I want to see you in this morphed place:
you light fires so well.
Hold me so that I might feel
the words that you're trying to say,
that are so hard to find.

I'll share mine if you share your strings.

There are pieces of your loss.
Some: I want to strangle.
Others: I want to kiss away.

If you need to bleed,
do it on me.
I'll even lick it off.

I'm trying to be what you need
and
I don't even know you.

the stars disappear
in the summer.

cynical.

I woke up earlier than ever
day before last.

I wanted to see you again,
but I knew that I had no idea what
I would say if I did.

Nothing.
as always.

chugging old coffee
while counting pills on a ***** carpet.

wanting nothing more than
to get to know you better.

she's choking in the background.
I drowned her.

echoes in the toilet.
sounds painful.
If she had a heart, she'd have puked it out by now.

I would give her mine for dinner if I could stay alive long enough to see if her eyes would say anything as she ate.

down the pipes:
dinner. lunch. breakfast.
expired milk.
stolen pills.
something fattening.

"has she been sleeping all day again?"
"yep."
"can I have some of those?"
"yep."
"can I go smoke with you?"
"yep."

She screams in perfect paragraphs,
chewing on pencils
she told me she was mine,
and I didn't believe her much.

The geometry of our bodies
forming equations
telling us
how to look at the stars
how to learn something new
and apply it to what we
don't understand
but won't forget.

where do I fit
in a place like this?

this is where I wake up:
the next morning
everything has changed.

I had to leave for inspiration:
that's where I practiced
mind expansion.

even there, I wondered,
with my head split open
to all sides of the city,
does he see the same love in me,
that I do in him?

I didn't ever want to leave.

"let's spend our time in here forever.
if not in love, in discovery of that love.
in the end: take it with us,"
I thought these things in grids
of hand prints stretched to the ocean,
for miles I thought, but never spoke.

it hurts to learn why
we dream in silence.

you and I came from the same side of the planet,

separately,

to destroy the rest.

at rest,
we dream of creatures
and tornadoes
come to teach us how to escape laws.

and

although we are mortal,
we can still be saved by telekinesis.

but

only because we use it in the right ways.

speaking what we hear because we listen,
our toes itch like ****** ****,
and we cry like thirsty babies,
******* the life from every cell of you prisoners.

here's hoping the eye of the storm
will direct it's way towards yours,
but mostly,
that it holds warmth.

In the beginning:

I'm not sure if you understand,
but you're smiling

wound up into a new universe
tangled in the sheets of all the things we're learning,
we are eaten up by nothing.
the sun explodes.
the moon rises amongst
the ashes:
labeled snow.

It's not the end of the world,
it's the middle.
I never knew of a place more beautiful.

time: it's pulping.

'I love you,' she whispered through
her closed eyelids;
and as the light did every morning,
along with perfect lips to one another,
the cat approached.

She's the kind of girl who
locks the bathroom door
in her own house
when she showers.

I would pray to whichever God
that could make me the water
that runs down her neck,
and every other part of her,
down to the drain.

I'm realizing how beautiful you are
without even looking at you.

If I was looking, I know our eyes
would be even,
perfectly distanced
so that no one could hear all the
whispers we share:
through what we see
and what we wish we could
forget.

I know you rearranged your
furniture, and asked for my advice
about the things you know I like
to talk about, and that you gave
me the room I needed so that I could
descend through my sadness like a
bucket of oil spilled over gravel

but there's always a something
and with me there's too much change.

I've let myself slip in and out of the rocks
and I've settled in a shape like stars and
kittens.

Darling, you're not my teacher
or my mother, you're just a woman
with a son and short hair with asthetically
pleasing walls that are good for looking at
with crying eyes.

I'll steal books and rip pages out for you
if you let me. There's only so much I can
say with this body and it's never the same.
If you're looking for a constant, I suggest
you stay away from liquid.

I want him to like my lipstick
and ask to kiss it off.

