The Second Day of the First Hour
I was with flowing fingertips, breathing
as I enticed the thoughtkin to dance with me.
They're seemingly flimsy
at times, somewhat silly but
they are beautiful in motion.

The Third Week of the Second Minute
I asked them to come fly with me so that
we could swing from the brightest stars and
be little monsters in space to fully embrace
our alien lifeforms

The Fourth Month of the Third Second**
I carved heaven in the road
and walked slowly to
read it's every inch

beautiful
feathers in
red-orange-yellow,
green-blue eyes sing as
quiescent chrysalis cracks,
blossoms into butterfly
blue wings blue sky,
love spreads its wings
wide open, speaks ocean  
blue-turquoise truth, anahata  
through lapis lazuli lips, vishuddha
a kiss on the amethyst-lilac forehead,
ajna to the sky, sahasrara
butterfly flew

Safe (or so I thought)
in my home, I stand, solemn.
Bodies line my doorways and
faces fill every one of my windows.

Some of them drool, and
some of them snicker.  
Eyeballs undress me,
I feel them groping.

They want to get inside me.
They want to look around.

Every single day,
you stand there, facing me.
A mirror image, another face, staring.
A pair of eyes in the safety of my own home.

Why don't you just rip my insides out?

Dig your nails into me.
Squeeze me until I pop!
Let my guts ooze out on the floor,
and smear them around for everyone to see.

Slice me down the seams,
and take me apart.

Lay my pieces down
in an organized fashion,
easily put together again.

Let 'em look.

—gasp—
I'm outside, drooling in the window, watching.
Face: 'Hehe it's intriguing, isn't it? From the outside looking in?'
Me: 'Yeah...'
Face: 'It's just morbid curiosity — don't feel bad.'
—sigh—

I'm naked,
inside out.

I'd say it's all for you, but
you're just a broken mirror.

Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices
someone can make.

The *art is present.
The art is present.
The art is now!
Look.
Don't.

These are the two greatest choices.

The artist is present.

To the kid in the hallway telling his friend
"Maybe you need a **** whistle."
And to her response, a sarcastic
"Matt, **** jokes aren't funny."
You're **** right they aren't
Tell me, how is anyone forcing themself onto another person funny?
How are the I don't want tos when her "no" couldn't scream loud enough funny?
How are the ****** thighs and bruised hips funny?
How is the waking up in the middle of the night
How are the flashbacks and her wailing funny?
How is the seven year-old who had so much anxiety she'd tear her hair out
Or a sixteen year-old who kept eyeliner and a kitchen knife side by side in her purse funny?
It's about as funny as a slaughterhouse full of pigs taunting the other pigs
And telling them their approaching doomsday is amusing.
I dug my key into the palm of my hand like a knife when I heard this jeer
Clenching and unclenching a fist
Because I knew if I did not
That hand would go right through your faces.
You do not know the impact of your words
You see, for a survivor
Jokes about ****** assault are triggers.
They bring back every memory
Which becomes a stinging tear behind an eyeball
Fighting not to emerge from its home.
When I say something
Classically I am being "too sensitive"
Just as I was "too sensitive"
When he told me to get on top of him
And I said no
So much courage mustered up in a little body
I could have moved mountains that day
I could have been my own goddess
At seven years old
But he did not care
He was bigger than me
And he imposed that will onto my body
Reducing my childlike frame to the size of a fly
Being swatted by the paw of a lion.
I will not be silent
So when you tell a **** joke and I am in earshot
Do not expect me to laugh
Because there is nothing funny about a slaughterhouse.

She was perfect
but she was too much, too little
a riddle that'll fiddle with your mind

She was perfect
but she was too little, too much
a riddle, touch tingling, her crutch

But I didn't hold her heart
like she held mine.

this wouldn't be the first time
someone's said that you can't
put a knife through the preacher,
even when he's not practicing what he's preaching.

he's a delicate flower,
he's just facing the sun and
praying for photosynthesis

Preacher's got a sunburn,
he's a silly dude, sittin' in the field
in the blistering heat

bright bidden barley
comes sicken roasted now,
like a frostbitten politician lectures a sandy hook victim,
telling his soft couch he just won't have it anymore.
who's the prophet today, anyway?

black.
all I see — is black,
and a glow -
maybe some tessellated patterns over screenlit skinforms,
writing like they think they know what they're doing
I love what they've done to me
but I hate what I've done for them
I want to curl 'em like I'm squeezing a lemon
I want to weave a web of thunder with my skeleton
Bend me like an antenna to get reception
I'll swing my hips to your
pulse's rumpus

tickle my neurons
with your featherduster delusions

sometimes I stare at screens
because the flow of photons
over my pupils form rivers
over my retinas that sound
a thousand frames per second softer than tears.

saccharine lullabies
sit in sweet putrescent seats
around my rotting bed

I lie weightless
in the heavy truth
of the piece off a broken tooth
twirling through the cosmos
after a missile fist made
my spit mist

stardust

We're all parched.

In a circle we sip
from the watering hole,
all sides, another animal
most of them pay me no mind

but the lion stares at me
from across the rain,

his whiskers brush
the surface —
I respect you.

He laps up his drink,
and with a flick of his tail,
bids farewell to good company.

I look down into the ripples,
formed from the mouths of
many thirsty beasts,
and I look up into my weary eyes.

I am grateful to be alive.

Kissed by rippling lips,
myself I drink deeply

Because this
may be the last time
I return to quench my thirst.

I wipe the drips from my lips,
and look down where they rippled

Lion smiles up.