Your skin smells like sharpie and the third
page of my sketch book. How it glows in
the dark reminds me of this one mermaid
whose hair keeps falling. I don't know how
she isn't bald yet. She does not cry, her
milky eyes seem to be so calm yet so
immoral, pearl-like greasy beam like some
oil spills on the ocean.

You have eyes like marine birds and that is
what truly makes me afraid.

Your nose is a branch of that fig tree I
killed during the last time I was trying to
find Narcissus. I remember that that day
Echo and I cried like mermaids and from
our eyes fell pearls and we did not wonder
at all why it did not hurt. It was a good
sign, kind of good like caution wet floor.
You know how I wish I could hang it in
front of my bedroom door.

You keep biting your lips only to keep the
blood flowing. I cannot say that I have
never seen waterfall as iron as that. I only
can give you tons of salt and you can use
that on your lips at midnight or when you
wake up from a nightmare at 4 a.m.

You grow hibiscus on your throat and
every time you speak all I can hear is the
pink and yellow and red and ants.

You have breath like motion sickness and
the dusty bench in front of the library. I will
go inside and become a ****** book 'til the
rest of my life. I will stay as pure as ever
when I am burned along with the library.

Your ears sound like lullaby and world war
three. You see, history is falling asleep so
peacefully, just like Mother Teresa or
Gandhi.