I want to take him
with me as I time travel

with a soul full of
futurelust so strong

it dims
and relieves

the cruel lights
of
all others.

maybe/
                I shouldn't stop caring.

but it's so much less deadly
than jumping in front of
your
bullets.

things I need to say:
it's         about the words.
       not

teeth curled over lips
'I see.'
              'I don't think now's a good time to talk.'
'The neighbors will be back in an hour.'
                                                          ­                       'It's okay.'
'We'll all be dead by then.'


this isn't us.
(the television was turned up too loud for anyone to fall asleep.
   a hangover turning on a leather couch.
    "I need my jacket to go home.")

I wonder if you moved
because you could feel
us breathing at the same
pace, or if you understood
my heartbeat.

the past:
memories.

cut:

with emotion.

I bet we could make
some money if we
learned to strip:
that all away.

if space could translate
thoughts onto blank pages
and into color spotted images,
would you hang mine on your walls?
or would you throw them away?

you were copper.
the kind that's sticky
and melted.

you were a slotted spoon.
dripping and a mess
spilling out
all over the kitchen
floor.

you were a drain
clogged with cotton
candy colored hair.

dreams take place of memory:

I can't
:fold the way:
you do.

you can die whenever you want,
but you can't live.

matching sweaters:
it was nice to see you today.

lumps of cat fur scattered over
the **** carpet of my brothers
hallway.

he says he's going to give me
a hug tomorrow.

I don't know what to say
as I stare at his unshaved face.
His eye's are more worn than
the voices that scream up the
stairs to him. He looks at me
as if he's trying to memorize:

this moment:
t   r   u  t   h
   r  u   t   h  t  r  u  t  h
      u  t  h  t  r   u  t   h  
         t  h  t  r  u  t  h
            h  t  r u  t h
               t  r  u  t  h
                       p
                          o
                             u
                                r
                             ­     s
                                      out.

these open spaces were born the same way we were:
                                         only opposite.

it's okay if we don't know what time it is,
she's got that whole look together
like it were a saturday afternoon and
she has the whole world at her feet stones.

******.

she like's her mother but she doesn't
know her father, she's hated her brother
but she hasn't met the rest of them, not
to mention her sister.

she doesn't like to write about herself
it's like she's looking through water.

her knuckles are read with kool-aid
and she can feel where she needs to be felt.
when did that part of the body begin to exist?

(what kind of man does it take to resist?)

she's written letters that will never be sent.

"hand delivered is the way to go,"

another drag
from the holder of a cigarette,
about 11-inches from
her covered face,

"because then you can watch them
read it."

a smile spread
and wrinkles saw what they were.

I'm not saying you shouldn't dream, just,
this isn't the place.

I know how she wakes you up in the morning,
like she's got somewhere to go that's important
and you're already, a day or two or eight, late.

Your handwriting reminds me of chocolate chip pancakes
and the smell of rain through an open window in February.
You shouldn't press down so ******* your eraser.
It confuses people. Always sounding like sneakers
rubbing against linoleum and it's misleading when
you have feelings you can't explain and you've
been waiting for what feels like three days without
taking a ****, but you're waiting because you don't
want to miss something important, and even though
it hurts the way bee stings, and paper cuts, and
too many donuts after dinner hurt,
you hold it.

It's hard to keep my eyes open.

thinking of you on the nights we didn't sleep,
or the ones where we would sleep wide awake
but we wouldn't talk.
I'd talk. you would listen.
you liked it and I needed it, so it made sense
for us to be in the same room.
I got lost in something you asked me to explain.

"time to dance,"

your reason:

"No one's watching, just let go."

I know.
I'm alive .
when I see.
your blue eyes.

and don't care.

Listening to library tapes
in the moist of my breath
and the dry of my lips,
which are cracked
and peeled,
like oranges,
(chocolate ones).

I missed you today,
and every other day,
but I can't get over
the way time passes
and the way I want it:
to stop.

I've stolen words
from every part of you,
and I've hidden them too.

Thought
                w
      a
v
              e
                    ­      s
Brain
                                    w
                     a
                                              v
               ­                   e
                        s
P T E N
  A T R S.

M        i          n         e
    are      all      the

                                    same.

I've heard you talk about
the way she rubs her diamonds
on your naked soul,
and the way photographs
make you nervous,
as if the frozen people
could somehow thaw.
You keep forgetting
that winter is just beginning.

