All hallows ever,
And I am sitting on the bed,
The bed that is a couch,
With narerly an account,
but surely still,
That Frankenstein will listen,
No morely not,
I am my own with standing,
Yet who we are is who we have repeatedly been,
Muderer's killers, who are we truly, but conglomerates of our free willing,
and lies withunderstood.

Depression
is
not
just
sadness.
Its
an
emotion
of
lonely
&
inner
madness.

lips like magnets
hands like puzzle pieces
eye contact unshakable  
I lean forward
bite your bottom lip
looking for solace in your kisses,
but you pull away.
I am wrapped around you
my  bare thighs embracing your **** hips
our stomachs pressed together
yours strong against my hills and valleys
our hearts talking to one another
through synchronized heartbeats.
my elbows are perched upon your shoulders
hands tickling your hair as your nose
presses against mine
causing a ripple of shivers down my spine
at the realization of something starting.
once again you pull away
and I push my face towards yours
begging to be kissed.
you touch your lips my cheek
and then my jaw
you connect the dots from the scar under my chin
to the winged curve of my collar bone.
I lean back as you trace my neck
moving down the lines of my muscle
you kiss me across my chest
and with every peck my longing for your lips on mine
becomes stronger.
you return to your starting point
and pull away
leaving me whining and pulling at your hair
asking for that taste
that your lips allow
you sit back against the pillows and look at me
tuck my hair behind my ears
and sit up fast
pulling my face to yours again.
our lips make contacts with full force
mine mold into the long memorized shape of yours
fitting perfectly in the nooks and crannies.
almost instantaneously
our tongues shake hands
and I wrap both my arms around the back of your head
fingers lost in your tangle of hair
I kiss you harder
squeezing tighter
the space between smaller
urging our lips closer
love and passion mixing in the fiery heat between us
and I’m wishing more than anything to never stop.
on we go
with this dance our lips have memorized.
when we finally finish
our lips are chapped
tired from this exercise
I fall back onto your chest
and there I lay
exhausted but
satisfied.

Simple divisions are the most dangerous.
Lines that cut
us apart.
I feel and see too many of them;
spaces we don't want to explore
with great high walls between them
signed in red as "discovered".
And people with too many angers
for their simple faces to tell.

I say it shows too plainly
that blood is only skin deep.
Outside ourselves we are content
to differ at a glance
and fit and bundle and suffocate
all manner of things into one.
In a comparison of many to many
the lines get thicker and sharper
and because blood is only skin deep
we see it more often than we might.

Why does it not register?
Why should its message seem so obscure?
It screams and stains,
thickens and stains,
heals and stains,
it stains us.

Perhaps blood, only skin deep,
is still buried beyond our reach
and in a fit of obsession
we change and twist what we can.
A desperate struggle to rid ourselves
of ourselves.

The blood we know is safe,
or perhaps just too close
to take apart and reinvent
And so we look elsewhere
to sever our connection
with lines we cling to
lines that bind
lines to divide
lines can describe
lines that listen
lines can inspire
lines to imprison
lines at the very edges of our vision
catching all the light for the sake of easy decision.

Our blood is only skin deep
but our lines are held deeper
and so much harder to spill.