She held her fists between her lips
and chewed them
as if they were caramels
or beef jerky (she loved meat).
Stopping only to taste her own fear,
she became an enemy of herself
and dreaded the taste of her hands.

She kept her eyes averted
or crossed because she was crazy,
and chuckled silently
behind her eyebrows.
Maybe she was keeping up an image
to show that she was afraid of change,
or maybe she wasn't.

She kept her mind
under her tongue
and pressed down on her thoughts
until they were altered.
She let her ideas mix with her spit
and swallowed them until she was full,
or until her mind was empty.

I knocked on your door at 3 AM because I was cold,
but you let me inside for different reasons.
I was wearing my mother's jacket and perfume
and I think you thought I was her,
but my lips are fuller and my hands are harder.
I felt your smile and you felt mine,
and you told me about being gone
so we left.

I held a whirlwind of your emotions in my hand
and it was the first time I'd felt so much
without even moving.
You asked me to throw them, but I couldn't do it,
so I put them in my coat pocket and cried without telling you.
There was something you whispered to me
at half past six that is sitting in that pocket, too,
but I just can't bring myself to look for it.

And the whole time I was waiting for you to hit me;
I had to keep reminding myself that I wasn't her.
In the passion of your memories
you would grab my hand and shake it,
the weird part was that I let you, I didn't protest.

You were kind at 9 AM when I left because I was warm,
but you pushed me out the door for reasons I don't understand.
Maybe because I wasn't her,
or maybe you just needed your sleep--
but I am content with a pocket full of your emotions and memories,
and you are content being alone.

there are some secrets that are what they say.
there are some that tuck back behind your earlobe and I am not obligated to say which ones they are,
as you are not obligated to ask.
but I will say I cannot tell myself at times, and then I have to ponder why I even know that this is even true; or how.

Look, buddy, I whisper in your ear, I don't want to hold your hand anymore. I don't want to touch you like I have, or share my apartment, okay?

you act like this is some surprise, like you never expected me to hate you eventually.
like I am totally ******* you right now.
you even have the nerve to laugh.
I know what kind of secret yours was, and I know what kind of secret mine was.

until you get serious I will not move, and when you're done I say, I'm done ******* with you and I'm done knowing you **** with me.

So this is my fault? you ask.

Now you are just being a ****. I'll give you three of five stars, okay? I say, and I let you figure me out on the corner of 7th and Mott.

Three and a half? you try, and you follow my across the street. C'mon, the *** was ******* delectable.

This is what I'm talking about, I tell you as my hair whips out from under my hat and I know my nose is red.
it is too cold to be fighting.
Nothing was ******* delectable, go shove your **** somewhere else, I'm sure you'll find it just as enjoyable. Because I'm finished.

I touch your nose gently and kiss your cheek.

I stand by my original rating. Three out of five, I say and I walk down 7th until I reach the corner.

*******! you call and I just wish people knew you were talking to me.

your secrets were exactly what they said they were, and that was boring as hell.
have I taught you nothing? keep them tucked in the right places.

you never know what you'll stumble upon.

I can't smell the night air
because your lyrics are getting in the way
and I don't like them enough to listen,
but you're everywhere, it seems.
And I don't mean to be rude,
but you're being very rude.
Just thought you should know
in case you thought you weren't.

And I can't see the stars because, crazily enough,
I can't see through solid objects.
Funny how that works, isn't it?
But you must think that I can
because you sit with your back to me
like I'm Superman or something,
when really I'm less:
I'm nothing (to you).

Where do the ducks go in winter?
Where do they fly,
when their lake is ice
and their homes are pulled from their feet?

But it seems if no one is worried,
no one cares if they stay
or go.
And they move on with their lives,
never stopping enough to care.

Consume me—

touch my throat and toenails,
and I will touch yours
if you close your eyes

then I can see behind them,
and it’s like trying to read the last words
of a letter thrown into the fire
from a lover unforgiving
and a time that needs forgetting.

But don’t forget me—

don’t let me slip from your fingertips
because I can’t see that far
and I don’t want to try

unless you can tell me I will be safe
and you can hold me in moments
unlike others,
as I linger before death
without yet grasping the concept of the life you gave me.

not what you think but a little smaller.
you forgot to paint your t-shirt
with any colors.
it's something to marvel at in the day
and to dread in the night,
and fill with the lush scent
of your iron perfume, like manufactured lilacs.

you dance for something temporary
and lift yourself from dreamlessness
to be touched by a crude ex-lover
because he slipped thirty-five dollars
beneath your door.
and you don't know what to do,
so you try only to love him again
and learn to accept his dry humor.

but coffee is to dark,
and juice is too light
and your relationship is too formal
and his touch is too soft
and your moans are too loud
and your *** is too slow
and your eyes are too dry
and your lips hurt
and your toes cramp
and you think about your mother
and you forget to breathe.

She is an angel, I think. At the very least, she can fly. A few times now I've glimpsed her stretching her wings in the privacy of her bedroom, naked in front of the mirror or in front of the windows. All I can see are the curves of her legs and hips though the tall keyhole, and often the feathers that cover her bare, dark skin. There is something empty about her when I see her there that I feel the need to fill, shadows pushing her closer to the crimson curtains that flutter with her movement.

I often linger by the door longer than I should and imagine her flying, a contrast to the soft sky and clouds surrounding her, the light air only lifting her farther up.

I've knows for three years that she wants to leave me. I can often sense it in the way she breathes and blinks slowly and moves about the kitchen. She eyes me as if we speak completely different languages, and sometimes I believe we actually do. I'm too this or that for her, but her image is unchanging in my mind. I will let her fly from that open window any moment she chooses. I can do nothing; I watch her life simply through a keyhole.

She seems reluctant to jump. With my mind I will her to test her wings, as a child tests the water of his grandmother's swimming pool before diving in, limbs flailing. He can swim, though the cold water is hard to breathe in at first, and he moves from side to side in chilled giddiness.

The rustling of her wings keeps me up at night, as I lay in bed half asleep, half dreaming, in a hot and clustered mind. And I keep one eye open, too, for I know in some day to come that she'll be gone when I awake.

2morrow, I will go 2 a dance party.
I will drnk chocolate milk.
I will fake an orgzm,
or mbe I won't try that hard.
It's all up in da air at dis point.

I'm sure that 2day my mother died,
I felt it & I knew ILY,
IDK if my mind is R;
each breath I take is JFF
and I can't seem to con't.

Will you forget for one moment who we are?
Sometimes it works better to feel when you don’t know.
Like a blind man: your sense is heightened.

And I can feel your emotions in my toes—can you do that? Can you do anything?
Over a bowl of chocolate ice cream, you decide it’s a good idea to tell me you love me.
For a while, all I can see is your nose, red and cold,
until your face comes into focus.
And I’m still not happy with you. Is that odd?
I’m sure I’m not at all what you expected.
Once I turned the lights on, you gasped.

Is it chilly now? Or am I the only one who feels a breeze?
I get it,
I ask you too many questions; I ask you too many favors.

But have I ever asked you something
that you couldn’t answer?