We've been taking short cuts
handed out to us from the
u-n-i-v-e-r-s-e.

Don't be jealous,
they hurt:
like the rough bark
that surrounds and
protects a tree.
like a passionate
"I hate you"
passed from one
to another.
like an answering
machine instead of
a-

"Hello?"

If darkness is absolute,
then I will hold you forever.

My heart is beating so fast
that it's hard to tell how long it's been,
since the taste of our kiss
began to eat away at my lips.

My elbows are bruised
from leaning across the table,
trying to get a better look at you.

I love you, but you're filthy,
and I'd rather have you dead than crazy.

I want to feel you tremble beneath my skin,
and I want you to hum me a lullaby.

My phone broke
and my voice cracked,
there's no hope left for me.

We will listen, and cry together,
because we’re full of hesitation.
and you’re my inspiration.

The good things we feel
make up for all the bad ones.
The pleasure from hugging you goodbye
made up for the feeling of loss.
Your return
will heal the feeling of abandonment.

Our voices will seem different,
because we've changed so much
from the inside out.

I'm sure everyone would want me
to say hello,
they just don't know what I'm doing.

I'm pretty sure writing is a form
of talking to yourself.

Someone spilled a bunch of drinks,
everything is wet.
(I was the only one who noticed).

There are a bunch of dodgy glances
flooding the cafe,
I'm pretty sure it's always like this,
it's just more apparent
because of the current explosion of people.

Being surrounded
is just like being forced
to do something.

I'm not sure what I mean by that though,
so don't bring it up,
ever.

Sometimes we touch each other accidentally,
then it's awkward.
Next time,
I'll say I did it on purpose,
(or be more careful).

Tripping on your wires
tangling myself in you.

Touching:
your skin:
so sweet
so soft,
so tender:
smooth as milk.

You shine up at me
like a thousand stars
your light strips me raw.

Soft as grass
sweet as sugar
you will be my only lover.

I can't sing serious.

ice cold as the stones
from the road in the winter, frozen cold.

bare feet on blacktops
make everything sad!
walking on ladder swings
make everything confusing!

dont know what to say, dont give a ****.

close your eyes
lose yourself in the jump
clip off your nails
and sew on some teeth
eating all the people
with knees and trees
and bees.

hot wax on fingertips
reminds me of your lips.

all of these shades of
black and white wake me up
in such a ****** mood.

want to get out
want to get in
want to move away
from here.

I am a master,
but I'm not the creator.
I'll spell it our for you
but I wont explain it.
I'll paint you a picture
but I wont show it to you.

I'll walk in your door
just to walk  out,
give you an adjective
and take away the verbs

fingers tight
lips loose
feet going for fast
I'll erase your face.

We're humans being humans,
together.
Inspiration from your kiss,
it's leaking from your lips.

Distant eye contact with a woman ******* on a lollipop,
staring at identical twins sharing an umbrella,
punch your legs until you fall asleep.

This life is losing its charm:
dying is the best idea you've ever had.

Ignoring your silence as I scream
you fade into nothing, you're my adolescent dream.

Burying a body to it's neck
you paint the face and
sprinkle dirt on the remains of the rotting life.

Darkness,
or something more?

fifty bricks to the head
cheese grater to the teeth
****** gums and cheeks
crossed arms and a pile of dried out pens
scalp scratched into nothing
a dry desire and an empty mouth full of empty words.

A suicide note scribbled in a composition book
it used to be your journal
but the pain of writing got old
and you needed the time to sleep.

Names dissolve from importance to nothing.

Reflecting from the shadows and burnt out veins
I still believe in those painted remains.

I don't want to: see my reflection,
talk in riddles: see your reflection.
feel your eyes on me like tired boys
look at hot water and coffee grounds,
wishing they'd connect on their own.


I hate myself : I love myself.
All parallel and in between.

"let me get a good look at those lips,"
hands compete with tongues for beauty,
and feeling.

Like oil in water I'll pull you apart:
Together.

The bruises, the thoughts and the feelings:
I can't explain.

The reasons:
your fingers through my shirt
beneath my skin,
inside my brain
wrapped around my mind.

The thought of not seeing you,
the sights that appeal to you,
all the things that disolve in you.

