I'm so in love, I feel it in every world I know.

In this world, at least I am whole and holy.
I know for a **** splintering fact that I am not important to the human race.
I am no disgrace, not a waste.
Just a face.

I seem pointless,
but by God I'll be ****** if my **** body was spineless:
I'm strong.

I face the people that I know don't want me,
I face the sobbing tear-streamed gazes
and see myself in their eyes,
looking long and lean and thin,
two sunken purple rims
and lips cracked,
showed the face of my sins.

I am a woman born free and falling deeper into the world she holds as her own.
These mazes of time splinter spokes and pierce the thick air.
We move as the molecules of water,
but no one seems to stop to bother seeing if the Now is alright
instead of waiting for tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow night.

Maybe breathe, and see?

That there is beauty within me.

I hold the hands of  different lands,
but does that make me different from any other man?
Or woman, because I am both:
The sun and the moon are held within me.
Each *****.

I feel the scorching red and orange delight of day
while trying to keep night at bay.

But when the moon glides over crystal, violet sky,
there is no reason to hide.

Feel a howl rumble deep within and
smile a grumbling smile,
dark and biting the wolf chomps chatter,
cackling with master planned disaster.

And this I hold deep within my soul,
clenching tight a harbored goal to have a human
be a human
as once they were
just another **** species among many on Earth.

Salt on my tongue while I’m waiting for the gun.
Piecing together what little I have left to scream.
My coffee mocks me and the consistent coughing I expel just to try to say to her I have nothing left to tell.
There is no reason for explaining how she is pulling away from us.
There is nothing left to hold across this dingy diner table.

With something to lose in my back pocket,
I let her pull the trigger, keeping eye contact with her grinding, bearing teeth;
Lips a deep obsidian – as ominous as the cloak of Death -
Making her gums look more of a grey, watered-down pink.
No salty-sweet liquid smile spreads between those lips.
No more warming gesture left to give….

Deeply split:
Right through the skull.
I **** in air through my teeth.
Dead and shattered, I refuse the refill from the waiter.
I’ve got no stomach anyway.

She eats my brain, feasts on the memories, ripping them with her blood-black canines.
She tears my lips right off;
My face;
Giving me little room to say my piece.

I’m only now just starting to hate her.

Down her gullet goes my sight.
I’m blinded by the spit she threw into my eyes.

I really meant nothing to her anyway.

My body cripples under her steely knife talons.

I dream of Afterlife and what peace it has to offer:
A couch to myself.
Room and
Space and
Time.
No hidden, broken shards of her shoved into the crevices of my home.
Bare and
Abandoned.
Alone and
Undisturbed.

As I dream, her hands ravenously caress mine.
Luring her prey in, I see. Killing with saccharine kindness.

She still cares about me.
She hopes I can forgive her.
She still wishes for me to be there.

darling you just ate – no. ****. darling you just tore me into shreds.

She frowns.
Brow furrows.

Her blade finger nails drag away
leaving deep swelling, gashes on my hands.
Black nails.
Black lips.

I fleck the rust off my rage and it burns anew.
We have done this far too many times.

I never wanted to ******’ be here in the first place…. You brought me here. Remember that.

I need a ******’ cigarette. This coffee is *****.

She looks like she need a cigarette too.

She only smokes when I’m around, and since she’s trying to **** me off, she refuses my offer to dip outside to refresh our lungs with nicotine.

This diner air is still and
stale and
suffocating.

Hell, maybe I’ll die twice today. That would be something.

Her feet tap underneath us.
She is only waiting for me to say everything is alright.
That she is in the clear.
That I will just disappear from this very spot once she gets up to go.

Listen, I will gladly keep clear from your path, but do not, do not, keep breaking me to bits if it’s you who keeps needing me around. You want rid of me, you have to not need me. I have no control. It doesn’t work like that. I hardly think it’s fair th-



The old man in the corner slurping at his spoonful of soup, raised his eyes as he watch the lady in the dark cotton dress rush out of the dim-lit diner in a fuss. A swoosh of wind met her outside, causing her sleek, crimson scarf to almost catch in the closing door. He pitied the poor stranger. She had been sitting alone, looking frustrated and disoriented, speaking pleadingly into what he could only assume was a telephone headset. His wife had bought him one before he retired, but he barely ended up using it regardless. He felt it made him look to others as if he were talking to himself.

My mother splashed tea onto her hand as she throttled her body down into a crouch. She was silenced by the convulsion of her lungs. Her lips pressed tight to keep from spewing the recent gulp. I assumed it was tepid for she was not wincing in a pain of a burn. Her eyes were squinted shut and the heat of her laughter rose to her cheeks. She drove one hand to the floor, and with the soft thud of fingers and clinks of rings pressed themselves against the red-toned, chair leg scratched wood.  A sweet, wind of airs swept into her as she pulled her laughing into her throat, up from the bottom of her lungs. Groups of her black, wiry hair broke free from the bun, flowing like liquid coffee, out onto her nose. Placing the tea clumsily on the counter just above her head, her other hand slid down the handle, and clung to the surface's ledge. Sitting now, she slowly places her palms over her eyes. She swallowed loudly and then spurt out a cough-y breath of giggles. Her tremendous fit raged tears in her eyes as her cheer engulfed her completely.

When caught in questioning the validity of your thoughts and actions
that you need not to suffer over:

Let it be: as it is,
There is no past nor future in this.
Stick by your side
And feel the edge of the moment
Come to you.

What little a life you shall live
in submissive statures and spine-curled positions.
How large a world it can be
when you ask for what you need
and stretch through to the spaces before you.

How uncomfortable you must feel
with your mouth stitched tight
and your flushed, crushed knuckles,
resting under the weight of your body.
How luxurious shall you swoon
when ribbons flow from your hair
and bare feet glide over the dawn-dewed grass.

What powerlessness do you feel
when your voice is stolen
and words are said to be your thoughts
when coming from the lips of another.
How sturdy and turgid your reverberating voice booms
in the ears of plenty who can feel your Honest Tones.

Think not of those who shall drawn back from your truths,
But of those who are willing to exchange their own.

What to do with this brain, opposable thumbs, and time.
It always comes down to time.

Part of me says I have acres. The other part says I have feet.

Maybe time tonight should be spent in - cozy, calm;
Tomorrow, the roar of time will be able to shake my body; rattle my brain.

It is 10.
I am tired.
But somewhat fearful I am not doing anything -
not living life to the fullest.

But then I ask, is what you plan for these next hours fulfilling?
Party, chat, toast,
brag, ****, boast.
A rip, a drag, a shot, at most.
And what is it to bring me?

A fire aflame, "I don't know your names.
Who are you? Why us?"

God, **** this game.

Will it be expected,
my time to be held in their hands?

Or can it be rejected with the hope that time expands?

What are more moments,
How should they be spent?

How and why when I close my eyes does life seem so bent:
Twisted, obscure, impractically hidden.

What truth is there when no words forbidden?

What time can be lost in this truth
What can be erased?

How can everything be proof
When all I do is escape?

And last of all the questions, the last to remain,
The impossible,
irresistible
refrain:
What point is there in questioning if all remains unchanged?