In the vision of your eyes
I want to know what you see
Because every time i stare into them
It's not the reflection of me

But the widest of universes
Where stars are born
And gas clouds swirl
Suns and moons shine

All i see are worlds
Where in every one
You are mine

You walk through your garden;
I am standing tall.
You pick up the lilies,
the daisies,
the honeysuckles,
and the petunias.
You put them all together carefully
and place them in a vase.
Then you return to glance once more at me.
You rip me out by my roots and throw me into the trash.
The bouquet is on the table mocking me while I rot alone.
I die fast, but the flowers slowly whither away where all can see.

why is the recognition of genius always a recognition of it taking place in kindergarden? i masturbated before i could produce *****, i taught a boy to do it too, i can tell you the male opera is purely muscular, i don’t know how the un-automated thought / soul was attached to explaining the futility of life as the futility of ***** seen without “motherly love.” i squeeze in white, red and ***** from my body, that’s not even the parallels of the russian flag, but it’s what i am in sentence. i yanked the noun now, but i was yanking the thing before it became a noun and a cognitive calculation used / unused in candlelight on friday’s expectation exasperated: bedded but not wedded. cheat philosophy using grammar, grammaticised is also philosophised.*

i speak my vanity sometimes,
no wonder i grasp
the root of ferns with care
to water them into acknowledging
a belonging in salzburg
when nothing was cherished there -
so took to making london a symphony,
no. 4 in a# and new year's eve:
but i always liked oinking second names and third names
with a confirmation of the church to make
white napkins purple velvet...
to avoid the idol hammer mush and the... lucky *******...
deciphering spies of the crossword.

He was Daniel Kingery to the police.

Daniel Overstreet to his friends.

He was Dollar Dan on the streets.

He was Daniel,
he was wet rough kisses and anger and lust to me.

He found me one day,
18 years to his 37,
he found me when i was still a question mark trying to bleed red.
From behind a lens pointed at my naked flesh
he became a man of mystery,
he became the object of my desires.

I was a young, naive girl who got caught up in
how his pockets were always full- he flaunted it.
The flowers and the exotic dinners and the alcohol and the touch...
oh god, the way we fell into bed,
onto chairs,
into walls.

Then i fell in love on a broken sidewalk.

I was blind to the empty shadows in his eyes,
to the lines he had recited,
to the webs on his face.

I made a god out of a sociopath and i called him "love".

I was his ******, his baby blue.

I became wild under his touch,
manic when he gave me his attention,
suicidal at his leaving.

I was a flower that once was his favorite,
but he left me on the windowsill at a slow, burning wilt
and forgot to water me most days.

Why water a flower when you could have a garden?

Have you ever hated what you loved
until even their existence ate at you?

I have.