It'll be alright, darling. You'll find the spaces in between and curl up, and you'll finally be comfortable. Honestly, it will be okay. Stop pulling your hair out; she loves you too much.
It'll be nice, okay? Find the sun and other planets, put them in your back pockets like marbles, and be on your merrily way. Look in front of you. Your beloved it already with you. Stop looking around the room. Your neck is a small stick, what with that lollipop head of yours. It will all work out, yes. You took to the skies on a big mechanical hummingbird and went to another world. This is something you can handle. Revive your body; GHOSTS

The way your lips look after we've been kissing for too long.
No, no. The color of her favorite flannel.
No, the way angry cartoons look.

Let's talk about b l o o d.
                                  oozing, flowing, going...
Let's talk about roses. Shiny, sweet, beautiful.
                                     Their thorns invading my skin
                                     when they ***** *****
                                                                    picking the berries
                                                                    sweet juice, ooze your
                                                                    way onto my body,
                                                                    s t i c k y...
                                                                    stick me, stick a needle
                                                                    in me, it's supposed to help,
                                                      NOTHING is helping.

Tell me my heart is bright cranberries,
                                 an oozing scab;
                                 not a rose,
                                 not some kind of victory
                                 to be celebrated.

Yes, an oozing scab, festering with dirt and
dilemma and dead
                       and dead
                                      and
                                             d e a d.


**~~a.s.f.

A Letter From Glasses to Girl:

****, girl. You keep me so *****. Don't you care about me at all? The things I have been through are not what normal glasses go through. Do you not want to wash the memories away? Some of them need to be discarded and forgotten and washed away. The crust on me is a constant reminder of how late you stay up to study night after night. Take me off and let us both have a rest.


Letter From Hair to Girl:

****, girl. You keep me so *****. Don't you care about me? Aren't you worried about how I look? I'm pretty sure there are bats or cacti or stars in me. He's into the unkempt, ***** look, right? I am ocean. People get lost in my wrath. Lookin' like some kind of natural disaster, tornado, hurricane, I am. Fix me the **** up, or don't, and get out of bed.


Letter From Body to Girl:

****, girl. You keep me so *****. Don't you care about me at all? You need to understand that I am trying to keep us together. I don't hate you; I hate what we've turned into. Stretch marks shaped like hands are reaching up from the bottom of your stomach, begging to be let out. I am a hollowed version of you. Understand that I am a skeleton without you. Give me life.


Letter From Hand to Girl:*

Yeah, I get it. I'm small. I'm dainty and fragile, but I can flip people faster than anyone. Don't let the lines fool you; I will ******* up. Listen, I have galaxies, and cosmos, and planets, and his back under these fingernails. I am so powerful. We are so powerful, you have no idea. Harness that energy and we can move mountains.


Letter From Girl to World:

I AM...afraid. Of you. I am afraid of myself. I have the potential to move mountains, though. I am a mountain, though. Humans are mountains. You know what? We are pulsating, living, breathing, alive. I can take you on, world. I can devour you, world. You taste of smile and pollution and gross and...flowers.

*~~a.s.f.

DOESN'T ANYONE NOTICE THE BEES FLOATING ABOVE THEIR HEADS? DOESN'T ANYONE SEE THE ROUND YELLOW BODIES FLYING THROUGH THE AIR?
They make no buzzing sounds in this building.
Some of them are found dead, lifeless on the floor.
What are they trying to pollinate? What flowers are there here for them to reproduce? Where's the wildlife?
SOME OF THEM ARE FOUND DEAD, LIFELESS ON THE FLOOR.
They're worker bees. They're busy FREAKIN' bees.
There isn't enough time to pollinate all the flowers.
THERE ISN'T ENOUGH TIME TO POLLINATE ALL THE FLOWERS.
Some of them are found dead, lifeless on the floor.
Who's the queen bee, then?
Who is it?
Poor little bees are worked to the bone. Too bad they get none of the honey. Some of them are found dead, lifeless on the floor.
WORKED TO THE BONE. Are other bugs working this hard?
They're trapped in this building, cemented, with no choice but to work, work, work.
SOME OF THEM ARE FOUND DEAD, LIFELESS ON THE FLOOR.
The flowers they are trying to pollinate sound like, "WOW, YOU GO TO CLASSICAL. THAT'S A COLLEGE PREP HIGH SCHOOL. HOW IMPRESSIVE!" "HAVE YOU THOUGHT ABOUT COLLEGE?"
This worker bee isn't trying to hear all that ****.
"YOU SHOULD TAKE THE SATs. COLLEGES REALLY LOOK AT THEM."
SOME OF THEM ARE FOUND DEAD, LIFELESS ON THE FLOOR.
"TAKE ADVANCED CLASSES. THEY'RE IMPORTANT."
SOME OF THEM ARE FOUND DEAD, LIFELESS ON THE FLOOR.


I'm tired of feeling like a dead bee.
Let me fly.

~~**a.s.f.

We all just wanna be tended to; us
women of the foliage want to be gushed over, not just because
we're pretty and smell nice--
no, we want stone-cold attention.
Us Foliage Women NEED fresh air
and sunshine; we don't need no
shade, no, no, no.
We come back year after year. You
don't want those fake flowers
you can buy at Micheal's.

We are all quietly pulsating with
life, our leaves rustling in the wind.
We smile sweetly at the sun because
we know it's our only sense of life.
Gardeners aren't that reliable,
you see. They think you're really
pretty at first, with your colorful
petals and such, but then the
gardeners realize that they have
to get their hands *****; they have
to uproot the past to move you
to a sunnier spot.

But, no. The gardeners forget to
water the Foliage Women; they forget to
let the Foliage Women into the sunlight.

Then they wonder...they wonder why the
women of foliage are completely wilted,
shriveled, gasping for air.
They relied completely on the gardeners.

The Women of the Foliage can stand
tall, alone, yet together.
We can tend to each other.
Gardeners are unnecessary, anyway.
We'll bend in the breeze,
and whisper in the wind,
together.

**~~a.s.f.

He kissed me like the cure for diseases was down my throat; like there is a drought and the only water supply is between my lips.
I felt the ocean and the moon and the sun working together. I felt hurricanes. It was somehow calming, but maddeningly chaotic.
He looked at me the way he looks at someone spitting mad bars. Luckily, he looked excited and intreged watching hip hop.
He once told me that my mouth is a black hole, swallowing the dark matter that is his tongue. But, what I really think he meant was that things are always drawn to it, getting lost inside.
Helpless yelps of both agony and relief escaped his body. They became small echoes hitting the back of my throat.

I feel disoriented after I'm away from him.
I'm on auto-pilot. No thought involved. Just walking. In a daze. Not exactly thinking things through. Just movement.
He wanted to rip my back open like all of my secrets lived there. And I let his fingers graze the curvature of my back. It was a marvelous experience. I let myself go. I allowed him to let go in my embrace.

**~~a.s.f.