you ask me whats wrong
i explain how you hurt me
you yell at me
i apologize

Let me dear Lord
With each step I take;
Look to you
For the choice I make.
Whether the sky
Is blue or gray;
Let me speak with encouragment
Of all I say.
Let me always look up
To each soul I greet;
I was so wretched
When first we did meet.
Let jealousy and envy
Be a part of my past;
And let self control
Be a trait that lasts.
Let love always be
My driving force;
And through your word teach others
To find the others.

I smell your scent
  when i grip the steering wheel -
woody, strong, earthy
  the essence of fungus buried in loam
but still, in a good way.

Even if i wash my hands
    with chlorine,
you stick like eclipse
      on a glorious sun -
the spine of a murderer
    Oh, you have chiseled so **** well,
incorporated it into the spaces
              of your lumbar discs.

And i thought i saw you
    in a portrait of a gentleman
i almost choked laughing myself to death
  for no single bone of yours is ever gentle
nor a MAN.

We were close
      but before i reached clitorial ******,
you said her name inside my mouth.
  The grit of a shotgun pierced like million bullets of a machine gun
    and i convulsed with the eruption of pain. The smell of sandalwood
          on leathered steering wheel
      swapped with decayed collar bone of pretend.

And i and death never felt as close
      as my own eyelashes.

just the idea of you loving me
makes me love you
I wonder if that makes me a narcissist
or just someone who’s been lonely for a very very long time

If my skin could talk,
it would tell tales about every mark, blemish and scar.
It would fondly remember the day each freckle arrived,
and how the sun had kissed it and
left a permanent reminder of that day.
It would ooze hard work and the
sweat that accompanies such accomplishments.
It would rave about all the wonderful places it has been and all the people it has touched and been touched by.
It would profess its love of texture and materials.
It would call out, begging to be near to another,
Longing for the warmth and love of affection.
If my skin could talk,
It would not worry about being anything but itself.
It would not be concerned with its hue
or that it had a different amount of melanin than another.
It would not hate when it came into contact with something not like itself.
No, instead it would draw the outsider in
surround itself with this foreigner,
learning the marks, blemishes and scars of the new individual, recognizing similarities and embracing contrasting characteristics.

If my my skin could talk, it wouldn’t see; it would feel.