i’m sure of it now: there is something
Wrong about the shape of my bedroom
(has been for a while now);
from the hinges in the door to the
Dust that lingers on top of my piano
even after i’ve cleaned it,
rubbed it raw, pungent citrus smell, black keys
turned opaque and dull and dusty.
i see it everywhere, now: a pale,
god-awful dust,
tickling my throat as i breathe it in.

lately i find myself longing for that quiet,
blurry daze: for that one time I was 10 and
fell asleep, face up
under the early afternoon sun,
woke up half-blind with the brightness,
stood up as if underwater,
heat-sluggish and *****-sated,
Static. the air I breathed was heavy, but clean.
i think I was at my aunt’s -
no, the beach. Anyways.
(even my dreams look way too sharp now,
high-def, white LED lights.
everything's so terribly real. i'm so tired)

i'm not really sure where I begin
maybe under that warm, forgiving sun 7 years ago
or facing of a row of therapists
some good, some bad, all of them in one same
cold, white room where all the lights are on me,
i'm half-blind again
but they tell me to dance to the sound of
sympathetic words and thoughtful silences—
i'm waltzing with a plastic smile;
i'm dragging my body on the stage.
but in my dreams i (like the red dress)
stretch and stretch and stretch until I
can't quite face myself in the mirror;
until i'm not sure where i ever end.

i forgot to tell them about the dress.
yesterday my mom gave me a new dress -
a new red dress, sweetheart neckline -
i ran long bony fingers along its lovely stitches,
held it to my body in the mirror. And i knew, then -
even now i know -
what it will feel like, look like,
frayed and worn: muted red
delicate seams stretched, sandpaper thin,
******* dust clinging all over it.
i couldn't put it in the wash. it’s part of the process.

can you hear the awful drums?
they're telling us that things will never
         ever be the same again -
so they beat, the exact same rhythm
as the blood clogging my ears.

let's take the method
right out the madness, shall we?
          laughter won't feel half as good
          once the last bit of wine has left my throat;
the sacred chalice shattered long ago.

a tall man comes my way, hands and face
          stained with ichor. oh,
now i see that alien glow more clearly!
it sits behind his eyes, sways along
with the light reaching through the leaves outside.

          oh, but i do wish, i wish, i wish
that things hadn't ended this way.
i wish the fates had reached
          some sort of agreement, you see -
                in this matter between you and me.

no point dwelling in what's gone,
and i'm quite sure i won't be here long enough
      to hear the last of the chants.
              and you know, and i know you know
              it would be rotten, rotten work any other way.

there's no limit to what i'd do
to keep this little game of ours going.
you don't wanna know how far i'd go.

yes, i'll keep on trailing you;
for although hope lies beyond the finish line
no ending is better than an empty one.

we'll stall this thing a while longer, so please
let go for just a second; i think that you could stand
to take a small lesson. no, you can keep
holding on to the chain. forget i ever said it.

the night sky reminds me of that one time -
i'm sure you remember, you still have the scar -
eighteen thirty-four, the city was on fire
along with our skins; along with your disguise.

i've never seen rage burn so pretty
in someone's eyes before, you know.
you lean in and i'm not quite sure
if i'll survive to see another day.

and i ask you: do you like what you see?
you answer with a blade to my neck.
eloquent as always, my love, although
are you sure you could stand the silence?

there's nothing i can trust you with
so just take everything. i'm yours to ruin
yours to love and
yours to desecrate.

my mind's a mess, so break it.
i'll pray for my own demise.
will there be revenge, oh cruel god,
will there be mercy tonight?

tell me all about your world so
i won't need eyes to see.
if my legs take me away from you
take them away from me.

tear my temple's walls apart and
usurp the **** throne!
what other gods are there besides you?
what better sacrifice than my bones?

yes, i know how much you like blood, for
there's no blade sharper than your tongue.
so whisper your sweet barbs on my skin
and watch it flood my lungs.

i taste the metal in my mouth
before i am reborn-
sharp breath, blurred sight.

focus back into the soft turn
of your cruel eyes,
all sins repented; all is right.

we stay up all night
for no particular reason, and you tell me
all sorts of things that i want to hear
and it's funny because (like a little inside joke)
you know what you're doing. you know
that i know what you're doing.
but you tell me anyway, because
the black mold on your ceiling is shaped like a heart.
because your favorite character from that one show
you can't stop thinking about
reminds you of me. and i wanna tell you to stop,
i wanna make you wish you were here
just to shove my head on the ground
by my hair, rip my lying tongue out with teeth -
but why should i care?
(masque ou décor, salut!)
baby, if we're gonna break each other apart
we better make it count.
the pain better be what it takes
to grind a billion galaxies into a single
aching spot of phenomenal heat.

we'll restart the universe with this. but meanwhile,
did you know (it's funny, like an inside joke)
that pain means bread in french?

my grasp on her glass of water clanks and
      clatters like shackles,
resonates savagely for miles and miles.
until it reaches my mirror and becomes
      too red to hear;
i hadn't realized the water had reached my eyes
i couldn't know that it was so near.

saw this in the news, my darling, thought
      you might be interested -
but all the sounds from my window are muffled
by the ringing inside my ears.
hope they reach you well, i hope that you
      are well. can't check for myself.

(the dried tubers have always been enough so i never
ever asked for violets)

Time came back once again, daughter,
he left a red smudge on your chair's left arm.
it catches on my hair as I fling
      arms and legs over stained upholstery;
eyes outstretched to the ceiling (an offering:
      to whichever gods are still left.)

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharged with burden of mine own love’s might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
    O, learn to read what silent love hath writ,
    To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.