He is a book that was recommended to me just after I passed the shelf on which he was displayed
When I said I hadn’t been reading much lately
Life gave me a chapter full of pictures to begin with
And told me that one page at a time is still progress
In fact, one page at a time is the only way to make progress
He’s a well-read book with new words for every reader
And instead of leaving paper cuts on my hands he leaves ink stains
There are golden letters on his spine that I’ve taken to tracing absentmindedly every time I re-read a phrase
And dog eared pages that I’m not sure I have the authority unfold
He’s captivating
And quickly becoming my favorite story
He is English as a second language and still teaching me more about my tongue than I ever knew
Translating fears into excitement and confusion into intrigue
I didn’t know my skin was cryptic until he decided to decode me
But now I’m fascinated with hunting for the hieroglyphics in his neurons
Listening to tales spun by our own curiosity
Story time trumps bed time whenever possible
And when we decide that language itself is sometimes a ****** up means of communication
We try for morse code heartbeats and braille necklines and bizarre entanglements of hands
And when we decide that sometimes language itself is the best thing in the world
We talk the hours of the clock down to ticking hands and hourglass sand
Or get distracted and I’ll decide that I could travel the world in one night using the roadmaps in his veins
Where I’ll get lost and ask for directions and go through the same streets again anyway
Because I didn’t see everything the first time around and I really enjoy the journey
He is a pronoun that sounds good between my teeth and tastes like learning how to whisper before you learn how to speak
One of those words that I was never sure I was pronouncing right because I learned it by reading alone and deciphering based on context and roots
But he’s also one of those words where once you learn it you start hearing it all the time
And you swear that the whole world acquired this new term with you at once
He is nostalgia in a new experience
Nostalgia-- roots meaning home, or to return home, and a pain or sickness
He’s a homesickness that draws me to him every night
And he is a wanderlust that draws me away from the home I’ve known
Convincing me that comfort zones need exploring the same way tropical zones do
He is an encyclopedia on staying warm in Michigan winters
An atlas from desert countries
And a topographical map that makes me think
I could learn to like geography
Or cartography because he knows that the best way to record new terrain is to explore it first
And I’m content to be a notebook full of scribbles detailing the peaks and valleys and abandoned alleys
And arrhythmic patterns of wind set to traverse through tracheas, reaching lungs only when necessary
He’s the breath I forgot to take when a cliffhanger was resolved
And I don’t always know if I’m a page-turner or just a bookmark within one
But he’s a genre that’s meant to be read under the covers with a booklight until the sun comes up and reminds you that time isn’t as frozen as you hoped it was
And even when I don’t know if we’re on the same page
He tells me that there’s a reason that books have more than one
And I’ve never been good at guessing how stories are going to end
But I'd like to spend some more time reading

I really have a soft spot for winter weather
It’s sweater time
It’s scarf time
It’s cuddle time…or a-little-more-than-cuddling time
And it’s sweaters and scarves indoors time because people seem determined to hide the aftermath of mouths that have overstayed their welcome
In the corners of shoulders and collarbones
Tracing tracheas to chests and lingering just out of reach of lips
And because I’ve been taught to hide these marks, I do
But if I could, I would accessorize with necklaces of purple and blue
Passionate hues that grow from teeth and tongues
Can you paint with all the colors of the
Winding veins that spindle into spirals around blood and bones and vitals
Can you decorate the blank canvas of my neck
With Rorschach tests that I’ll spend the next few days
Analyzing and decoding
Finding new shapes just for fun
And then we’ll start again with stripes and spots and splotches
Remembering that the fireworks we call cliché are interchangeable with capillaries
Bursting under layers of skin
To later be concealed under layers of cloth
And people will blush when the consistency in their color is questioned
And they’ll tug their collars higher
But I’ll always have a love for the fact that these are bruises that come from beauty
That these bodies end up damaged in the most gentle of ways
And please don’t put a negative spin on damage
Because I know of people that will spend all kinds of money for outfits that look like they’ve been through hell and back
Because distress is a style and the aesthetic is stunning
And even though people joke as they will
I’m secretly proud to wear a badge of black and blue
On the corner of my collar claiming
You Were Here
And I’ll pin one to your neckline
Signed and dated
I Was Here
And the blood that we’ve drawn to the insides of each other’s skin
Only mirrors the blush that appears on my face when I smile and think
I really am lucky to have you
And it’s sweater weather outside so these bruises will stay confined
Under the snowy scarves we’re told to keep
But I’ll admire this art as it fades through the week
Tracing over physical proof of nights that fall into the past
And scrutinizing the speed at which they do
Adoring the marks that no one else seems to
Because aftermaths confirm realities
And I could never disdain the colors that tell the world who we are to each other
And how we stay warm in the winter

