Dirt keeps jamming
under our fingernails.
We've spent hours
digging through each other.

Were looking for a lover or a friend;
an ancestor and a relative.

We tried to sink our teeth
into each other
but all we found
was chipped porcelin.

One day I'll learn
how to hold nothing
and love the way it tastes.

One day ill leave the place
where lovers say,
If for no other reason,
*My pants are already
grass stained.

White cotton
and pink lace
pictures of castles
far away
children laughing
pinwheels blowing
in her room
a garden growing
a little Mozart
a little Top
a little smile
one teardrop
an "I believe"
on her wall
in the window
porcelin dolls
angels fly
about her house
and faerie dust
on the couch
the smell of roses
everywhere
endless infinity
in the air
prisms dancing
in her eyes
and I just never
wonder why

The outside edges of my hands are bruised black
From banging at the bathroom door

I've given up, and let my back slide down the wall
And my face fall to my palms-
Taking a seat in my empty dark hallway that leads to the slither of pink light crawling its way through the bottom of the bathroom door

She won't stop crying
It feels like it has been months
Her, in her sunlight bathroom moaning with agony until I feel I just can't take it
Sitting on the other side with the emptied out sun
With the helplessness of a child
I almost feel crazy

Like she is not the woman I love
Like she is not a woman at all;
Just pain at the end of a dark hallway
The sound of lungs gasping for air
clasping for some sort of reasoning
Hunting for it, but never finding

A sound made of memory pressing its echo against the walls

It drives me lonely

But she lay on the other side against the cold gray tile and I can tell she does not even hear my bangs on the door
Nor the hollow cry she pushes up her own wooing throat
All she can feel is the pull on her heart and the pressure on her chest

Her cry drops to a sob
Then eventually a whimper
And topped off by exhaustion she falls silent

I pull myself from the wooden floors with the help of the cool steel handle of the water heater door
I walk through to the bedroom
and stand mindlessly sifting through my own junk of the dresser drawers before pulling a bobby pin from her neatly organized section to the left of mine
I walk back to the bathroom
I feel my eyes droop as I press my forehead to the white painted wood
I hear her almost silent, but heavy, breath
Creeping with orange sun beneath the edges of the door

I sink to my knees and play with the lock and the bobby pin
Until the door gives way
It slowly opens to her
Her left arm sprawled behind it
Her head curled into her right
Her legs, stacked right ontop of left, push backwards and up against the long backyard window

I lower myself down next to her with the assistance of the porcelin sink
Her face is still wet and red
Her eyes closed and her breathing labored
I curl what I can of her up into my arms
I take a folded beach towel from the brown wicker basket and lay it underneath my head
Propping hers onto my chest
I grab another and unravel it across us

I don't want to wake her
I will give her, her "petite death"
A small escape
But her eyes flutter
To meet mine for a second
She opens her mouth
Letting her head hang back a little
As if to begin crying once more
Like a newborn awakened from its sleep
Confused and in a darkening room

Exhausted:
She pleads no more
She lays her head back on my chest
I feel a few warm drops of salt water
A pull at the rib cage of my black tee
As if to say "I give in"
And then I pull her in closer
To listen to her heavy begging breathe

We both let our heads fall back to the towel
or into my chest
We fall asleep in the darkening room of the fading red sunlight, with the cold tile floor at our backs, with nothing but a black hallway behind us

Broken into a thousand anxious pieces
stomped upon and disliked
rejected and neglected and humiliated
like a broken dish someones gone crazy on
until the porcelin has turned into the powder it came from
Like sand, or flour, it does not resemble a dish at all, but could
become something else, most likely swept up into a dustpan and dumped
a million microscopic pieces of a former dish, that is me
A mess of powder splatter on the floor
what will I become next?

Red white and blue
cloudy foggy blue can't quite see through, but
cutting through this impossible blue is pure white
blinding white of porcelin skin that's never seen summer time, and-
red, the color and brilliance of blood
slices through the blinding white
and she fades to black.

black, the absence of color, the abundance of relief
I needed relief she excuses, I just... I needed it to bleed
never meant for it to happen this way, she's addicted to the silver
not the silver lining on the clouds,
because storm clouds don't have a silver lining
when they're only black
and she can't differentiate between the colors
when everything is blue
a foggy mist she can't see through

she's just trying to break through, maybe even cut through
but all you see are the scars on your arms,
so stunned by your own assumptions you can't see through
your own fog, to the words on her lips
bandaged cuts can't keep her silent,
her sweet voice slowly seeps through:
this is my story, this is my song,
and if i were you, i'd never sing along.

because her favorite color is red as the relief spills through her veins
and the scars it leaves behind tell the stories
of regret that she can't run from
but she keeps on running,
cant catch her breath, can't catch a break
she paints pictures in colors of crimson,
on her arms she paints her life scene by scene
the pictures always change, but the captions stay the same:
"I, I needed it to bleed."

red relief comes in a line,
you cringe at her scars, but only she can feel them
sweet crimson relief, she can finally breathe
see, the scars on her arms tell a story in red, white and blue.
doesn't want to admit it but shes addicted to this feeling
she runs her fingers over the scars,
this is her 3 dimensional healing
and she, fades to black.

