love poem

I love you.
Seriously.

Your kinked black back hair
sends me on a magical journey.

And when you remove your shirt
to expose those soggy pecs
and use the corners of our dry wall
to scratch your back,
I grow weak at the knees.

You're still sexy,
even after all these years.
My heart beats quick
at night
in the dark
when you remove your
saggy white hanes
and hang them over the fan.
I can hardly contain myself.

I even love the hair sprouting
from your
badass
closed up
once-pierced ear.

Man of my dreams.

bored in february

Thank you, valentine,
for the crimson roses
and the velvet box
of chocolate.
And that teddy bear
holding the stuffed pink heart
with lace
that said,
I love you.

they were fine.

Sure
I love you,
too.

apology

I am sorry for those
disparaging remarks

about everything.

you are not fat
or ugly.
your thighs are perfect.
you have a lovely smile.

I am sorry.
I should be.
I should mean it.

I'm sorry I feel this way,
really.
God is so generous
and here I am

just spitting
on everything.

I'm so sorry.

roadkill

I know when it is finally spring
or fall
when animals
by the dozen
lie dead in the road.

I witness a
naive forage into our world
gone terribly wrong
as a poor raccoon
or rabbit
has succumbed
to the hot rubber
and exhaust
of rush hour.

do we notice
as two tons of luxury steel
demolishes life
into a hot stew
that drags for miles
?

it will be spring soon
and a part of me has already died.

socially retarded

"do you have a web?"

I have introduced myself,
again.

"Charlotte? Well, you don't
look
like a spider!"

haha.
how clever of you.

this is why I stay
at home.

first aid

pain,
my mom always said,
is the body's way
of telling me
that something's wrong.

but
I can tell her to put the icepack
back
in the fridge.

she can't see
my dull ache
that I keep for myself
to hum inside me like
kryptonite.
waiting.

I have a wrecking ball
close to my chest
where I can listen to the sound
of my bones
crumbling inside me
while my heart seeps
through the cracks
of a shallow grave,
defeated.

something is wrong,
my body is telling me,
but I can't mend it.
I listen to the low hum
of waiting.

a concession

you bugs.
you offensive, detestable things!

you repulsive
crop of aliens
that lurk in the
dark corners of
my cozy home.

your greasy black
shell slithers
atop numerous
spindly legs...
that I would like to rip off.

your eyes, worse yet,
are there two, six, or four,
that gleam at me,
plotting?

you vinyly crunchy
sado-masochism bondagey things.
goo.
yeah, I'm talking to you.

I watch you rub those legarms
together
in anticipation of our show down.
but we both know
that you will win.

you will sneakily slink
towards me on those
thorny legs, calculating.
and I will jerk backwards and jump
atop the nearest chair
until you take your
wriggling antenna
and skedaddle.

and yet, you...
you bugs...
are another
of God's diverse
(I still say ugly)
creatures.

I'll watch your
twitchy conspiring
from across the room

but I still can't bring myself to squash you.