I spend too much time
pressing my worries
against the roof of my mouth-

I am surprised there is anything left of me.

My tongue acts too quickly
seems I cannot keep up
or shut up.

I am spilling these secrets
from between my lips
as if they are my savior.

please remind me
what unchapped lips taste like.

remember me in the heat of it all.

I lie to myself
because it feels
the way you did.

reminds me who to come back to.

why am I holding on to a lost soul?
why am I stuck inside this echo chamber
of apologies as if I wrote them myself.

the backs of my teeth
have gaps in between
and I realize I am more broken than whole.

I don't remember what you taste like anymore-
so I lie to myself as a reminder.

But it's never quite the same.

and I never will be either.

A very short story about Basorexia..

I think someone put a hex on me.
And not even a good one.
I usually sleep in on Sundays,
but some intense force drug me out of bed at 7 a.m.
Stupid force.
After showering, I got dressed and
had breakfast. I wasn't even exactly sure where I was going.
But, I was going.
Before leaving my apartment,
I checked my appearance one last time
to make sure I was at least a 6 that day.
I did a triple take in the mirror because
my lips were looking exceptionally grand just then.
Oddly grand.
I ran a finger over them to make sure they were mine.
Softer than usual, I giggled for having to question myself.
"Of course they're mine." "That's just silly."
After having a drawn out conversation with myself,
I knew it was time to go.
The sun was looking  glorious that day
but all I could think about were my lips.

I saw my neighbor at the mailbox.
I usually just wave, but there that force was again,
pulling my lifeless body over to see her.
Her lips started to move around as if to say something to me.
She then asked me if I wanted a kiss! Was she reading my mind?
I did not hesitate.
I leaned in, closed my eyes, and puckered my juicy
unchapped pout for some of her sweetness.
Because that's what neighbors do, they lend you sugar.
What a sorry justification that was.

Unfortunately, Mrs. Parker was offering me a Hershey's kiss.
I froze with embarrassment as she leaned back and took off
into her apartment.
She left the entire bag of kisses with me.
As I power walked away, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Parker pull their curtains back in dismay. Whispering and pointing in slow motion.

I  decided I can never go back to my apartment again.
The shame has me wondering the streets,
consumed with this undeniable force,
trading chocolates for kisses.

Mr Smith had never thought about

The fake flowers on the drawers.
That beauty which makes death feel ignored,
But looks unripe in any vase
And isn’t right for wedding cars -

Their petals never sought to solve
His seven word soliloquy.
There’s no rose bed on recovery
When after all, she loves him not.

He knows it from their scrutiny,
That untimely unchapped litany
That blush of plush longevity
Adored; while he withers.

Mr Smith’s preferred were pansies,
For ‘their faces crumpled under sunlight’,
He’d shuffle stems like decks; green necks
To warm and sweeten death.

The pansies were his calendar -
Life measured against death
Kept his watches ticking;
The thirsty amber skins were pages comprised

Of how he hated plastic petals
With a pale and putrid pith,
Their purpleness was slothful
And their pulchritude a myth

Of mocking murmurs mumbling
Memories -
As insipid as the very falseness
Binding up their limbs -
Of the August day in ‘54
When the fake flowers on the drawers
Were white against her whiter brow -
As perfect then, as they are now.