i wish i could be buried in the winter with the bones of the old hounds below the broken windowsill in the garden of my old house where we grew sunflowers where i lay through the summers beneath the swaying branches wishing i were someone else home is a **** you keep to yourself home is a **** you carry
i left her on the side of the road near the rookery in southern indiana. her body was still warm, not as warm as the time she told me she wished she had a thousand teeth but not yet as cold as the time she grew them all at once and stuck them in me. she taught me many things, like how to forget and how to see through the cataracts and necrosis. she kissed my face and told me i was beautiful and boiled me in a metal bin inside the barn and watched as my skin separated from my bones as easily as slicing butter. she assured me i looked prettier this way, all bones and flaying meat and a thousand little exposed teeth i had no idea were in me.
biting, split, bleeding, brisk cracked lipped kisses with our vicious morning breath enamour me, as if the words burn on the tip of my blistering tongue i'm so full of stifling love i've begun bursting at the seams, i want to be back between those freezing cold sweat soaked bedsheets with frostbitten feet, chattering teeth, cold hives the size of icebergs, i find it hard to breathe in the sweltering heat because you make me blush so much.
we play cat’s cradle with the red strings tied around our fingertips and think maybe they got tangled in the branches of the sycamore trees that line the street you grew up on or got caught in a knot of tin can telephone wires that wind from windowsill to windowsill across the avenues you learned to ride a bike on. if we lift the pinky strings to our ears, i pray we’ll hear the same kids whispering whatever secrets and rumours they’ve picked up from bathroom stalls. i don’t believe the hearsay, or ghost stories there’s no such thing as destiny but i wish i could trace this red string tied around my fingertips and find you on the other end.
the brisk north winds have me standing on a bench in the bus shelter with my hands held up to the space heater hot air rises and i imagine all the angels in heaven burning and their ashes are white like snow i imagine i’m ankle deep in angel dust and my cold urticaria doesn’t hurt and i imagine an endless slumber induced by the cries of the dying cherubim and my last breath is a discernible cry for help
from my car in motion i saw some shivering silhouette with a soft glow like the last drop of sunlight breaking on the horizon or a black cloud with a silver lining head in hands, weeping into their palms on the opposite end of a short tunnel for a fraction of a second and i was green with envy over all of their emotion. sick to my stomach of the apathetic reluctancy to feel anything worthy of tears if i could throw it all up, and let it cover my skin like a sick filled spit fountain or acid rain then at least i’d feel disgusted.