On a Wednesday morning, clear and calm,
                     I went to Astor Place
and had a gypsy read my palm
                     or maybe just my face.

She said my heart was heavy
                     and my head was stuffed with lies.
But things like that weren't on my hand,
                     they hid behind my eyes.

The room is dull and dank and cold but at
least I have a hand to hold.

I don’t know how to write

I only know how to feel, how to bleed

The red seeps into the page

Then somehow sentences are formed

Someone finds it, in a dusty wooden chest

In the back of the room

It’s been hidden, untouched, for years, and I didn’t know there was anyone else left

Somehow my heart isn’t the only one beating

christopher is candy awful
we live off sunlight and chocolate bars
an evening -no- yes?
an evening of extravagant delight
as plush as his top hat and my velvet ribbon around my throat
maybe

maybe not.

like emily, i felt a funeral in my brain
cerebellum hinged on blue and tea with too much creamer
it's a prison
and nobody likes to visit

except her and that black chariot
with the man who is so kind to us both

and the band
blurry with my michaelangelo eyes