my sun is a cutout of yellow paper, stars too small in their wrinkled sky. im existing in a universe crumpled and

left to dry– no wonder i’ve got crooked seams. cheap thread and cheaper whiskey will sew up sutures just as well, though, and

                          the scars last twice as long.

it’s a vagabond heart

roaming, sticky-tongued through

valleys of boys and girls:

all can be bled for, just take up the sword yourself.


i’m a

traveling postage stamp scar collection

turned love story

oh
i’m so tired of your lovely eyes
and your heartbreak and the holes inside of you

of course love hurts, of course love hurts
did you think cracking yourself like a coconut
upon the sandy shore
wouldn’t hurt?

how else can you drink the sweet nectar inside?
love is pain, and to love is
to be pained
the most glorious way