I was slowly floating farther from shore,
one look away and I was unmoored.
Every tear that I shed filled the sea more,

yet you were there, my buoy.

The riptide grabbed me and pulled me below.
No breathe in my lungs, the drowning was slow.
All my dreams, they were silenced and seemed long ago,

and there you were, my buoy.

You rowed me to land and brought me to life.
Though the ocean was vast and its name was Strife,
I had almost succumb to my wounds that were rife.

Oh, how you saved me my buoy.

He had leveled my mast, ripped the winds from my sails.
Tethered my anchor, in admist of a gale.
Let the storm batter my body and ignored my wails,

sent me adrift with no buoy.

But you silently chartered a map back home,
through serpents and sirens and knots of sea foam.
You slowly towed me out of the cyclone,

Adrift, but afloat with my buoy.

A shipwreck disguised as a Galleon,
ravaged and sinking with no freedom.
Caught in an eddy, chained to my reason.

Pulled out of the storm by a buoy.

And though the clouds have not cleared,
thunder still rumbles - the torrent still near.
I hold on to your ropes and wake as you steer.

My captain, my buoy, my boy.

Motorcycles and mistakes,
I was screaming "I love you"
through sound-proof glass
to a blind man.
Shimmering eyes, like
fishing
lures - you in.
Soft pink rose petals,
like damp peach skin
unfurling in the sun
showing smiles that
**** me. Dead.
Best men and bed frames
you kept your secrets and I kept
nothing.
Hundreds of miles away
I watch the stars, and trace a path
One. Two. Three.
Freckles in the sky.
Freckles on your skin.
I trace my fingers down
your left side and I wish to kiss
the stars. Again.
Can't you hear me screaming?
I LOVE YOU.

I love you.

I used to be
Wild
running barefoot over gravel,
galloping ponies, and bending
over to pick up shiny trinkets
And racoon's teeth.

These days I can still hike
mountains and climb trees.
Impromptu dance parties, and
jogging supermarket hallways
in an urgent rush.

But, most days
My hips ache like they are made of
old stone walls, my knees swell
sideways, and dainty ankles crack
in flats as if they were still strapped
to six inch heels.

Most days it hurts too much for brisk,
for swift, for haste.
Most days it hurts too much to roll out
of sheets and covers and let my soles
hit the floor. Rise.

The Devil no longer quakes at the sound of my foot prints, but revels
at the uneven drag of my limps.

The zig zag sway of crumbling hips and crunching cartilage. A ****** swagger subdued by a body
Too tired for its own hinges.

Most days.

Blanket forts and battle ships
I have brought the waves and riptides
And the bow and the port and the starboard
starburst, crash and writhe and fall apart
again, onto knees and floors and aching
joints. Through billowing pillowcases and
Fingers drawing light lines in linen
Ballet shoes and blood stained fibers.
Bodies outlined in chalk
colored covers and crime scenes.

Touch the tips of Suns,
Sins,
Sons,
Songs,
Sound.

Touch the tip
The tip
The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue,
the tip of the tongue, the teeth, the lips.
Tongue twisters like tornados
in the Alley on the coast.

"Run away with me" she bled.
Said.
Blanket forts and battle ships
I have brought the waves
and the riptides
And the bow
and the port
and the starboard.

Soft tousels of seasoning and
olive oiled
Skin, sweet like honey
Dew.
ripe and bursting.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Like fruit juices from
the mouths of Babes
Hot
In summer heat and
Sticky. Wet
with humidity and sweat.
Warm pools,
rippled with the amber
rays of sunset.
I want to run
my hands through damp
grass and leap over
Sprinklers and dance
until the Sun dies for the day.

Bleeding pomegranate and satsuma
And burying babies in the backyard.

White socks and heavy breathing.
Like lungs of cinnamon and cigarettes.
I want nothing more

than to fix my little fingers on
word formulations and wine glasses
while you pinch my back in public
and make me choke on fake blood and Dunkin Donuts.

Spread the petals
and cut the stems
before submerging.

Wet.

Raw vegetables and sticky fruit bear
no resemblance to long car rides and comic book stores.

Ambient. I want to run
sunlight on my face, and stroll
through graves and breathe
in the scent of fresh laundry
and crime scenes.

I want to

drive past childhood trauma
and driveways, where you terrorized
the neighbors and built benches
and danced with Juggalos
in Jean Jackets and Fringe.

I want to weave around
roads in the dark and ****
the monsters as we see fit.

I want to.

"All full up here!"
Windows packed to the brim
with goose down pillows and
little feathers floating from the cracks.

Those, suffocating, small-soft places
Warm like fresh dried laundry.
Sweet and wet and juicy. Mangos.

Hotel California smells like *** and linen.
There's painter's tape on the walls and
a choke coming on. Coming. Coming.

The red light gleams out of the darkness, neon
an alarm clock at 3 am.
No Vacancy.
I'm all full up here, stuffed and over
fed.

I'm all full up here.