A bubble bath:
you and a stranger
both your hands
under water:

Something soft:
you're after,
nothing new
just skin.

I feel you trying
so much harder than I do
and it makes me smile

we both need something
in between these parts of us
so that we can fit

power in numbers
our eyes reach a conclusion:
one plus one is one

I don't know how to react anymore
and I don't want to see or read
or feel these words anymore.

I'm back to:
numb
too far past cold to:
feel
too close to warm to:
go back.

I'm noticing pieces of me
that are pieces of you,
and pieces of him,
all bundled together in little buckets
and big buckets and zip-loc bags
and old mint tin cans,
see them spilling from your open spaces,
and hear them ringing in all of mine.
Mostly from the half of you that cares
or the half of you the matters because of it:
the deeply-colored-yet-rarely-touched,
the wide-spread-and-beggingly-waiting.
the almost-loving-but-definitely-can't.

everything.

procrastination
is not being able to
love you right away

religion is dead
but the taste of butterscotch still lingers in my mouth.

I know it's freezing outside.
that's why I want you to hold me so bad,
it doesn't matter if it's you, it could be anyone,
but I know you need it just as much as I do.

I want to read you something
a little more meaningful than
a grocery list, and I want you to
smile more, but I want nothing to do with it.

I'm more situational than you seem to notice,
and I like how we can sit quiet and listen to nothing,
but I'd much rather hear your voice through the
haze of tension that seems to follow us, rather than
watch you sit alone on a welcome mat for depression.

I love you is a funny way of saying I love you,
but none of us really know what it means until
we know what it means, and I know how bad it
hurts when we lose what it means, but I'm sure
we'll find it again. Even if we have to be patient,
and scream a little, and **** someone worthless.

For what it's worth or how much you care,
I want you to know that I care, even if it's
only enough to dodge questions and push
boundaries and cross some t's or some lines.

You give me cold feet and hot cheeks,
but in the friendliest of ways.

the sounds you made,
matched with the eyes you made
are nothing compared to
her red nails, and  the single you saw.

she thinks of riddles before she falls asleep
and every time she rolls over in the night
she hears the same lyrics that she'd like to hear you sing.

promises of bra straps peeking through shirts
and leaves tacked to the walls you'll bounce off.

he talks of color
and losing himself in upside down words.

Not sure which way he'd fall, even now,
with his hand sleeping between my thighs.

the change you seek
is much deeper
than what you tack
onto your bedroom walls.

you're not him,
no matter how
many times you
swear you see
your reflection
in his skin.

strings have been pulled:
slow motion conversation:
because all I want to do:
is let my bones:
fit perfectly with yours.

the thought of sleep after a cold bath
is just as bad as having to listen to
your family doctor diagnose your insurance:
dying as fast as your childhood memories,
and although you've got the same blood
your grandfather, half-dead, doesn't want to know your name
and he doesn't care about the wrinkles water gives you.

he's got eyes like those charming men you see on the
t-e-l-e-v-i-s-i-o-n.
what's more:                                                            ­                
he can wink and blow kisses at the same time.

two phones
two coffee cups
one long conversation about nothing
and shared laughter over the mumbles we heard
from the downstairs neighbors when we were kids.

remember?
we'd hide in bushes with flashlights,
too afraid to move, too afraid the dark would
catch up to our short-distance legs and
our too-wide-to-see eyes.

I remember:
we'd talk into unplugged microphones
and trap ourselves by climbing fences
with stacks of rocks that we could barely lift.

one time, we found a field mouse:
he died the next morning.
the funeral was alright,
none of us cried at least.

I blame the mouse for getting caught in the heater,
we gave him a house and wrote his name on the front
so he wouldn't forget, but his mother must not have
taught him how to read English.

You told me he wouldn't be able to--
"why is it a boy? why can't it be a girl?"
--it didn't take me long to realize:

you can be whatever you want
or whoever you want,
and that if I was
(as trapped as)
that mouse,
I'd probably choose the heater too;
but I wasn't,
and I had you.

color slips from photographs
and collects in a single file line
that leads through your door frame
and into the kitchen, where
the smell of us kisses your cheeks warm.

it's not the physical communication that's wrong
it's not the knowing parts, it's the missing pieces,
or the things we succeed to keep out:
like cold air, and feelings.

at least for now.

