newspaper that gets delivered
when it rains it soaks & slithers on the front porch
melting into the cement
I never pick it up
I don't have an address
but it reminds me of Sunday morning
it used to cover a male face
there's a clearing of a throat and the sipping of black coffee
it's 2004 and the president is my father's favorite person
I'm used to living in tiny spaces
stir-crazy is reserved only for the *****-inducing extrovert
but as I turn on the light
the yellow glow reminds me of being inside an egg
I feel like I did in 8th grade when I was perpetually blushing
and all the girls in my classroom asked me why I was so nervous
I have flashes of a lemon tree
I was born nervous I tell them
the rest of the year is spent in silence