I tell him to “talk to me sweetness”
It’s like tasting honey in the summer

Warm and golden

Insulin spikes as blood rushes to my cheeks
He can feel my heart rate through my jeans

Hot and wet

You returned me
Like empty bottles of wine
Or something broken
Unsatisfied

Cautionary visions visit in viciously vivid fashion
I'm dead and my head is missing
Everyone is laughing
        
                     But me

And the sky is sorta dreary but I don't know
With no eyes you don't see too clearly

      Sew me a new one on,
Attached at the neck
Plastic instead of brittle skin and maybe then
     I can exist in some form above the normally gray and grim

    I pray to a faceless facade
            I made a "God" in my head
An eternal alternative to turn to and blame
   And claim to strangers that he works in mysterious ways
        My lips are chafed from singing unheard praises
  
        I'm tasteless and it has me thinking that maybe my mouth was only a product of my imagination
     Food for thought I chew and stop
           Its too **** hot for contemplation

      Still, I used to think my hands belonged to someone else
     Right up until I used them both to **** myself

And try to light em underneath an ocean's worth of crude oil
      That is forcing it's way into my lungs
            My high hopes hung their heads in the past as they waited to be hanged

               But now the concept of life felt empty and displayed itself as a delay
        A casual lack of oxygen shut off all process in the brain

                 And we are on our way.


~spark~           
                            

                      in the depths
              And the darkness fades to grey,
           **A less ambivalent shade.

I etched patterns into a tree with a pocket knife that had a red plastic handle
            Indentions such as these never stay
            Yet eternally we press against the world

        Hoping to make a mark that will shine in the daylight and glow in the dark
                    ~

           I'm a shriveled slice of the Americana pie
      With my soul on a swivel and the devil in my eyes

       Life was a son of a ***** with fists that spat dirt when it spoke
                And it ONLY screamed.
        
         ~

   I'm somewhere between *David Duchovny and Stephen King
      And I'm trying to rip up manuscripts that I didn't write and I don't know who did.

      Goodnight America. My patterns will explain my existence more than I ever could.