Can these feet be killers
& stab the concrete,
If only the ribs would come, and lie lie lie,
My wet streets, my wet cheeks,
My porcelin toenails break, sweat down cheeks race,
Eyes they started,
Deep breathing on & onoff,
Deep breathing on & on off,

She's sitting on the edge of stone
looking across the blue
a white rose in her hand
rememberance of a tune
a song of angels
playing in the air
over and over she turns the rose
his voice is everywhere
Her dress is all wet
tears falling down
she does'nt really care
another drop to the ground
Empty porcelin
with a pretty face
a soul entwined
to his heavenly space
she laughs a whisper
and drops the rose
looks up to the heaven
a stairway flows
she sees her image
lost out there
then she takes
to the clouded stairs
she embraces herself
her soul with tears
and now a smile
love in the mirror
down she goes
back to the stone
angels singing
no more alone

Broken
Shut down
Demolished and destroyed

Brought down to her knees
Literally, literally brought down
Face to face with porcelin and water.

Purge, purge, purge
Empty the empty
Break down and out
Out, out, no way out...

Betrayed
Dismissed
Returned, replaced, retried
Falsify your family, break it down
Let it out

Praise thee, mighty nothingness.

Blue eyes, auborn hair, porcelin skin.
Thats what you see until you get to whats within.

Within it a soul that longs to come out.
Float through the air, scream, run and shout.
It wants you to know how much you are missed.
How much i know it knows it ****** up, how it misses every kiss.
It wants you to know that it still remembers your smell.
The way you look when you first wake up, and how youre putting it through hell.
It remembers your music, your voice soft and sweet.
It remembers how much you loved the feeling of the sand on your feet.
It wants you to know, that it dwells on the past.
That its hard to move on when you left without looking back.
It has a few questions, like why would you leave?
It thought it had found its mate, another soul from the same breed.
It longs to hold you again, to rock you to sleep.
It wants to feel the way you breathe when your dreaming those beautiful dreams,
It wants to tell you that it misses you so.
It wants to ask you, why would you go?

As he lay,
his mind away,
stars colide

as she smiled
porcelin skin
unbroken sin

tear drops, whats this
tear drops
from the wolf

another silence broken
another stillness corrupt
note too self...
its cold in speke

The rolling hills
Crest and
Dive and
Move like
Oceans,
Covered in armies of trees.

Trees,
Like thousands upon
Thousands of warriors
Made of leaves and
Dirt and
The souls of prehistoric
Insects that may have
Planted them.

The trees carpeting
The thunderous hills
Have a sort of marching
Energy to them.
Like they
Were frozen
In place.

I am reminded of the
Army of terra cotta
Soldiers.
Unstuck in time,
Stunned in space,
They silently guard their own hill,
Crumbling slowly,
Like cheese.

And the terra cotta arms
And the terra cotta legs
Of the terra cotta trees
Are attempting to drag
Their iron roots
Through the hills,
Sinking like lead
Through the earth,
As if it was meant to be the
Ocean it resembled so much.

Maybe,
Armies of troops once trudged
And fought through swamps
As vast
And troubled
As seas.
And a terra cotta war,
Unconqured by
Shattering warriors,
Is left like
Smoldering porcelin,
Still being fought
On the hills
Of Utah.

2.
You can still
See the remains
Of their clash;
You can analyze
Their placement
And movements
Like battlefeild strategy.

You can wonder what
Terra cotta general
Put them there.
Did the trees respect him
As a father?

His tactics
Funneled down to
Swarming like ants
Or dripping like oil.
There is the occasional
Silent,
Lone,
Watchman,
Angled towards the
Power lines,
The coursing blue veins,
And the sky,
Filled with the
Bright and
Rippling trails
Of their valiant enemy.

3.
The terra cotta trees
Give way
To the stone,
Brick,
And steel,
Of an upright man,
Overwhelming white
Against
Overwhelming green
Against
Overwhelming yellow
Against
Overwhelming blue
Against
Overwhelming black.
The people live unaware,
(With meerkat eyes
And posture)
Of the armies surrounding them,
Signaling the dusk of their time.

The trees will outlive us all
By millennia.
Their war will continue.
Our bodies will become
A wave in the hills
That they march through,
A crater in the commander moon,
A foot soldier in their
War,
A leaf,
A branch,
A bird,
Food for a plant
That is food for a squirrel,
Soaked in through
The churning,
Breathing roots
Of the terra cotta trees,
In the living,
Moving,
Tumbling hills.

