we are the children

the underground

we are not your leftovers spat out in a tipsy of dust and bumblebees

i look to you and the birds fly out of our mouth

going ahead of the train and georgia willows to think, “this is the way the world ends.”

and i repeat

and weak

and speak

“this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends.”

how do i know?

when i wake up in the morning
and try to spell God first thing
and the only thing to look forward to
is Him giving me something else to dream about
and heading back to  bed.

when i see it
i think of iris not quite bleached like dali
instead brushed with pink and old jeans
there are more than eighty
that cure your bones and broken skin

in your head, anusara and succulents and a pocketknife
and between your mother and
bedroom conversations about God and shooting up
i've seen two things

i'm not good at math

and

you are good at everything else

my thoughts?
be gentle
you are dealing with parts you've been at war with for so long

even before me

before blood in a heart

or in the bathroom sink

and tracing constillations on Eve’s palm in the cool of the evening

breathing life into dust

He’s crazy about me.

i-
forbidden thought, i guess

i mean

everyone wants to die as if they were falling asleep
why do you think i love the blue in the bottle?

in the cool of the evening, He tells her about before
before before before
with Them
and the dark

she does not understand completely
(existing in one space is difficult enough)
though she listens and thinks that it must be like dreaming

they need sleep, she and the ribcage man
though-

she bites her lip
and wonders why
He never tells her His dreams