I still felt their hands
Upon my skin
Their names tattooed
Upon my tongue
And my love life
Flash art
Plastered in peripheral gaze
Each man
Holding a tattoo gun, waiting
To tease at my skin
I heard it in the morning
Instead of the birds
My body, a canvas
Possessed by each man
That whispered I love you
In my ear in error

****, when did we get like this
Seems like everyday we add few more names to the list
The innocent don't stay alive
The children are desensitized
And to be honest I'm scared I'm the next one that they'll hit
I need a bit of love
Need a little trust
Need some love
Lotta love right now
There's been pain from the start
Lotta pain in my heart
Need to change but I don't know how

My name; to be loved.
By two gentle arms and hands.
Uncovering the New.

I hate the saying, "Baby's Mama."
It's so ******. As I drifted off to
sleep last night, crocked on a plethora of
pills, and the remnants of *****, I thought
to myself, She's a little bluebird that
burrowed in my heart.
I laughed and slobbered, and drifted
into the warm fuzzy black.

She's intuitive, she asked me to let
the nurse know that her and the kids were
coming so that there would be a smooth
transition with staff. Hospitals can be
peculiar when it comes to visitation with children.

So she asked me how I wanted to refer to her.
She's the Mother of my 2-year old
daughter, and she has a 10-year old boy
that I have been around for 6 years.
He's like my own son, but 'technically,  he's not.
I don't want to offend anyone. It's all so
******* complicated. I could say, "This is Bonnie,
I'm Clyde, and this is our gang." They probably
wouldn't laugh. I feel very comfortable saying,
"These are our kids, and this is their Mom"

If the kids weren't in ear-shot and I felt
like a rapscallion, I might say,"This is a woman
that I used to love and **** a lot! Finally we had
our daughter- WOW- AMAZING! ! !
The boy came along before I met her, but I love him
like my own son- always and forever."

Anyway, this is my daughter, and my son, and a woman that I used to
love and **** a lot, also, a fantastic Mother, and when
I'm twacked out d-toxing- drifting off to sleep, and
laughing about what to call her, I might just call her
my little bluebird, that burrows in my heart.

My old name is dead to me.
That's why they call it a deadname.
The person who had that name breathes no more.
She was killed by my own hands.

She was named for both of her grandmothers,
some sort of sentiment to come from a careless mistake.
Maybe this is what made it so easy for me to **** her
because her name was a throw-away.

Her middle name came from the title of a movie
that her parents had once liked.
But the movie is old and bland, and the plot has no meaning.
So her names are futile attempts at trying to right a wrong,
trying to make up for something that can never be fixed.

I killed her.
I wanted her dead so badly,
so I killed her.

My name is Casey.

I am not heartless, though.
She wanted me to be Casey.
Although I killed her, she still means something to me.

I had to **** her in order to move on.
She knew that.
So I am Casey for her.

Casey.

It means spear.
A weapon.

Fitting for a murderer.

Some few are immortalized for millennia,
But how long is millennia, truly,
Compared to when time began, newly
Forged, to the time where we
trace history to Mesopotamia?
Could it be?
That we are fools to seek peace of mind,
In the things we may leave behind?
All will be forgotten and fall into nothing;
So please someone tell me,
Why our names should mean something.

I once had a nurse named Ivy, When I
was at Mercy Hospital D-Toxing.
She wasn't poison, and didn't wind and wrap
around my room giving it that garden green and
alive look.  There was never any doubt that I was
surrounded by four beige walls, and two locked doors
at the end of those long torturous halls that I walked daily.

She was a short squat thing with big eyes and large
plump thumbs.  The name Ivy didn't fit her.
My daughter's middle name is Ivy.  She is breathtaking--all
pumpkin pie colored hair.  She has the temperament of
autumn too, just like her mama.  It feels like a stomach
virus to be apart from her.  She twists and tightens around
my broken heart... We **** sure picked the right
name for her

You called her a ****** bag
Mean and a prat
She said you were selfish
That your arrogance was a fact.

You said she was violent
And she said the same.
You said her love for me
Would only ever be a claim.

And she you would push
everyone close to you away
And you said she’d never care for anyone
Even for a day.

And you said she would leave
And blame our falling out on me.
She said you would fight us all for your
Self-righteous victory

I'm not sure I should say this
But I think that I just might
Because you were both *******
So, you both were right.

There's no hope of future friendship
Even if I wanted there to be
Because you both were awful
And you both hurt me.

Beautiful
Wise
Victorious
All words that describe Sigrid
But Sigrid,
None describe you.