In her closet next to a shirt
hangs a concertina pleated skirt
she slips it on with grace and ease
the tiny pleats are there to please
like a million shimmering crystal shards
all tightly pressed like a pack of cards
as she moves they sway and dance
upon her legs they tickle and prance
the feeling makes her smile and shiver
which makes the pleats start to quiver
they skim and flatter her  hips and ***
like the majestic rays of a rising sun
such carnal delights found in a skirt
as she hangs it back next to the shirt.

When I see the light
This is all I care about:
Did I leave an mark?

I never called it ****,
the events of the night the gin had made us hazy
and the drugs had us reckless.
The half hour you spent strumming me
like some pawn shop guitar
Suffocating me in the sheets
which were covered in the filth of your former lovers.

I never called it ****.

The way your hands had rudely ripped
my previously untouched skin
and your mouth devoured my innocent lips.
Never thought much of the way you had told me to be quiet
while I whispered for you to stop
because I'd never done this before
and it was painful
and I wept.
Because you had warned that I would wake the others
and I was embarrassed
and you had made me *****.

I never called it ****.

Never let the repetition of your phrases sink in too much
as you told me it was fine
and it was okay
that I'd like it.
I never thought too hard.
Because you moved too fast
and the room was spinning
and I gave in to waiting for it to be over.
And when you had gotten too tired of hearing me whimper
and my pleading had become obnoxious
you sighed an angry "**** this"
and stomped off to the bathroom to finish yourself,
after commanding I put my clothes back on,
And find somewhere else to sleep,
I stumbled across your ***** basement to where the others slept
and collapsed hiding silently in the sinkholes of your couch,
Listening to your grunts before the light came on and you passed out
avoiding the stains of my youth on your sheets.

And I never called it ****.

In the morning you drove me home
making little effort to hide your disgust in my failure to get you off
While I looked out the car window at all the houses I had grown up next to,
None of which looked familiar any more
attempted to ignore the stinging of the poisonous scars you had left behind
pretending that my body wasn't covered
in the scratches and bruises of your insincere actions.
And when we arrived outside my parents' house
after an eternity of painful silence
you didn't speak merely
grunted at my departure
and I snuck quietly through the front door to the shower
where I scrubbed until the marks from your fingernails
became indistinguishable from the skin I had rubbed raw
until it bled
trying to convince myself
that I had eliminated all the remnants of your scent
and the dirt from your actions.

But I never called it ****.

For years I stood there looking at the river
Dank, dismal surrounded by mist,, cold rain
No warmth in my life
This was just an exhistance
A life but not living
No love, no warmth,  no feeling
And so I crossed the river to a brand new world
Warmth,  passion,  love
I found the life I craved for

You to can cross the river

My roommate is vacuuming the apartment
I'm thinking about distances
past to present,
empty to overflowing,
shattered to whole
doctor your wounds are bleeding again
and I don't have the proper training
we toil and toil beneath the gaze of an oblivion
too much sweat on the brow to take the time to ask why
my heart is a runaway train
my brain the penny on the tracks
there's no such thing as non-civilian casualties
hungry is as hungry does
it's just the nature of these lives
our carrot on a string
I thought I caught a taste once
only to bite my own finger
It hurts, but the pain is just motivation
to keep on living
and all of those lessons and truths
she whispered in your ear on dreaming nights
are still the reason your heart beats the way it now does
wake the hell up
perfect does not exist
and you are going to be fine
fix the roof
you are going to be fine

Mr. *******,
Mr. Oh here comes another pretentious cry for attention
I know self-deprecation babydoll
like you know his bedroom ceiling
Mr. International
jetted out from UK to the land of the silent heroes
where the grass isn’t green enough
and everybody was seemingly either
addicted to donuts, bacon, and cheese
or 5K’s, yoga, and weights
they don’t sell **** by the ten pack either
Mr. Liar Liar pants on fire
masochistic almost autistic
Mr. High or Drunk
Caffeinated thrift shop hipster
loves the girls until he has them
scrooge McDuck
I do believe misanthrope is the word
but always first to crack the whip of jokes in bad taste
if he were homeless he’d hang a sign around his neck
it would read:
Will somebody, for the love of God, please Validate me!?!
Mr. Rational thought secretly praying in the back room
Mr. Intellectual Dropout
don’t judge me judger
Mr. I’m brave for doing this
Jesus I am terrified
Mr. I could be great
if I could just find a ******* desk chair comfy enough