My pores are ******* you in.
I'm noticing this tone, through all my words, and warps and pieces,
it's like wordplay but less fun and more caustic.

My peach tree, shaken, branches splayed
(I really like your peaches won't you shake my tree?)
Peach, just a small variation away from bleach,
which is a variation of blech,
which is what is often going through my mind when I think of ways to respond to you.

My sparkling diamond of a
(kitchen floor)
soul, scrubbed red raw,
sometimesIwishIdidn'tchangeasmuch
asIpretendIhave,orrecogniz­ethatIhaven't,really.

I want to eat crack
(s in the linoleum)
all day, on my patio, and be surrounded by good vibes.
Vibesvibesvibes.

My ache is raw,
like an egg freshly cracked,
or the red meat on the counter.
Your flesh (my meat),
my red gaping open string of words and saliva.

This had every intention of being a light, swifty thing.
Furiously twittering (twitter wickedly),
my mind isn't always this dark I promise.
I promise a million things, but I'm still trying to understand myself.
Understand myself, oversit yoursociety.

Why do you take your pictures with your open mouth?
You are drooling all over my lens.