when I’m with you no matter when or where,
I feel like it's storming outside.
which sounds odd but given the context,
given me,
you’ll find that I mean that heat,
I mean that electric tingle humming
at the base of my neck when you touch me.
That unexpected boom of thunder when we kiss,
knocking me off center,
making my ears ring.
The comforting cadence of the rain, the world around us,
there but slowly drifting,
unimportant to the arms around me
keeping me warm.

when I’m with you, I feel like I've been nearly hit by a car.
which sounds awful but given the signs,
given the proof,
you’ll see I mean that fever,
I mean that flush of giddy Oh Thank God at your nearness.
That wild relief when your eyes catch mine,
calming my heart and taking my hand.
The trembling of my limbs, my fragile sense of being,
so much stronger now,
bolstered by the presence at my back
keeping me safe.

when I’m with you, I feel like a deer staring down a gun.
which sounds terrible but when I explain,
when I describe
the pounding of my heartbeat,
the breath caught in my throat,
standing perfectly still as you’re perfectly still.
That link between us,
hunter and prey,
seizing me ******, heart, mind and soul.
The unspoken truth, knowing deep in my bones.
This is my ending.
Forever I am done for by your eyes on me,
keeping me here.

Maybe you’re normal.

Maybe everyone feels like this.

Maybe everyone spends days hiding in their bed,
terrified of nothing and cringing at every imagined sound.
Turn off the lights, stop your ears and pray it goes away.

Maybe everyone tucks a ******* between their privates
(sticky pink lips leaking),
on grocery trips, bank errands, and late-night fast food runs.
Sometimes you just gotta feel a little something more than nothing, you know?
More than no one, more than Not Now, Babe, I'm Busy.

Not that you can.

How'd you let us get so numb?

What should take minutes, might take hours.
The ******* wasn't made to combat the all-powerful battery.

You should probably stop before
your pretty little ***** swallows up the toy in retaliation.
You’ll die from toxic-shock syndrome,
even after all those ******-box warnings, and when they cut you open,
the coroner will sneer derisively at the shiny rhine-****** pleasure bullet,
and your mother will blush and stammer
when they ask if she’d like to keep it in memory of you.

It’s so cute and handy
and it smells like pineapple jam...

Everyone should have one.

Maybe everyone cries on their way to work,
shaking and gasping because their hands gripped the steering wheel too tight,
and you knew you were a second away
from jerking your car into the oncoming vehicle
but you stopped yourself just in time,
and now you’re not sure if you’re more horrified that you almost did it
or that you still haven’t done it...

Maybe everyone needs things in twos or fours.
Not sixes, and never fives (unless it’s 10).

In pinks and not blues.
Oranges, not reds.
Oh god, never red...

In horizontal stripes or perfect tiny dots
each one an equal distance from the others.

You need colors arranged by ROY G BIV,
and big to small, A to Z.
Crunchy grapes and crustless bread,
washed hands and doors that open rightways inwards,
not leftways outwards.
You need buttons buttoned and laces tied.
You need straight lines and hip height,
You need perfect spelling and drawers that shut neatly.
You need lids that fit and matching earrings,
You need absolute silence and clocks that don’t tick.
You need dreaMT, not dreamed. EIther, not EEther.
You need speed limits and dress codes.
You need time frames and outlined lists,
you need to always see the sky outside and every door locked shut.
You need spoiled endings and expectations met because if they’re not
you want to scream.
You want to shriek and caterwaul.
You want to rip out your hair and scratch at your eyes, and you want to smear the slick juice of your ***** under your nose and throw your arms against the windows 'til you crack and bend. You want to **** in the mouths of everyone who ever told you Not to Fret because how could this happen, oh god, why could this happen, what did I do wrong? Why is it all wrong? Why is everything so wrong? Please help me, ****, help me! I can't breathe, everything is wrong and I can't breathe...  

But maybe everyone is like that.

Write something honest.
Write something true.
For you. I know it's hard.
I know it hurts.
I know you're terrified and shaking,
I know the words feel sick in your mouth and *******,
I don't want to be sick, I don't want to be here,
but you must.
We must.

