the belt around her waist,
mimicked your pale hands
forming an "o,"
while your fingertips meet.
though I told myself
my curves are as gorgeous
though your fingers never graced
anything thinner than my wrists
or the neck of your guitar
i felt my cheeks drain of blush
and replace with the color
of the grass
i rather lay in
than jog through
because the only sweat
i'd like to break
tastes like yours
and mine
and ours in a kiss
while your fingertips meet
around each one
of my *******
and inside me

i used to know a lot of people.
life apparently does you like that
but there was one
i came to know
in school
this girl that seemed
spectacular.
everything about her screamed...
well, everything about her screamed.
she was like an idol
i aspired to be
just like her
command a crowd like she did-
but i had my limits
and she had none
she never feared to be loud
and wild and free
like a mad horse
in a field of grassy daylight.
but people aren't horses
and nighttime always
comes to claim us.
and it's easy to see differences
when you're younger.
i look at the same girl today-
and i worry.
she seems to have lost
what little sanity she has left
she pulls her hair
chases false love
forgets pain in bottles
scolds others for life
everything about her screams...
well, everything about her screams
****** ******
i look in the mirror
and hold myself close
i could have been her,
i could still become her.
but there is still time-
to continue
to be
me
and know some better people.

i'm sorry for being this
inconsequential
interruption
in your life.

I don't know what happened,
but ever since I got really mad,
the people on here seem to like me more.
Raw emotion might have been what they were waiting for.
It seems I've been feeling pretty hard lately.
But fear overtakes my expression.
I fear sounding trite and cheesy.
Writing light and easy.
Rhyming or running away-
I'm always doing something to hide.
Until I just wrote an explosion one night.
Now, I sometimes string artful lines-
but I don't mind letting go of my pride.
I owe this freedom to all those that read,
not just mine but anything on this feed.
The more words we exchange,
the more we extend appreciation,
we grow together.
So I am thankful for those readers
who not only excused my temper tantrums,
but paid homage.
I ended up gaining rather than losing.
And all I can ask now,
is for you all to keep reading.

I tried writing about you before, but looking at it now.
It was trite.
And cheap.
And sympathy seeking.
Like the very spoiled rotten child I accused you of
accusing me of.
But the truth is- you haven't said much to me about anything- for a long time.
And I just miss our conversations.
And I really do try, sometimes-
but there is this hesitation.
We're different beings but still the same.
You're upset the lady downstairs is being beaten again-
in a panic you call the cops and
mom's head is going to have a baby of worry
if we get involved.
But you don't care. You care about the noises
of the kid beating his mother again.
So you call- and for a moment I'm **** proud.
But you can't articulate your words right on the phone.
You exaggerate out of excitement.
I get frustrated and I grab it from you.
Why do we kids treat our parents so sourly?
These people that we came from,
I never would dare yell at stranger,
or even a friend,
the way I do my dad.
And its not that you deserve better treatment,
because we all have had issues.
You've treated me pretty ****** before.
I've did you as well.
I wonder if there's a way...
we could both have a beer.
But I guess I'll keep wondering,
because I wouldn't be a good Indian daughter, then.
And maybe you wouldn't be a good Indian father, either.
But if we could just be without these conventions
for a day.
an hour.
a moment.
a minute.
a second.
I'd tell you
you're pretty **** cool, dad.

I shouldn't have said anything.
I should have just wrote something right here.
Now it's all out in the open.
And all I taste is the fear.
I've never felt so livid.
I'm usually rational.
But I feel like shattering everything,
to resemble my tact.
I'm done with zen.
I'm done bottling it up.
I bet my words taste like the ******* IPA,
and I just don't give a ****.
It used to be so easy- to give you a free pass.
You spun me until I was dizzy,
and now I'm on my ***.
But I don't care how ****** I look anymore.
I don't care about how this poem *****.
**** artful stringing of lines.
I just want to make ****** rhymes.
So I can laugh and pity myself later.
For some reason this self deprecation,
is really cooling my temper.
There must be some **** wrong upstairs.
God, I just looked at my phone again.
What I'd give for there to be a fire right now.
And for this disdainful crud to melt away.
Oh sorry, I couldn't respond...
my phone was on ******* fire.
Like my ******* self-respect.
How rich would that be?
Oh, look, I'm angry again.
What I'd give to hitch hike away.
But I think about my student loan debt,
and I guess that makes me decide to stay.
I guess it's time to sleep again.
When I wake up I won't feel a thing.

You carve a doll out of wax and curse it with voodoo.
Candles in the sun burn with her soft skin.
Oh, she is hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
But you don't want them to know-
the pleasure of watching her melt.
You think she was stolen
and passed around,
so you stick nails in her heart.
Pity takes your soul and the bit of it
you put into her hole.
Plugged with metal against your wall.
Hold a lighter to her chest.
Bleed her out.
Keep her hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Don't leave your toys out again.
Practice voodoo every day.
You imagine
her nose growing,
her eye glowing
with malice.
Hold the lighter to her face.
She's lost her head.
She still has lovely legs
part them to taste fear.
Don't want her to run away.
Hold the lighter to her feet.
Her tummy rumbles
with lust.
Silence it.
Leave her hot. Hot. Hot. Hot.
Voodoo master
but what good are you?
You own nothing but wax puddles.