I think of you
like hands think of folding;
like birds think of singing.
I think of you
without meaning,
in the middle of my sentence;
while I'm standing in line.
I think of you
and my heart sounds off
dangerous rhythms
reminiscent of your words.

I think of you
and I wilt in remembrance
of something like love
that we beat to death
with words like sledgehammers
and glances like knives.

I think of you,
and I try not to miss you
too much.

It's always either too much
or not nearly enough.
I cringe at the echo
of voices that carry
and words that slip
over my teeth
like molasses,
but the silence
can be deafening
in an empty room.

I vacillate between
thoughts that fill up spaces
like black balloons
and smiles that sink ships-
twisting between
tepid emptiness
and emotions that press
on all of my soft spots,
intent on seeping out
through my pores
like little pinpricks
of madness.

Caught somewhere between
a *****, a child, and a housewife;
I want deft hands to
wrap up all of my
loose ends
and in the same breath
I want to shave my head
and curl into cold corners.
I want to run through
fluorescent meadows
and twirl round in cotton skirts
before receding into
the bleak landscapes of my mind.
I want to make him breakfast
and fold his laundry into hearts-
then get drunk on cheap wine
and **** like that's what bed springs
were made for.

I want to say the words
that are festering inside
of my worm-eaten skull,
I want to see the disgust
on their contorted faces,
but on the other hand,
isn't it nice to be a pretty face;
seen, but never heard.

I want it all,
I want none of it.

I am not strong
as synaptic junctions
stutter and fail
and blood pulses hot
against thin arterial walls.

I cram sticky little secrets
into the space between
the mirror and the wall
and put on my best
**** eating grin-
hiding behind words
that slip and lukewarm
nihilism.

I am not strong
as outlines blur into
shimmering watercolor
and my hands grip the railing
for a fleeting sense of
functional equilibrium.

I give you only the things
that I deem worthy of letting go-
only the meek and sickening
remembrances of insanity,
the things that I can
romanticize aloud.

I am not strong
as my brain fills with
black thoughts and
death wishes like saccharine.

I am not strong
but you've never asked me to be.
You know that muscles pull
and that I only have the strength
to push.
You haven't tried to iron out
the lines of my smile yet
nor made demands
or promises that lie unkept.

I am not strong,
but perhaps
there is something
more.

*****

Just a word like any other,
you spew it into the dark air
and hope that it will stick.
After all, shouldn't we all
be marrying our high school sweethearts
and ******* in the dark
to settle into bone numbing
missionary pleasure,
just like the good book says?

And if you're not married,
shouldn't you be knitting
or biding your time
silently *******
in an empty house,
willing God to shut the **** up
as you ******?

I'd rather be *******
in the moonlight,
in dimly lit offices,
on cliche sunset strewn beaches;
dancing naked in rivers
and sprawling over
sun-streaked sheets
ripe with leftover love.

Radiant heat seeps
from my wide eyes
to my long fingers
to my small *******
to the arch of my spine
to my uneven toes,
and, my god, isn't this
what it feels like
to be alive?

You can take your Sunday best
and your mewling children,
your whitewashed walls
and your plastic sofas.
I'd rather
be wholly, phenomenally
woman- shedding eons
of contempt,
laughing like Caligula
over the power that something
as simple as this body
that I carry around
can wield.

1.* Him

A love like
This one
Isn't true at all.
A love like
This one
Doesn't matter at all.
A love like
This one
Isn't really love.

It's her obession.

2. Her

A love like
This one
Is the still silent trees before a hurricane wakes them
And
The silence of sleep after

A love like
This one
Cannot conform to cursive
lettering in oil ink on dust yellow pages

A love like
This one
Is the whole show 1st 2nd and 3rd acts
Leading up to the sucide of everyone

A love like
This one
Isn't really love.

It's her imagination.*  


3. Omniscient

A love like
This one
Has no end.

A love like
This one
Is unrequited.

A love like
This one

Helps her create
Helps him create

A love like
This one
Is beautiful.

A love like
This one
Is real.

A love like
This one

*is meant to be

Raw pure cane sugar
And sand to stir

In your morning drink

Because life's too short
Not to be sweet

We'll walk down to the ocean

Shore, salt, shine, and ****
Seagulls and shellfish

laugh at a joke I can't seem

to

*understand

"You can't write like me!"

I said.
(To justify insanity)

However,
You replied

"Poetry is dead."

We're both just
*******
in Black syrup tar pits of
Sorrow

Still the devil's firey ****
Feels good inside
It burns like karosine
Smoke sets off to the skies

We're both just
Creatures stuck
in broken blue
seashells that lie in complete darkness at the bottom of the ocean

Still the siren's wet ****
Feels good inside
It drenches flames
Smoke sets off to the skies

Affection and affliction
Is the only chance
We have at

Freedom