The kettle sings
she dances towards me

she pours mine
and then her own

honey drips,
chamomile
with hints of mint

spoons clank
I stir too fast
she breaks her biscotti
and gives me half

We cheers porcelin rims
she smiles at me
our day begins

It's been months,
filled with complete destruction.
I'm still ******* crying,
begging myself to stop forming a mountain of emotions in the pit of my stomache,
weighing me down.
I don't think you ******* know how much of you has become part of
my sadness,
my soul,
my life.
It's as if you knew the moment you laid your eyes on me,
I craved your strength.
Oh how I miss your touch,
running your fingers on the cracks
of my porcelin body.
How could you leave me ******* helpless?
You left marks in places of agony that grew flowers only by your slightest touch.
I still solemly desire your angelic lips to be pressed against mine again,
I reminise about the way you saved me.
And all the memories that lead up to this point.
Now you're watching me ******* drown in the middle of an ocean of unspoken words and you're no longer reaching out to grab me,
you have selfishly left me to fend on my own.
I guess this is how it feels to be abandoned by someone,
I just hoped it hadn't been you.

Movement,
The way your body sways in its own rythmatic unison, hypnotising me.
Beautiful, porcelain poison.
You gaze with allurmemt in each pupil, pulling me in.
I am taken away by your bewilderment ways.
I am falling in love with you day by day.
Sweet porcelin love.

the craving runs deep,
clawing into her,
asking her to sink,
into what she once was.
sliding into a paradox,
no longer caring at all-
torn into nothing,
soon will be my porcelin doll.
beauty unmasked,
soon i won't see,
for the end of herself,
is all that will be.
i watch her destruction,
the death of who she was,
turn to be forgotten,
as if forever lost.

This morning,
     I pulled a flaming string
           Of *****, ruby tinted hair
     From the inside of a sock on my floor,
     And in the shower,
          I found a single thread
               Of burning, stranded follicle
     Wrapped around the drain's grate,

Which struck me as odd,
     Because you've never step foot
     In my shower (as much as I might have wished),
          You've never even set foot in
           That bathroom at all,
     It was always too ***** to touch your porcelin skin,
          To by seen by your eyes or feel your judgement,
     But even so,
           I still find your hair everywhere.

This morning,
     I put on a shirt,
     One that you said held me half as nice
          As you ever could,
     And I thought of your words
     And I thought of your gentle touch as I plucked
          A lingering fiber of a lost flame flicker
     From the breast of my attire,

And another wriggling yarn undone
     Soaked in the end of a sunset
          From the interior of my ripped jeans pocket
     That still embedded the whisper of your perfume,
     Your hair was absolutely everywhere.

This morning,
     I stumbled into my car
     And sulked in the sun
          As a hair of yours relaxed
          Among the dust of dashboard features,
     And the sight of it
          Prompted my mind to wake,
          My hand to shift into gear,
          And my tired legs to throttle the gas.

This morning,
     The cars and trees and blank-slated faces
     Hazed together in a fuse of
          Gray and brown and all the other ugly colors,
     The colors of dead things,
     Which must have been why
           I drove to the cemetery.
     The gates, rusted and lonesome,
          Creaked a "hello",
          And the ground was frosty
                To my arrival.

This morning,
     I found a hair of yours
     Draped over the head of a stone,
     And that struck me as utterly odd
          Since you've never been here before now,

And this morning at work,
     My pants were covered in dirt
          From kneeling before you as the sun came up,
     But I didn't care,
     I had to come see you
          And ask you to keep

Your ******* hair to yourself.

An infinite sky exits within my teacup.
Rose, mint world..
in a porcelin bowl.
Blue backdrops the newly budding tree,
its green sprouts compliment the sun with
their shine.
I do not wish to drink this world away.

My tongue is dry.
My lips wrinkled from the thirst.
I kiss the bowl one time.
And swallow this world.

Blessed nightmares
ghouls and phantoms of
crystalised snow storms
that swirl around me
and catch my breath

it frosts
silent in the
winter's air
all stiffened in the
brittle wind
daring not to
move
holding the
spine straight
and
back still
cursed by the
fright
of waking the
monsters deep
within

laughter echoes
along the empty moors
grasses swaying stiffly
reluctant to dance
in the forceful wind
the high and roiling sound
rolls over the
curling hills
and down into
the
curdled bellies
of those
listening in

they sway
like porcelin dolls
crooked and cracked
solid and balanced
faces reflecting the
unforgiving light
that shines like
torch beams against the
soft nectar of their
pupils

they dance
the winter chalice
lips parted
as haunted
mellowed
tunes
fall from their tongues
and
soak into the
sodden soil
with
the desire
of
warmth

their fingers flush with cold
shivering
quivering
ever so slightly
as the
turrets of storm
pick up
and the
roaring of the
turbines
crackle their
clinking bones
against themselves
they clang
like rust
in the
bleak winter sun
hallowed hearts
beating
by force of nature
and
not
by choice.