There’s a bottle of my mother’s love
Sitting on the kitchen table
It’s gone sour
It’s Sunday morning,
In the piercing comfort of a place
I once would’ve called home,
And the world woke up and walked out on me

The aftermath of July grows right outside my bedroom window
While I sit on a desolate strip of imaginary sand,
With my head in a water cooler
As significant as an ill-fated horsefly

Last night, I had my earlobes pierced.
Prior, I had two piercings on my ears.

One on either side from my childhood,
I can only faintly recall the momentary ache,
not what came after

mom took me,
as she had before,

the outcome will be worth it, she’d explained
Bear the pain,
it only lasts a short while.
It won’t be long 'till the stinging subsides,
and all that will be left,
is a place you can adorn
with glittering gold and shimmering silver
and not-so-witty anecdotes and pretty metaphors,

So,
I let myself be swept in her pace again,
Two new wounds to be embellished.

One,
two,

Perhaps, I’ve regressed
but it hurts more than it did before.

Join the tattooed urban tribes!

Share the Maoris’ drumming vibes.
Fire brand your love onto your heart.
Show that holy stigmata don't hurt.
Place *** at the apex.
Chisel deep into your flesh
What is cash and what is trash.

Set your body apart as a work of art.
Don’t be a naked human monkey.
Don't let anyone know you're funky.
Turn your taboos into tattoos.

But at night, take off your shoes
and put to sleep your tattoos.
Then sink under your skin
and meet yourself behind the scene.

Perhaps, you’ll see tattoo
as nothing new
(I’m afraid)
than the old skin trade.

my dear fellow human,

you have been wintergreen against my heart. a sharp brilliance of blinding light captivating me within the infinite breadth of a wandering moment. my lungs frosted first freezing figures of frozen firs upon the memory of each breath. my blood ran cold like that winter river and I was a fish beneath its icy exterior and you have been wintergreen against my heart. a cold slap of circulating change penetrating each layer of protection. you have been wintergreen through them all and now you are wintergreen against my heart. a fresh perspective from the core of my being to the scales of my skin. a permeating resolution of piercing glacial coolness frosting the valves and chambers of this brumal beater. you have taken my breath from gelid gilded gills and scattered the shattered pieces of peace across this boreal landscape. from the hiemal heights of arctic aurora aura's to the lower polar valley's suspended in diamond dust--you have been wintergreen among them all and now these roots are too--cool, clear and growing--and i have never been so grateful for the cold that pierced and kissed this wintergreen heart.

I don't understand
Why anyone would want to be pretty
When they could be unique
I know that I would rather be me
Than be pretty
Sorry to say that looks ain't all that
But trust me,
It's the character that matters
Not what the character's wearing
It is more beautiful
When the character does something
That is pretty
When they tell you
How amazing the character looks
And how everyone ought to be jealous
I'm sorry,
But I want to match my outside with my in
And if my inside has purple hair,
A lip ring
And stretched ear lobes
Then that's exactly what I want to look like
Because to me, that's an action
And you know that actions
Are really what makes a story
Real

So who here wants to be pretty?

I met her at
the Corner Pocket.
She was bar tending.
Her nose was
pierced, so was
her tongue, and
her heart.
She spoke of
a Utopian city:
A town of tree houses.
She was in her
third year of
architectural school at
Iowa State.
Some dreams are
best left
unsaid.

"Self care is important"
That's what my friends say

But their form of Self Care is
A hot bath
An early night
Time to yourself

My form of Self Care is
A breakdown
A new piercing
A spontaneous adventure

We are not the same.

incomplete
lost
unscrewed
without a pair

The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes
And I feel naked when I'm locked in her gaze
In their shine are no shadows, no secrets, no lies
The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes
Every starlight, and comet, and brightest sunrise
All that is dark or false is consumed in their blaze
The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes
And I feel naked when I'm locked in her gaze