Bursting at the seams
like a too full jar
of hatred maybe
for me or maybe
for you?

The orange is so sweet,
sweet it aches my teeth.
I don’t want orange from you,
I want red, and maybe black.

It annoys me that I have
succumbed to you
all these years

I should stand up,
but what if there’s
a weight on my lap
in the shape of you?
What do I do then?

Are the bones in your
closet so itchy?
So itchy you need relief?
Do you need a relief from them?

Come on and let them out,
they need fresh air.
They can’t survive forever
with stale air in the closet.

Does it make you happy
to constantly buy more
bones, to add to the irritation?
Is it your joyfulness condensed?

Maybe they’re something that
you like to show off all the time.
You think the only currency is
in the unnerve you receive from others.

First, are you our sort of a person?
Do you wear
A glass eye, false teeth or a crutch,
A brace or a hook,
Rubber ******* or a rubber crotch,

Stitches to show something's missing? No, no? Then
How can we give you a thing?
Stop crying.
Open your hand.
Empty? Empty. Here is a hand

To fill it and willing
To bring teacups and roll away headaches
And do whatever you tell it.
Will you marry it?
It is guaranteed

To thumb shut your eyes at the end
And dissolve of sorrow.
We make new stock from the salt.
I notice you are stark naked.
How about this suit----

Black and stiff, but not a bad fit.
Will you marry it?
It is waterproof, shatterproof, proof
Against fire and bombs through the roof.
Believe me, they'll bury you in it.

Now your head, excuse me, is empty.
I have the ticket for that.
Come here, sweetie, out of the closet.
Well, what do you think of that ?
Naked as paper to start

But in twenty-five years she'll be silver,
In fifty, gold.
A living doll, everywhere you look.
It can sew, it can cook,
It can talk, talk , talk.

It works, there is nothing wrong with it.
You have a hole, it's a poultice.
You have an eye, it's an image.
My boy, it's your last resort.
Will you marry it, marry it, marry it.

I’m in love with the way it
feels to look at you and hope
you are mine, to watch your
mannerisms and copy you to
be with you, to admire you
hair and your eyes and your
nose and your ears and your neck and—

If you ever found this,
you must think I’m strange
for looking at you so much.

He was wearing blue
that one fatal night.
That night that would lead me
to wanting you in a way I shouldn’t.
At this age, I don’t know love,
I only know love for family, not you.
Or so it seems.

When I am young,
they assume I know nothing.
Maybe I don't but this is certainly
not child-neglect coming into play.

Non-existent child-neglect.

I hope you’re okay, I really do.
You don’t know how hard it is to
try and keep your mind whilst thinking
about some boy every second.

You plague my thoughts like
fruit flies on an orange
except I like everything about it.
I like hiding it from everyone,
especially you,
especially me.

You were wearing blue that fateful night
that I realised my heart was doomed.

An angel has been so kind in creating you.

The devil has been so evil in creating “us”, however.
So cruel in creating a figment of my love-lorn and love-lost mindset.

So cruel, so I laugh at my half baked chances of talking or making you feel this way.

Running for my life from the snap about to come
Something is going to turn red
My eyes or her throat? Maybe both

Have a feeling I'm going to slide back into the old way.
Quit digesting even though I've seen things online
Quit talking even though my it’s my favourite
Quit the friends even though they're the only thing keeping me going
but won’t quit school.

They can all go to hell, but for all they know:
You're my best friends and I love you guys so much
and I hope we live together and I hope we stay best friends.
I hope we stay until we're old and wrinkly and hate each other.
I already hate you actually.