entice:
what does heart
have to do with this mess?
lust can halt finely like
water droplets down your chest

pinch:
little sharks
at her knees
this will only burn
if you're weak

steal:
a scalpel to her spine
blow the backbone
she calls
'mine'

blaze:**
poor letters
deemed worthy
minor melodies
sung too early

i know a god stronger than religion
who speaks sign language with his lips.
i'll be a wayward dove;
watch me soar and get hit.
please sin with me tomorrow,
steal the revolver from the crate.
i'll just wait.
eye sockets burn red;
a color mistaken for hate.

i stay up late,
to twiddle the chill
that hooks onto strands of hair,
tugs them into a maze,
then expects you to find your way.

i stay up late,
to search with the silence
so my grief might melt faintly
with the remaining rumbles
that drown out this ****** world.

i stay up late,
to kiss the ember
that sails from insomniac chimneys.

i stay up late,
to see beauty
i've never found
between the dishonest daylight.

i stay up
until dawn rips into existence.

What is it about the night time that makes us so vulnerable?
Because at 3am the world seems to stop.
I am shaded by a black veil of unconsciousness
and madness that sputters onto my pillowcase.
I feel weaker in the unknown;
It possesses a certain uncertainty that is kept
a secret between my skin
binding itself to my membrane.
I am not the queen of mystery nor the goddess of the night;
I cannot wear a cloak that will swallow me like a sewer-
that will distort me into a fragment.
I crouch in corners and lurk loosely between fiction
and reality

My brain clicks on and off
in sync with my ballpoint pen
My lungs have inflated
to twice the size of my brain
I'm finding it hard to think straight
when three of my glass ribs have
shattered into splinters
that slice their way through my heart

Startled by
the bitter stains on the white carpet
I'm sick of inhaling fumes
that don't belong in this house
that scratch at my ****** flesh like
forced zippers

These walls cater phony comfort
I'm not sure if it's the bitter black liquids
Or the soothing Sunday jazz?
My stomach is numb from dead weight

Five years
These seats still aren't warm

My hands are hollow
They will never graze the likeness
An innocent's tender skin has to offer

It seems I was
born with a flawed mind
and an inferior anatomy.

I was raised to be a daisy
soft and dainty
abandoned in the polar air to be
protected
by the starving dirt that
pins us to the earth.

Now I wait to be tossed fertilizer
…every once and a while.
In the meantime my innocent petals are plucked
and my stem grows grungy.

I watch horrified.
Flowers being ripped from their roots
purely out of admiration for their beauty
sacrificing the vibrant life that once painted its scales.

I am forced to grasp tightly onto soil
that will never be stable.