clean your teeth
with a pink washcloth
your tongue
with saline water
hands behind my back
gently (or roughly) held
together
pacing back and forth
or sitting on my
uncertainly made
deliberate choices
I wonder if you like
the smell of clementine
on my fingers
stained orange from the
pungent peel
I would stain
my whole body with color
if I could
as if that would
freeze this superficial
line of seconds

freak of nature
"selfish" screaming in my ears
I digress violently now
Whitman bleeding out of
my ears
I cannot bow
seventeen and furious
I am the poet of the
human skin; of violins
and softly fingered clarinets
singing of the dirt under
my fingernails
self-loathing--the evil twin
of guilt--is blinding
I cannot read graphing
calculators or the
future
but both seem empty
like the box under my bed
that used to hold pieces of my
soul (or I thought it did)
now I am scattered
I would like to
hold onto your hand
(I will be less abrasive this way)
instead of purging myself
of every doubt that
has rudely accosted me
in the marrow of
my simple human
structure