it helps to read (about) other people's pain

 it helps to cradle your own, in the crook of your elbow like
a catch in the throat, like pulling off a sweater's static cling and
stripping down to nothing but a a set of teeth for eating and
a set of eyes for tearing up when you feel human enough

don't don't
make anything
you're not willing
to see destroyed

"Fucking bummer.
Not having friends is."

get what you give, baby.

last dregs coat the tongue like
dead possums in the mouths of eager dogs, like
big-bellied fools asleep in garbage cans, like
no-tooth smiles and yawns mid-
sentence.

I can't breathe anymore
can't breathe anymore, can't be
can't be
can't be


any




more. 

pop all the speech bubbles.

on every situation ever in my life:

I am glad
and I am not.

"Why are you eating so many peaches?"
"Because if we are what we eat, I want to be peaches."

it becomes more and more difficult to suck the poison out of your life when it is slowly sinking into your pores, your body sipping from it's cup, when it begins to bond with your DNA and your skin turns from peaches to grey ash. when you scrape the bottom of your stomach for something but there is nothing left of you, only poison, only
poison.

(give) me room, a little more, a     little                   more

belly is bloated with falsity, my breath is barely

there, I am -holding- back because I have nothing to  

       

                (give)

                 to you 

             I have no-

                  thing to 

                         (give) 

I'm sorry, 

I'm sorry.

dear body (pt.2)

dear toes,

thank you for carrying me all the way home (like the little pigs you are)

dear ankles, 

you are not weak. 

I'm sorry I call you that sometimes. 

dear knees, 

knobby or not, you still let me bend without letting prying eyes see up my skirt. 

dear thighs, 

I think your stretch marks are like road maps. 

it lets me know I've been places. 

dear tummy, 

I'm sorry for the ridiculous diet of whole vegetables and sweets I feed you. 

I promise to try and eat like a normal person in the future. you're a champ. 

dear breasts, 

you're still mine. that is all. 

dear arms, 

still can't lift a car. 

but that's okay, because I can lift a guitar. 

dear fingers, 

I'm sorry I bite you. they are love bites, I swear. 

dear neck, 

the likeness of a swan's, you allow me to crane over crowds in theatres. 

dear lips, 

also, I'm sorry I bite you. you deserve more chapstick. 

dear nose, 

sorry I poked a hole through you. but if it's any consolation, everyone says you look badass. 

dear eyes, 

I'm sorry I don't wear my glasses all the time, but

glasses or no, you let the beautiful in. 

dear ears, 

I'm sorry I listen to music too loudly at times. 

dear hair, 

sometimes I think you're against me. 

but at the end of the day you curl like a cat at my neck,
the ultimate comfort.

you are never talking to me, see your
eyes cast down, looking like you're looking
for something on the ground, but it isn't
a blossom of spring, because it snowed
yesterday, it snowed all over our blooming
hopefuls.

you are never talking to me, shifting gaze to the right
because you are sincere about avoiding mine, you
are sincere about letting my eyes slip by yours
without a second
glance.

no chance.

you are not a good girl.

my neck is burning.

the ends of my nerves are frayed and brushing against one another to create

this warmth that creeps along my breastplate, swelling like a marshmallow

in the microwave, I am 

jealous, so so jealous. 

and then I deflate, realizing that I 

am not the only person alive and I 

am not the only person, not

the only one who is made up

of darting feet and frantic

need. 

I am not

the only one who wishes to be 

a moment of the bursting 

beautiful in you. 

everything is trashed.























I know I am.

I will not end for you, no.
I will begin, and I will keep
on beginning.

I will lick peach juices from
my fingertips like mama's milk
dripping from the teat. I will wrap myself in
silk sarongs and stay that way for days,
marveling at the texture of my own skin.
I will run naked through the rain and
liberate myself in knowing that
what will happen will happen and
there is no safe way out. I will sit close
and listen. I will breathe water lying still
in a stream. I will eat poems for
breakfast and I
will slowly learn
how to die.

it would be so 

much easier if 

I could just 

get some 

fucking SLEEP, if I 

could take a hint or

just go get

bent

if I could

if I could

if I c

       o 

         u

           l

               d..

but that possibility falls away

like everything, like 

every

thing

does. 

it is pointless, this mission
so many of us
are on, it seems

trying to turn each other into
mirrors so
we can make love to
ourselves

when will we be real to each other,
I wonder?

mostly the

fleeting thoughts, the passing
urges, passing itches of want are fueled
by a more sincere objective than you'd think.

in actuality, I want just
to keep you around.
to be friends for the foreseeable future.
to have you in my life.  

but I am very afraid you'll stop wanting me around if the relationship doesn't advance.

but you mean more
than that.

you mean more
than sex and
labels and
all of the
nonsense
ever will.

you are something, not
everything
not every
thing
----------------------------------
physically - you remain in one
place at all times, be it here or
be it there

otherwise - you are carried in
the thoughts of those dear
bodies, several fleeting affections
drifting in and out of ears
---------------------------------
that is
the difference
between, now
learn it

reachreach a 
littlemore a 
littlemore

closetoyou, closeto me

enoughtobe
close toyou

enough tobe
just
be.

honey, maybe
I don't know what it's like.

maybe I haven't a clue as to what
you chew and what poison you've
experienced or what

your fragile mind has
been through to make it so
'uneven' as you say.

but I know what something is like.
I know what I am like and I know what
I perceive of you and what I perceive of everything
and I know that I've had a bad meal in between all
of it, in between the everything that
I do
know.

I know something.
I have something, I am
something,

you know.

the impression of everything
finally fit into the impression left by the first (as it always does) but

it was only the shallow end, and wonder goes
deeper, at least to the 6ft that goes over my head
(as it always does) and now

I am chopped into several different 
pieces like the syllables in a word -- you've gotta
             
              sound
     
                me 
            
               out!


you've gotta get me out
of the brain to the tongue to your
lips and teeth -- so sweet! the satisfying end to 
one 
big 
word, 



isn't it?

in short

thin fabric, in
through the window, body
vibrating with accumulative
sun lust.

blisters on my feet, salty skin and
I feel as if I can start
to breath, now, I can
start to swim with deliberate
strokes, each.

stretch likealioness, to
sleep like a good
goodnight.

I am no polished, smooth-skinned, arms extend-
ed beauty. I have no sleek-and-shine, just
too much extra time.

I am no floating candle, light in the window in
the deepest of the deep dark night, hidden by
fabric folds and

I am no different than any other clam, happy though,
I have made no pearl, I have ground no sand.

I am no morning song, sung by bell birds in the
chorus at dawn, no breath of fresh air, I have the same
ideas as you do about most things.

I have not felt
I have not felt
the strain of heart-strings or the popping in my ears
due to the loudness in my own head, no crowd of heavenly
angels singing in the background as my teeth become brighter
because they feel sunshine in the width of my smile. I have
not felt the longing to be near a person for more than an hour,
much less the rest of my life, I can convince myself that it
wasn't what I thought it was, that it was a fluke but then I
remember

"It said 'STOP' but we went on whole-hearted
it ended bad, but I love what we started."