I love all parts of you just as I love you as a whole.

Your eyes are not your eyes.
        They are nets for light,
                catch-all-that-catch-can,
                and catch they do.

Your nose is not a nose.
        It is line and curve
                in your silhouette;
        Immediately recognizable
                and just as soon loved.

Your skin is not skin.
        It is flat and rolling prairie.
        It is not porcelain, but pocked,
                scarred and lovely.
        Sand on the beach that begs to be touched.

Your hair is not hair.
        It is thick forest
                Dark and deep.
        When I run my fingers through,
                I cannot help the rush of comfort.

Your legs are not legs,
        They are crooked columns
                of tendon and muscle,
                    cartilage and bone.
        They carry you to me.

Your arms are not arms.
        They are air.
        Strong as wind when wrapped around,
                and soft as a breeze when alighting on skin.

Your torso is not a torso.
        It is a trunk.
        Solid and beautiful.
        You are my tree and I lean against you.

Your mouth is not a mouth.
        It is a cave,
        Dark but warm
                and full of secrets.

Your hands are not hands.
        They are mirror twins,
                Machines that create and destroy.

And the ring on your finger is not a ring.
        It is the invisible oath;
        the promise that hangs in the air
                   and binds you to me.

I shouldn't have to apologize
For simply being me
Yet the words
"I'm sorry"
Seem to spill from my mouth
As easily as a friendly
"Hello".

You're sitting across a table, in the next room- and it's the month of July.
                                                                                 And as the beads of sweat chip off your forehead
                                                                                                              like a shank of butcher's meat,
                                                                                                                        your dorcel fin peaks                                                                                                         through the sand where my toes peak                                                                       through. The picnic table where I write letters; post cards.
                                                                                                   I take photos, make reservations, and
                                                                                       even after I'm canceled on for walking around
                                                              downtown in my bright neon-pink underwear, I still roll to the
              left side of the bed sit up and drop the cigarette I fell asleep on. You're just sitting, first entry:                                                                                                                                                 Stardom.

                                                                                                I don't have room for you in the corners.

                                                                                                The corners of this room, padded walls,
                                                                                           shifty vaseline sway- the white cotton stick
                                               of a sucker pointing out of your mouth, its red numero forty dye shines
                                                                                                                in the specks of light flicking
                                                                                                  out of the horizon like a carousel ride
                                                                                                                              around and around.

                                                                                        I'm getting a bit dizzy, and even less honest.

                                                                                                                 If you want to see me spring,
                                   like the silly string on my birthday, yellow silly-putty; molding the monster face,
                                                                                                     I observe you through a kaleidoscope                                                                                                                   of dexedrine and morphine.
                                                                                              Your catastrophe with Xanax, passed out
                                                            in alien-green *******, at that party in the abandoned firehouse
                                                                            on News St., how you could lay trust on me after that

                                                                                                (a daydream with sawing you called me)

                                                                                             sixteen-year-old mishap of an afternoon.
                                                                                            &

Fearing
Judgement
Criticism
Mockery,

She zipped her mouth,
Sewn it shut,
And never did she
Utter a word again.

sometimes it feels like my mouth is stitched shut
maybe to prevent me from saying the wrong thing?
but when the stitches fray
and im allowed the luxury of voice
it seems like wrong is the only language I know

Twisted was her mouth
when it kissed him for the last time
no longer was it the kiss
That made her shake
But that they would not ever kiss
That she would never kiss again

i love everything that spills out of that perfect mouth of yours.

Swords!
I believe I own one. It's small in size
but great in strength. And harm? That may be
the only thing it has granted me. As it grazes
against the backs of my teeth and cuts
at the necks of old lovers, I am not sure
whether I am grateful for this tool.
Wielding all this power, is it a blessing or a curse?
But what am I saying? What do I know?
All I've got is a tongue.