Why am I the happiest with
your hands around my neck

You have sharp teeth
and you leave indentions in my skin

I want to let you know that its okay
to want to crawl out of your skin

You awake with cracked bones
I chipped my jaw on your frozen over shoulder

I saw you digging in the backyard
Another hole to hide your growing secrets

I wonder when you will stop watering words
And start digging them up by the roots

I am not pink lace and bony knees
I am not please and thank you
I am now and because I said so

I am ripped jeans and skinned knees
I am not a thin wafer
I am a loud tongue

my body has never once been a temple
I am a volcano erupting at random intervals
I burn everything I touch

some are born with a silver spoon in their mouth
I was born with a hunger
for something I have yet to taste

I have never been meek
A proper lady
A lamb

I am harsh worded
I speak like a grater
I leave bruises and burns

I am a sinkhole
And if you're not careful
I will swallow you up

We were on the jetty eating orange popsicles
and staring out at the glittering afternoon sea
I was eight years old the first time you ever uttered the word

cancer

it wasn’t a just a sickness anymore
it was definite
it was terminal
something permanent

I was eight years old the last time I held your hand
as we walked back to the car

I haven’t been back to Maine since
or on a jetty even though I’ve always loved them

I was eight when I went to church and prayed for you the entire service
little knobby knees kneeled on the velvet

I was eight when you died

I was eight when I told god to go **** himself
and ever since then I’ve had a hard time with belief

I’ve had a hard time being in a church without feeling angry
I was eight when you were buried
and it still feels like it happened just yesterday

When I was in second grade a boy punched me
and I punched him back
until his nose bled on mulch

and ever since then I don’t chase boys
and I do not care for blonde hair anymore

when I was in second grade I would make
homes for fairies in the dirt using
moss and leaves and dandelion stems

when I was in second grade I had a house I could rattle around in
I could sulk like an angry ghost in a house built in 1867

I would wander around in the forest with two boys
I convinced them we should break into old houses
and our neighbors sheds

We created a world of green and vine and stumps
For Christmas one year we decorated a tree

We were the little ones who never wanted to go home
We called ourselves Peter Pan
Because we were never growing up

That was all before I moved
And the last day with them they crowned me Queen

I would climb on the roof at night
and feel the warmth of the sun still lingering there
and that was back when I was scared of what was in my closet

but since then I’ve befriended it

Today I breathe, like each breath was a champagne toast to life

Today I walk around with a pocket full of pennies in search of free spirits and  cheap talk

Today I celebrate, over half a billion stories each just over half a second long

We are not always broken

Death, is a forest where family trees fall and no one is around to hear

But life, is a star growing in a back garden under tiger striped sky of night and day.

So I carry my garden in my chest, growing veins and arteries and guitar strings so each story has background music of heart beats.

If I could, I would trade in every well wish for a wishing well and make your wishes come true. Give wells to parched gardens so stars can grow.

Someone once said “What is the difference between a ****** and a coffin? You *** in one and go in the other”

What is the difference between a ****** and a coffin? Nothing, they both carry unfulfilled potential, and we are lucky not to know either.

But if I had to choose, I'll choose the latter. Knowing I have lived even for a second, is a breath worth raising my glass to.

It is the immaculate consternation of my atrocious reputation,
for pulling intellectualism into the gutter.

For the transgressions I accumulated in a iniquitous fashion,
were merely the adoration's of rebellion.

The methodical maintenance of a maniacal mind set,
created in the interpretation of a world that fails to define me.

But I digress from my reasoning to articulate an irrefutable way of believing,
that love, is what started it all.

Infringing on the desolation of the psyche that wants to be free,
but inevitably entraps its own self.

A true Gemini fabulous and terrible, in all their splendor,
are a mass of waling contradictions wrapped in an enigma.

So to say that it is slightly genius, without a tinge of insanity,
would surely be an exercise in futility.  

There are two sides to a coin, a Yin and Yung,
the things that defines us, is being in constant change.

Intuition is strong, but decision not so great,
if I could do half of both choices,
it's a path I'd gladly take.

No longer is there hiding,
no more walking on the fence,
no longer will I settle or be a part of false pretense.

The gun bled crimson
tracers
under moonless skies,
penetrated the ramparts
& those with tattered knapsacks
remained vigilant
as stalwart sentries
fell in ****** tatters
to the ground.

Maniacally,
they laughed
at such insane acts,
buried their own dead,
full of enemy-lead.