You slid to me
with ice on your heels,  
flame on your back,
the wind in your face,
and the stars in your eyes.

It's a scritchy scratchy situation
made from a wishy washy connotation.
Shift, shaft, shake the muscles beneath my skin.
You crick crack creeped to corner of my grin.

Broken with a kiss, and sealed with a sigh.
You remain my favorite little white lie.
Confessing that I don't know why
I will write about you until the day that I die.

You pretended; I embroider the delusion
with every hiccup of a heart's confusion.
Remember, child, what you can't see?
I won't stop, I still fancy that fantasy.

I pushed you away, but you threw me out.
I was your trash; you were everyone's treasure.
Internally screaming with scarcely a shout,
all in all, the torture was my pleasure.

Backtrack back, to this and our state.
A slip of strength but not a slip of the tongue,
Because like destiny and the idea of fate,
I stopped believing in you when I was young.

So I stole your
ice for my heart
and flames for my belly,
because it's windy in my head
with your stars on my mind

Itchy scritchy
Creepy crawly
Something in my skin.
I pick and scratch to free
Fictitious bugs that squirm within.

Whump-a thump-a
Thudd, thudd
Pounding in my ears,
Punctuating every sound
with thrums like stabbing spears.

Wiggle wobble
Swoopy swirly
Motion fills my eyes.
Saturated, inundated,
Stillness its disguise.

Shaky shaky
Twitch-a-twitchy
Static in my limbs,
***** them tight together
Til the chaos finally dims.

In the quiet, darkest, smallest space
I sit and reminisce
Of back when just existing
didn't make me feel like this.

Taking and giving
respect,
see once more the flaw in the flow
of knowledge,

weaponize a wall, ha,
who thought
a wall ever held a garden?
Honest,
it was a poor fellow, outside the wall.
Yep, no lie, if once there were
a tree
that bhor good fruit, full of words to wise,
knowers, after one bite,
sublingual receptors ready, salivate,
no waiting lick the dew from the cortex,
slip the tasting probe deep into that
sulci, there
just over the left ear, there,
scratch that itch, gentle
scritchy scritch scritch

are you truly experienced, impressed upon
the truth you seem to think
we all see same as you,
same optics,
same alchemical ATP to ADP energy source,
sunshine
comes softly through my window today,
I looked out after all,
saw you looking
through the old tear in the curtain.

Inside and outside are easily seen as unreal,
in certain pre-envisioned vessels

can't not, gotta say, must make, say do you see?
SEE, see me, see me, come see
the freak, come hear the mad man scream back
from the abyss,

don't come this way, getting out takes
all the time you ever realized
was wasted,
lying piled idle words that were high fashion,
back when
acid
tore the prudent stitchery my princess stitched,
while waiting, in truth, in truth, waiting
for the soldier boy, returning as the man,
who kept the peace,
and painted the picket fence white, to prove
I dreamed the valid dream,
and swore my children's allegiance,

-- PTSD, circa 1950, it was secret,
what broken men did to broken wombed men,
who broke the children,
fit them to the harness, taught them manners,
and how to carry a tune,
in time with the marching band, hurah hurah
- little light right then - see
dark days during semper fi why why why
last call, … no soul sits, all rise
or I black your ****** eyes, rise up, o men o'gawds,
ye gads, meet this in m'gut,

here here, to the dead and gone, who rule
our hearts and minds 'cause we be left behind.

His eyes lolligag across the words but he's not actually reading them.
You can tell because he turns a page, only to turn back, realizing that he didn't digest what he'd just read.

It takes a long time to read this way.

With one's mind elsewhere, anywhere
nowhere but here
Like a fly in amber
encased in this single moment of waiting for her
Feeling the car lights outside rub his back, but not in the scritchy scratchy way that she does it.

He clutches his phone
turns back a page
checks the time
actually registers these numbers
and wonders
if this is routine

Him, waiting in silence, alone in a restaurant, looking like some pathetic **** who never managed to make friends, food on the counter sitting as undigested as the words in his hands.

Her, on her way, late and always dissapointing

He turns back a page.