Keep writing.
No,
Focus.
Focus on me, baby.
Focus on your fingers,
your tongue tracing the words behind your teeth.
Focus on the rhythm, the cadence of keys clicking,
the calm of a storm having raged.
Having sought, having not found and broken, but still breathing.
You are still breathing, aren't you?
Am I?

*******,
**** me for thinking this was a good idea.
No, wait.
Don't say that just yet.
Don't surrender before the fighting's begun.
Don't look if you never planned to leap.
Don't preach with no intent to prac-
No. You, Wait.
You sit and ******* wait awhile.

There.
Where I can see you.

Don't pretend that pretending isn't what we're good at.
What we're made for.
Don't spill your secrets like the world will thank you.
The world doesn't give a ****.
The world doesn't care,
about your slights, your dreams, your fantasies.
No one gives a **** about your hopes.
No one's going to cry along with you, so stop it.
Shut up.
Honesty is for the virtuous,
and we, have all of us sinned,
again and again.
Your vulnerability supposes anyone would care to read...
Why?
When we'd all rather write?

Are you ******* crazy, he says
and I want to nod,
want to grin
want to peel back my lips and gnash my teeth like a wild thing,
want to jump on the table and scream.

I want to caterwaul,
want to close my eyes and keep them shut
I want to dig my nails into flesh and hear the tear.
No, my voice is quiet like a whisper,
hesitant and unsure.

I want that to be the wrong answer
but I don’t...
I want him to get angrier still
but I don’t...

I don’t want him red-eyed,
blood thirsty,
coming down upon me
but I do.

And when he grips my chin with slender fingers,
I want to sigh,
want to moan like a ***** in heat.
Like a ***** on the side of the road, full with ***,
sore with lust and ****-swollen.

When his hand slaps my bare bare skin,
stinging pink brightly under the force of my degradation.
My sweet humiliation,
leaving soft thick welts on my delicate limbs,
writhing helplessly in discomfort,
tears smudging old makeup and
I am weak,
I am ugly,
I am hurting and I am wrong,
impaired and imperfect,
and perhaps I am ******* crazy.

I’ve yet to
Yet to
find the reason.
Find the sorry explanation,
find the
******* pathetic argument for
why you
Why you’re still here
still in my head dancing.
Still ******* here.
Still flitting thin wrists
beautifully on soft soft sheets
bare skin on soft sheets tangled
with me bared so horribly
achingly bare and it hurts
It hurts
to see you dream
Want you
not really no
not really wanting you
but missing
always missing
******* missing you and sweet lips
kissing gripping teasing licking missing
still ******* missing
and it’s so sorry sad
so sorry tragic
In the sorriest saddest sense of the word
And I am quite
quite pitiful I realize
I know pitiful when I see it.
I can see it on me like a bruise
never quite
quite fading away and I wish
I do truly wish it would
would fade and I could
Heal
could mend
could move
I want to move.
Want to be moving

moving on.

I think I was destined to miss you.
Not have you, no
Not be with you, no
never for long.
I am only always missing you.
Even when I don't want you.
especially
when I don't want you.
When I'm trying to forget you.
when I realize
you're the one I want to ask
you're the one I need to tell
you're the one my mind makes snide comments to
when I'm talking to someone else
and they're not getting it
like I know you would.

I thought we were soulmates, once.
I'd hate for that to be true.
It's a sad kind of life to live...
forever missing you.

Inspiration is a fickle thing.
Leaves and greets me
rarely staying long enough to be useful
though I am used to being
unuseful...

I haven't had a muse in awhile
haven't been a muse in even longer...
It's exciting yet
familiar
These butterflies,
filling up my stomach with
What-if's.

I'm balancing my fervor with
a fear of choking,
Holding back an embrace
at arm's length.
I want so badly to want again
Want so badly
to be wanted
again...

But every second thought and
every fifth, sixth and seventh,
is how at any moment
you might read between my lines
see how fickle
how unuseful
how butterfly-filled
desperate I am
to join the world of muses
again.