"you're lucky."

I have no idea what I'm doing.

"no one knows."

things that are the same here:
glass and silence
nails and chalk
comfort and ***
smoke and color.

how do you feel about the women called mother,
and the children that call to her and grab at her legs?
her legs: so smooth that their hands slide down them in the summer.
her hands: cold and soft and everything you need when you're crying.

I love you, darling, and I want to hold your hands all the time,
both of them, and please press your forehead against
mine because my third eye can feel your trying to see inside
but we need to break through the skin that hides them away.
I want to teach you how to share dreams so that we don't have to
set alarms any more, or drink caffeine anymore, even if it is tea instead
of coffee. or if your favorite is the same as his and it only bothers me
because I want to stop thinking about how warm, or thick, his fur is.
I can lose my hands

inside                                                           ­        the outside
                                                         ­   
of his beautiful mass.

He can knock down trees with a whistle,
or a flick of his tail, and he can make phone calls
with one long stretch and a yawn.

there are too many pockets of air in between the fabric
of all my ***** clothes and
we can't leave our thoughts in
open spaces

like this

anymore.

it's like looking at his smile and seeing what he's trying to hide,
those things are much too personal to be slurred from one bathroom stall
to another,
you always forget about all the people who don't wash their hands until it happens right in front of you.

I keep comparing you to:
all the people from my past.
She keeps comparing you to:
all the people from your past.
I don't want to miss you:
like all of those people from her past.

She looks at you like a vacuum would
but she feels like blue skies and tastes
like creamer or hot chocolate, thick
as she is you notice how thin she is
and point it out, try and make her eat
some of what you have to say although
you really don't know what it is she
needs to hear.

"that's why they call it confusion, honey,"
I had never seen you turn to stone before,
topaz and diamonds, "but crystals have souls."
and you have no idea what I'm talking about.

he touches me like I've got band-aids all over:
careful.
he begs me not to fall in love so that he can:
misunderstood.
he doesn't know any of my secrets
and he probably never will,
no matter how many times I say them:
he doesn't understand my language.

we can stare at each other for hours:
patience.
we can sleep whenever we want:
freedom.
we can spend all the time in the world together
and keep each other warm,
but we can't shower together
or get the same invitations.

I know, it's difficult without speech,
or proper thumbs, or proper legs,
or knees or thoughts or being stuck
with lemon drop kisses that make
you want to scream they hurt so good.

I'm going to stop apologizing when my
teeth get stuck in your lips, and I'm going
to start drinking more, but only from the left side,
and the next time I look down at what you're doing
I'll just let you keep doing it.

She talks like she knows a leprechaun
that blows bubbles
and cuts his toe nails in the cheese
whenever you leave the
refrigerator closed long enough.

He talks like he wants to know what she's thinking
but the sounds that come out are from a bad relationship
that she's over and he tries to paint it in the air
but the trails are more like explosions and
his hair is too clean for it to be his.


She looks like wet pictures on the roof
held by at least four inches of melting snow
that she can't touch with her bare skin
because she knows how easily things can change.

He looks like he wants to kiss her
but he knows it will ruin her lip stick.

"I can't imagine more than I can imagine."

I'm going to start telling you exactly how I feel
to avoid all the others (feelings) that follow
when I keep secrets and try to make everyone as happy as
I want myself to be.

"I always think like this."

You're my reason(s).
you're the warm that I bathe in
and the chill that I hide from,
but at least we can talk serious
with our hands, and have fun with
our lips, and our tongues.
I can hear exactly how you feel
in the direction your eyes open to mine.

"You keep forgetting how to breathe."

We can't touch each other without pulling away,
we can't look, either, it's never close enough.

"****** tension?"

Interrupting thoughts:
legs.
yours. mine.
lips. *******.
hands. knees.
orange.
blue ink.
black ink.
everything about you.
that is me.
that I can't:
control.
myself.

"I can't express myself with words in this place."

even when I'm with you I miss you,
but I try really hard not to when you're gone.

