I am not a man,
I am glass,
Awaiting a brokenness,
Under such a weight as this

A picture perfect face
Constructed of 1000 words
Of every verse written
For you to mark your place

The paper between the letters
Is the whiteness if your eye
The accent mark on hazel brown
Who's detail could never fetter

We'll hang you in a gallery
Your brazen beauty photography
Deserves appropriate passerby appraise
Film as mastery, above  the satisfactory

A picture perfect body
Covered in couplet & quatrain
In free verse & stanza
Across fruitful you embody

You probably understand. Or maybe you don't, after all. Either way, it is jumping around inside me and if I don't let it out soon all my carbonation will fizz up and run over the side of my glass and I don't want to waste all that sweetness.

I want to kiss you underwater.

I want that kiss to be the only thing keeping us alive. Down there we are foreigners, aliens. Grasping, I want to feel your flesh in stark contrast to the smooth wetness all around me, like a secret.

All that life where we cannot live. Exotic, forbidden, so lovely. I am sick with love.

I am your eyelids and the train-tracks of your stitches. I am the cracks in your bones and the wealthy mind riches. I am the fluid of your language that speaks in every sentence of your prose, I am the syllable you cannot speak though your tongue still knows. I am the chapel of your rib cage and the rage that it slows, closing the gates to the crosses in rows. I am the dirt under your cuticle and the follicle of your skin, sprouting a thread of your body within. I am the anxiety of your brain and the ecstasy of your flesh, crawling at the sense that you attain and possess. I am your lost baby teeth and the way that they chatter, I am the neurons, the synapses, the white and grey matter. I am your saliva burning caverns in the cave of your time. I am the line of your lips and the lungs you call, "mine." I am your soul, your secrecy, your sanctity. Your spine.

I am the incarnation of suburban desperation,
The world washes over my body

I lead truth like a thread
through the eye of my
needle, stitched into your iris
and sewed up the virus.
Took bets on bids.
Two kids walking train tracks under your eyelids.

funny how it could all start
with one click of a camera
tilted too far to the right

one girl in a pink princess shirt
smiling, waiting, hoping for acceptance
but never receiving that gift

she looks back on that photograph
her eyes staring past the edge
so eager

she remembers the sneers and the glares
from her peers
and she smiles

because once it starts
it never ends
and she is just fine with that.