tonight

we curl inside
this pile
of sewn feathers,
into a confettied cocoon
of cotton
we spoon.

our eyes sing
whispered wanting
that ripples across
orion's salted darkness

your fingers trace
my vanilla silhouette
and set ablaze a terrace
that melts us a buttery mess

I ask for forever through
sugared breaths and bet
this bed that he'll say yes.

thanks, but no thanks

fat fuels
a lifelong
battle
for beautiful.
I wage a war
with
a woman's
fattened shadow
showing
more than she
owns;
an onus
on burdened
shoulders
that should
stay locked
indoors.

things seem
so much easier
with slender
thighs
that reside
inches apart.
and how I hurt
for slim
hour glass
s hips,
slick abs,
and a set
of smiling
back dimples.
I pine for a
pair of
defined cheek
bones to brush
my pink blush
upon
and the kind
of skin that
vanilla
envies.

this girl is
not me.

God implanted
other plans
for these thick
hands;
I've been given
a plump set
of everything
and a superior
sense of humor
to laugh
at this
sick
self.

And I laugh
all day
at this
twisted
shit
I was
blessed with
when
beautiful blondes
bask in the acclaim
of everyman.
why do they deserve
beauty more than
me?
this waste of a deck
desperately begs
to be shuffled
when she holds the
royal flush.

and what a waste
to want so much
in a world where
we should show
thanks,
appreciate,
but I bend
backwards
to bask in hate.

I didn't ask for it;
I fell into this fate
and a face
I'm forced to live with,
God's gift
that I'm so sorry
to be spitting on.

I hope he can forgive
this.

worms

April showers
bring May
flowers,
and I always
remember to
tiptoe
in spring.

curtains of
rain
drain nearby
grassed patches
from which the
worms
exile,
slithering
naked bodies
onto wet concrete.

I sidestep
their curved
S's
as I slink across
the sidewalk
and think
about the
thousands
of nude tubes
who've died
for a new
season

I count
the few
I can save
with this
springtime
ballet
and hope
they know
this dance is
for them.

compost

What is
this sickness
we've created,
stacked brick
thick
for years
and lived
within?

this friend
fosters
snakelike
hate
sliming a
scaly
trail through
my trust,
trudging
on what
seemed so
steadfast.

it's
ending so fast.
I've plucked
her apple
and asked for a
handful
of
a rotted
mealy mess
we planted
and implanted,
and now our
garden
grows sick
produce,
swarms with
flies,
and blooms
broken buds.

we will
plant seeds
elsewhere
next spring.

you're still here

I pissed in a place
that smelled like
cigarette smoke
and somehow my
memory
slipped
towards you.

I think about
what I've flushed
away.
the time filled with
heated hate
red faced rage
of piss poor self perception
my endless deprecation
and the spaces
you filled
for me
when I
lacked a glass
to satisfy.

my smokey
conscious
curls a
kiss of grace
towards your corner
where I can
crawl to overcome
the cruel
attic of
unintention.
my intervention,
you ventured
sure footed
through these
gluey forests
for us
and for me.

these are the things
I think about while
I pee.

there's a gate around our house

dad loves
to lock our
broken
oak
door.

he traipses
towards the
door
and slides the silver
lock to the left.
and he seems to feel
relaxed now
that he has locked
everyone else
from his life.

I've watched him
in futile
frustration
wondering why he wants
to keep
everything
locked inside
himself
and this pile
of pink bricks.
And
I
wish
I had
the combination
to his lock,
and that I could
be the
pick
to his secrets,
that it was me
who
unlocked his silence
after all these years.

with a key and a click
I'd kill to open
what makes him tick.
open him like
an accordion
and find whats
between the folds.

for now I
follow him
and twist our
lock open,
hoping he will
get my point.

a new castle

I long
to leave
this childhood
bed.
this bed
is best
built
for one,
and I'd
rather sleep
by my man's
side;
someone to
lie beside.

I wish
to swap
this teddy
for more sturdy
arms,
and this faux
fur
for the swirled
black body hair
of a body guard
to guard bad dreams
and loosen my pajama's
seams during
thunderstorms.

I want a
bed built
for doubles
and adult sheets
to toss between
while we whisper
love sincerely
beneath down feather
blankets
feathering your fingers
through my hair.

I hold bated breath
for breakfast
in my double bed
of scrambled eggs
and buttered toast
we toast this space
our own
and only
when we are alone
we salute this slumber
palace
as our place.