flame

i love you

she says.

i love you

and

more than a friend.

she smiles her ceruleans

from her side of

the peony pillow and

brushes blondes

behind my eyes.

it is five

and the night

is silence

except for

the crickets

 whistling

at the blackness.

the

stiletto grass is

still

and the curtains 

breathe

so slightly.

 and the beige flame
on the skull candle

sways with her words.

i love you.

 the world has inhaled.

and i am the fence

on which

her world

is impaled. 

my sight is

eclipsed by

 her kiss

and her

skin

and her lips

are smooth.

her rose

petal

wrist

sweeps my cheek

and

our fingers lace

as my heart

races

and the day

erases
the night.

the wax

melts the skull's

final eye

and smoulders

the flame

into a coiling frizz

of smoke

and she

can read me.

i know.

 she

collects her things

and goes.

one summer

I watch as

she presses a

sweet cherry

between her lips

runs her tongue

into its

crevice

and devours it

and the pit.

she lets the juice

drip

onto her chest

and

she has saved

the soft

green stem,

which she knots

in her mouth

and places on my bare knee.

I paint my mind

across her face;

peach cheeks,

icy eyes,

stony

self

assuredness.

and all I want

is her

cherry kiss.

to

catch

the juiced drip

before her

nipple

and

whisper

into her skin.

my breath would be

fruity

and my words

sweet.

a fairytale

orange shower
orange skin
spray on sexy
swims to the drain

pale is for the poor
and ugly

ew

I pour my pores with
orange powders
tinted sprays
and liquid light
now I'm
all right

no more plain
white

and I am the
sun-kissed Cindarella,
a beautiful
blond
who glitters for the ball
but watches all her beauty
bashed
as midnight crashed.

sometimes beauty
is a spell,
I think,
as I watch
my tan
swim
to the sink.

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.