I'm a shallow pond of emptiness,
        but stones were pulled out
before this evaporation of self
                   was but a hollow echo.

Those stones were skimmed on
           the surfaces of others waters,
but where greeted as they sank beneath
              settling within the depths.

I was a collected in the pools of many,
        even though I faded the stones
of myself were collected in others.
                           they never evaporated.

"When one evaporates,
          our condensation will gather within others,
      
*"Rocks sometimes never dry but sink below others pools.

I'm happy with what you have to give me
Except on these days where the hormones in my head
Riot like they forgot about tomorrow
Then my organs sink
And not only my brain can think of you
My skin spells your name in goosebumps
And the curls in my head signify the S that starts your name
The word that's always on my tongue
That made up word
That made up name
That belongs to you and will always mean
This love that devastates me always
This fever that makes me sweat out all the questions
When my immune system can't [/catch up and make up/]give the answers
as fast as it all unravels and so a lie for comfort may slip out
From between my lips
from my wallowing throat
from my nauseous stomach
where the Crohn's says I have cancer



When the dehydration strangles me,
I will be less human than you ever were
Each grain, a connection, the sand leaves me an emptier sandbag
Just one in the wall of flood prevention
Protecting a city of quivering seamonkeys

These are my organs,
all trying to function,
mixed with one cup too many
of tea.

These are my organs
sliced to pieces by dishonesty,
who have bled too much
unrequited love.

These are my organs who have
decided to give life a second chance
because they delight in
feeling my body dance.

These are my organs
wrapping themselves around
a stranger
claiming love, love, love
in a world of sad never afters.

These are my organs
shaking off the sadness,
burning, burning,
and in the end
all that remains is
love, love, love.

Loads of bubble wrap piled behind

and it crackles like how a stomach

gets twisted on itself after

eons of sleep

decoding it's diaphragm to follow

the blips and beeps and bleeps

encrusted on trusting

a tight gut reaction to

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



Loads of suds creep up

forming in cysts or scabs

upon stomach encasings

all slimy and orange inside

with a stretchy cover all

deep royal purple with

dark pink veins coursing

through it encoding the

rapture of film recording while

the lining inside gets all clammy

with arousal secretly clenching

this yearning and aching just

wanting to touch



you.



But waiting is so difficult.



It's a difficult, messy procedure that leaves the body exposed if it comes in contact to actual skin and flush and heat and mucus but



it is a necessary step to

colloquial banter within

the clustering of organs all

internally arguing while the

overwhelmed brain tries to keep order and the genitalia hums

all quiet in the corner

because she knows she runs



the show.



And it's funny because the brain knows he'll have to give in to

the actual world of living folks

and climb out of his bundled

fabulous fantasies in order to

make reality plausible.



And in wanting you



and in waiting



I've found myself in visceral shock

to the point where I panic and

all that's jumbled up and bound inside me seems to clench tighter.



And I fear that in waiting for your mutual touch



and I fear that in wanting to be with you so much



I'll collapse under the weight

and never get up.



Loads of words hide beneath me

resting in tubes that resemble

the small intestines in looping

nests of unbridled questions.

Will it be enough to see you

and not touch you?

Will it be enough to talk

with you and not kiss you?

Will it be enough to be chaste

and respectful when all my brain needs to do is test you?

When all my brain wants to do

is clobber you whole, chew, then swallow, spitting out bones?

Rib cages are meant to protect our hearts,
Shield them from possible danger.
I must not have received that part,
For pain has been no stranger.

I think it shriveled up,
As it met the the cruelty of life,
Met the guilt that comes with death,
The emptiness that comes with strife.

What does that make me,
To exist without a heart?
It means I am nothing,
My life has lost its art.

My insides swelled begging their casing to break. 

To be set free from the confines they had been expected to find comfort within- to sit with contentment for all eternity, to accept the known with no knowledge of what was outside of their ingrained idealization of a humble abode.

They throbbed, slight at first then gaining vigor as my vitals cried out so sweetly to acquire some sort of insight as to what lie beyond such a feeble body.
Rip me open from head to foot, expose the very reason for physical existence and destroy it. I want to feel my heart on the floor.
Drop my stomach from fifty stories if it means that of a slight fluster of butterflies will evolve into a spontaneous combustion of excitement along with blood-stained pavement for my proclamation of wide eyed wonder, and the butterflies.


Give my hands to those in need.
Sever them with the grace of which graciousness should be felt and hand these hands to the masses reaching for something, someone, to allow those who have fallen to rise above adversity. 

Lend a hand! Lend a hand! For I only have two.

Throw my eyes in places that uplift your soul.

Play the harpsichord of my vocal chords when in need of an extra push.

Keep my lungs, for you were my breath of fresh air.

Lay my skin atop rose petals and let it dissolve.

Throw me to beauty until I’ve become nothing at all.

Allow me to live without limits until I am all gone, for how can one truly experience all that is lovely without turning to it completely.

I want to be of use, you see.

Far from what existing as one conjoined body is set to allow me.


Cut me up into a million parts, spread me far and wide.

Then look to all the humbled souls, as if I haven’t died.