I keep trying to love you less,
or love you different,
but I can't.

I need some more:
s                              p

                  a
     ­                                  c
        e.

I want some more:

s                              x.
               e

I wish: that you spoke softer
because I can't speak
any louder than this
and it's really hard
to try and find an answer in a kiss
and: it doesn't matter what time it is
you wont get your wish.


even though they can feel the darkness of a thousand years
my friends still believe in shooting stars//

and if you want to read this
then maybe you should close your eyes
or think about what we've talked about
or drink more coffee with less sugar
and walk so that you don't have to pay for rides
because that money could be spent on a ticket out of here.

Everyone knows you can make eye contact with glass as long as the lines are dark enough.
Lines. Not cracks.
You know the kind of lines that you only stare at because they're actually the scars on the side of a ******* addicts ***.
She talks about how thin she is
and looks down at her naked body
right where my eyes had been lingering throughout our conversation.
the fast paced dribble
seemed to only drain her more
and I couldn't help but listen.

We had the same color hair

She's the only one that caught my eye that night,
she was entertaining
and beautiful
and rotting
in the two feet of distance that kept us from touching.

You could tell by the way she opened the refrigerator door
that she doesn't like to eat,
and the shaking in her hands made you want to ask if she was okay.

Love:

the way the wind opens loose doors
a response whispered from eye to eye
my bleeding finger tips in your mouth
water: earth: fire: air: soaked in poison,
and completely fine.

I shouldn't have to think this hard to say how I feel,
but now that I know that you listen to what I say
I hide and stare at ceilings to avoid confrontation
because even though your back feels good,
I'd like to keep my pockets safe.

you're moonlight at 3am
and clouds inside on a rainy day.
you're a staircase in space
leading nowhere.

I'd rather be a stack of spoons than a pile of forks and knives.

I thought I was going to die last night.
I was slowly moving without realizing:
I've never had it, or I had it too long;
but the idea of tripping into existence
takes too much time to learn how to forget.

I didn't know what would happen last night,
even after I realized
there was noise coming from inside of me.

but we all know this **** is irrelevent.

Silence is not the enemy,
the lipstick on your wrist is
and it's a good thing you
know invisibility spells
because you look way too
good for dead eyes.

I'll let you be happy
with yourself,
but only sometimes,
because your mother's socks
are whiter than yours will ever be,
and you know why:
you lived it.

I'm feeling like I might kiss you
but I know you like to sleep
and it's hard to untie your hands
when the kid who did it knows how to double knot
and he likes to hide behind your back
or press his against yours.

We only talk to each other so that we're not alone,
and we only listen so that we wont be again.

I'll try and keep myself warm,
Because sometimes we need to be alone,
No matter how much we don't want to be.

I'd like for you to be different.
It's easy to imagine,
but you're the farthest thing from simple.

I stare at my hands like an overweight, under estimated teen would look at their legs,
waiting from them to shrink.

You're filling in the empty spots, so that I don't have to.

I glare at the stars as if I could time travel one thousand years into the future, and enjoy the darkness that comes after explosions.

You're the color, bursting rays of light from your lips to my neck, where my skin absorbs all the words you never knew how to say.

I bite my lips like they won't bleed, even though I know they will, remembering teeth are beautiful, but they're sharp.

You're waisting your time trying to forget about me.

I talk too much about myself, but I don't care, because who doesn't?

I get into those deep places
we're entering digestion
the inside skin station
where everything comes together
to admire each other in the most unconditional of ways.

people talk about people as if they aren't some kind of thing
animals can be things, passions can be things, kisses can be things,
even moments can be things,
If I had to measure the distance between you and me
there would be not one thing in the way,
but me.

You see, I've been trying really hard lately to forget you.
It's like you've got me walked with window skin so everyone can see inside, and my eyes are rockets,
exploding,
screaming,
telling everyone who can't read,
anyone who doesn't have the time,
someone writing in a diary with blue ink,
that even though we go by different names,
you and I are more similar,
than the same anything.

So if you thought I was going to talk about that
deep dark mask I hide behind, then leave
because the too soon has come and gone too far,
you came here expecting something,
and I tell you to go out of mercy from the overflow,
because this is me standing here naked
in a mask of who I really am, which really is no mask at all.

