there is no intricate ritual just the touching of flesh
tension torn down by tips of tongues, lips, and lungs
the way men touch far from simple yet too at ease for intricacy
are we practiced in pretending or have we become masters of intimacy

i practice putting patterns in my poetry
i know you can hear them popping
and pushing through parted lips.
starting and stopping and starting again
trying to take trash and make it treasure.

this isn't how I was supposed to be
I was supposed to stay innocent
but now I just stay quiet
for the words my mind whispers
have stolen the shreds of innocence
I once called my own
the childhood I held so closely
slipped through my hands
and I stopped trying to hold on to it

I'm not who I was born to be
at least not to her
the child she was supposed to raise
has disappeared and with that
has disappointed and ******* up
but who she thought I was born to be
will never be who I am
so she'll have to settle for disappointment

lights pass through windows lit by broken bulbs and held by failing foam
moving at miles per whoever knows trying to get home
underground where you can’t hear the rain know the sun shines even on a darkened train
come up from the tunnels where light only flashes in funnels

green leaves sporting brown rings
followed by the last breath of summer breeze
one by one the boots come out at night
and sleeves come into sight