itchy

I drag hair from my war torn scalp.
one blond, two blond, three blond four.
and toss them
free fall
to the floor.

I scratch my nails into my skull
and find crimson skin beneath my nails.

I force myself to stop.
Drill my fingers into my palms,
pinch into my skin.

But my skull rolls roars
for fingers.
pick. scratch. pull. attack.

attack
attack

it's sick
I'm sick
I want to pick
myself apart;
reverse jigsaw,
and remove myself raw
of all my wrongs.

I'm a disease I want to appease.
A bug I want to put in a corner
and crawl from.

I want to wiggle away from my skin
like a snake
and trail my organs
across
the
floor.

Dis
ass
em
ble
myself
into
c e l l s
and sell
my soul
for something
worthful.

a list of shit that makes me think of you

double straws
melted ice
miller lite
icy breaths
musk
and cigarettes
(marlboros,
minus the filters)
squeaky leather seats
audis
ringless fingers
vaselined hands
pastel oxfords
a wool sweater
the joke about fucking sheep
a packed suitcase
the thong I left at his place
the empty pinot grigio
and the warm spot
still left
on my favorite
pillow

grammar girl

I'll
and
ill

are spelled the same.
they are

the same,

if you don't
fucking
care

about
punctuation.

if
you cry
at fucking

 spilled milks
or killed
children
or
imperfect
whatevers.


or at 10am
and pm.
everyday.

if you stand
in front of yourself
naked
all pink
like
ground beef.
fleshy
and
pocketed
with
sick cells
and wish
for a knife.

if you stare at shit
too long.
walls.
floors.
ceilings.
fingernails.
and wonder

what the fuck.

if everything
is pointless

then i guess
punctuation is

too

9 pm

I.

i
take a knife
and run my finger along the
sharp side
and listen to
the
swoosh
of polished
steel.

watch the
glint
of light
as the
flat silver
swivels.

and consider
the fine
invisible
line
between life
and death.

II.

i
sever a nipple
first.
tear the
skin
and
crush it
into the tiled
floor
beneath a
patent
leather
stiletto.

i grab
at
fat
and
muscle
and
bluegray veins
that i unwind
from my wrists
to my tits.
skin
that peels like
peaches 
in reluctant
layers
that i sever
in
slow
rips.
and the rest
of
my shit
that I
stab at it.
and eviscerate.
i swallow blood
i swim in my massacre.

i die.

and my shoes are featured on the news.

piss

The wind pisses through the window screen and spits on my face.
I awake.
Another day.
My pillow is jaundiced and flaccid with yellow halos. It’s shitting feathers.
My blanket, a faded garden, a gift from some chick, is frayed.
I have no sheets, and there are ashes and gritshit in the quilted corners of my mattress.
When did I become this?
I used to wake to cock tents. To a Hendricks hangover, cigarette breath, and a blond in a polyester thong beside me. I had a tan and abs like a fucking egg carton. My dick was majestic; I called it Moby because it wailed on chicks.
I laugh at this.
My morning piss is no longer stiff. It smells like asparagus and geriatrics. I miss the toilet half the time, and what’s the point of flushing; it never vanishes.
I let the faucet spray and weigh the idea of shaving. The water shushes an aggressive stream. My straight blade razor is caked with cream and pussy gray prickles from weeks ago.
My five o’ shadow forgot to grow; my body hair is a no show. I have spotted, thin skin, purple botches, and bitch-smooth legs with bulging veins like a braille roadmap.
I swish off the water and sit on the toilet, open, with no seat.
I am alone, hollow, on the cold porcelain with the piss I invented.
There were chances.
There was a chance. Maryanne.
Maryanne with rosesmooth wrists. Pepper lips. And the s hips. Marianne with the Chamomile breath.
I survey my swollen, stiff palms as if to witness the shit I twisted.
I flip my hands like pancakes and laugh at the fat, yellow nails and starchy flesh. My wrinkled doorknob knuckles. I laugh at how time has eaten me alive; divided me into enzymatic moments, swallowed me by the hour, and digested my life. The silent stealer; it takes in ticks of minutes.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
And there I was, pissing in the wind.

mojo swinia

I saw the picture of your new
girlfriend.
the one in the pighat.

aw.
isn't she cute.
and you wrote
on it in polish.
my pig.
aw.

how is it
fucking a pig?
does she
oink
in enjoyment?
I bet
you take that
bacon from the back

boo.ya.
damn
she's hot,
big shot.
hittin' that
pig twat.

I bet you're
licking that
pig clit
as I write this.
legit.

pink is really your color.

goodbye

so I guess I was your toilet paper.
there to clean up the shit
and tossed in the toilet
with your cigarette.
and you shit on the ashes
to ensure
they
flush.

so I guess that whole thing
was a lie.
you aren't the nice guy.
and you used me
for sex
and booze
and to sooth your
bruises.

so I guess we're done
here.
after three years
of chocolates on
mondays
your breath on my neck
kissing on the carpet
and falling off the bed.

I left myself
on your doormat.