This is no show for sad folks who want to feel anothers broken heart,
this is a spilling of one to another, through the small crowd intimacy
we sometimes long for and are suddenly surrounded, because it's so much easier to say it's about someone else and to never use their name.

If in my eyes were your eyes
and yours mine,
then nothing would change but for the directions in which we look.

I guess this is about someone else,
but I want it to be about you for nostalgic purposes.

there's something different about wanting to touch your face and actually doing it.
that's how it always is.
you're the black-ink-on-paper-to-get-you-out-of-my-head kind of guy,
you're the never awake past noon because you don't want to deal with reality kind of mind,
you're one of those half-drunk, half-broken, half-idon'tcarebecauseyoudon'tcare kind of lovers.

one day I'm going to quit everything.


the cat laps milk
instead of water
from the palm of a mothers hand,
it's rough tongue leaving
purple lines
broken and deep
like the stretch marks that map her body.

She'll talk to me about her children
and the little things in her life that don't seem to matter much anymore,
and we'll watch people and assume things like people do,
and we'll kiss each other out of boredom
and she'll tell me to braid her hair,
because she wants to feel young again,
and I'll tell her to read me her story,
because I want to feel closer,
and she'll tell me about the cat
and she'll let me pet it
but she wont let me sleep in her bed
or put away the dishes
or kiss her on the days that she wears lipstick.

She reminds me of you,
except she's something I can feel.

I need daylight to be over
so that the octupus leaves in my back yard can breathe
all the dogs left them swelling and burning for daily bread,
daily milk, and last calls to board the plane.
It's really **** hard to understand what the person on the intercom is saying when you've got stalks of corn growing out of your ears
imitating how rough and useless everything that comes in is
how it's just sprouting out and some people are going to get hit in the face if they don't realize that personal bubbles are more important than an inhaler, at least at this point.

The ball in my mouse has fallen out and now I can't seem to get anywhere, drinking bottles of cough syrup to try and feel the sickening sweetness of your kiss, when all you really wanted was to be someone else. The lion painted on my shirt tells me I'm wrong for paying attention to the little things, like the color of your sweater and if you made it or not.

I feel like I'm following a snow storm in a bathing suit,
which makes it awkward during interviews but my mom tells me I need to get a job and start thinking for myself and thinking about others because I only have one brother and he might **** himself soon.

Teachers don't seem to realize that my answers sound like my mouths full of peanut butter and they don't know that when I turned 9 I used to smear it on my skin and let my dog lick it off. I hope that doesn't ******* off as boring or twisted, but I've got enough cough syrup to know that my lungs will stay inside my body, even if they're all chewed up digesting in my stomach with the rest of the things I said that I wish I could take back, with the rest of the tongues that fumbled and mumbled phrases that made me look like a tobacco spitting uncle from Tennesse.

it's not that I don't want to see you anymore,
or that I want you to grow up and be something more,
but I'm not the same person I was before,
I'm starting to lose myself and I feel it seeping from the very core.

Life.
It's like a black hole or a star that burnt out,
it's scary and not as beautiful as it was when I was a kid.
People are getting better looking, growing into themselves like marijuana plants.
These women have vertigo and not enough time to walk where they need to be, so they asked me to go to the store and they paid me with dinner, I sat at the table in a rocking chair and wondered why they had so much hair on the floor.
it wasn't like we were having a bad time
but we sure didn't know how we got to talking about ******* and cranberry juice.
All the while I felt like saying something meaningful,
but I knew they wouldn't get my jokes and I knew that my sarcastic tendancies would get the best of me and we'd be in a grinder full of bugs and rocks and all of those things we avoid when we're afraid.

I could feel my teeth wanting to break as I chewed my food
and clenched my jaw at the conversation.
The woman to my left said I looked like someone she knew,
I said,
"You do know me."

the words came out like a siren of warning,
I had gone too far.

I looked at my hand that held their fancy spoon
my reflection stared back like it didn't know me
and I could see my eyes turn away and I could see my hand on the door ****
but what I couldn't see was the woman,
who followed me home.
the woman,
the one that knows me best.