I’ve filled all of the balloons
with cigarette smoke instead of helium,
just like you asked,
and when the children come crawling,
peeling themselves from pavement,
we’ll take needle-points to latex
reshape their tracheas into factories
Soon our home will brim with smoke rings,
I'll place a finger to them
only to ruin the perfection produced by small lips

Thumbs are to erasers as tears are to pencils
I swear to you I try to keep within the stencil
but saltwater weeping, shallow breath, and tobacco smoke
don’t seem to stay within the lines as well as I’d hoped
If I had another way I’d draw terrible pictures,
stick them to the fridge and insist “mom, take it with ya”
                                                  
I’ve been ripping out dictionary pages and
nailing them to various foreheads,
yowling, “we need knowledge, we need verbal expression!”
Though, I don’t believe I’ve made much progression
because a woman turned to me today with a
business suit on her back and a chewed up heart at her feet
She fastened a note to the top of her skull that read:
“ignorance is bliss” then she waited for a car to bind her to the street

DDD                                                ­                                                              *(3­/14/2013)

“My heart is already accustomed to processing violet blood with poisons that are more deadly; Make you live again after a long sleep.

“It’s hard for me to cry, my demons advise me to follow... the letters tell me to stop, but my body says: And the Brain is treacherous for you to lie when doing a not true in front of the Bible?

“I don’t know why GOD loves me, I don’t even apply anaphora. I don’t even know the rules of a poem, I stop in this verse to go and have a glass of water.

“**** the rhyme! Leave me alone with the metric! The quotation marks will die with me!!! I hope I don’t go to hell!!

“It hurts me to cry, I have cried too much; therefore, I smile not to cry.

“I help without asking for anything in return, in return I ask for help; But I have no help. Only GOD is the Giver of life, when I sin: my days are subtracted.

“I don’t want rhymes; this comes out of my skull, without complex meanings so that they understand it.

“I’m not who you think, I think who I am. You think differently from me; I don’t understand as you do.

“I settled on the bed, and I keep typing. I don’t have respiratory valves, nor the cough of despair comes to me: my tracheas are full of pleasure.

“I’m done, I’m tired, but of myself”.

she never expressed how she detested hearing
the taste of words that don’t mean a **** thing;
the same tongues that apologize for leaving
and return when apathy-cells begin to rejuvenate

but watching from afar, i could sense the extent
the knives and cues have shaken her. blue eyes
blink when their names curl on the roof of her mouth.

she hates it when hugs are too tight and when
hearts begin to feel fuzzy, reminding her of
Vegas heat and betrayal within inner rings.

i know how it must have felt when your
eyes met theirs. the way they coldly stared;
a loss of words from both sides; air caught
in tracheas where only laughter should reside.

she despises the feeling of carpet and crumpled
bills, recollections of departure ***** from places
she never knew existed. all she remembers: flashing
lights and his skin on hers despite the blistering heat.

“he took care of me when nobody else did”

never forget that abandonment is a form of abuse;
remember that it’s never worth crying to sleep for;
if they reject you, maybe they just aren’t fit for you

not anymore.

whenever you’re ready to confront them,
don’t forget to hold on & remain strong.
remember that you still have perfect brows
and a boat-sized heart; beautiful regardless
of what they say & think.

good luck.