late at night

alone
and smell like
smoke.
blond marlboro
and owned
by emotion.

lonely wind
combs
my skin
reminds me
what I've
missed.

some loss
of innocence.
sex in sand.
powders.
flowers
& something to
call
ours.

hands on
my breasts
while I scrub
dishes.

I wish my
sheets smelled
like sex
and not
tide.
I wish I could
wake up
and not cry,
eat eggs
and sleep again
and wake up
vile
with a
crooked smile
and aisles
of ache.

I feel like
a mile
of mistakes.
miss takes
a walking
earthquake
and a sick
inner bitch
I can't
shake.

I want
to rid
all of it.

my one true love

tryst's definition
is
with.

and sometimes
there's secrets.

why are all
these miles
on my car

is that new
perfume?
lipstick?
skirt?
and since when
did I
learn
to flirt.

there's a mirror
in my purse now
and I blast my music
a little
louder.

he is my
secret meeting.
my on switch
my tryst
with.

he doesn't know
I wrote this.

I have other
trysts.

Should I slow it down for you?

I cry,
ok?
Let me be
and let me have
my salty
sprinkles
drift across
my cheeks.

it isn't weakness,
crass ass.
and stop asking
why this happens.

this isn't my solution
I don't have loose leaks
I don't need pipes cleaned,
are you listening?

it's my outlet
my dead end outfit
my last luck
dumb struck
shit fuck
this sucks
bite the dust
reflex.

my
missed the last bus
duct flood.

does this process,
thick skull?

I recognize
your emotional
retardation
as a
severe
limitation
in your
maturation,
and your inability
for empathy
is evinced
by your
heart's
extrophy
or lack of
that
aforementioned
organ.

did you catch that?

Norma

She is
the
who's who.
the owl's hoot.
the late night booze.
the party crew.

She has these curly
Q's.
cute.

She's the
I love you boo
who runs from truth
and true blues.
daggers a hole
before
its possible
and destroys the seams
so no one
can sew.

it's too bad
there's booze and
beauty
to blunt
reality.
blur
the
sadtosees.

and she laughs a lot
to distract
the spot that
bleeds
the blackest.
twists insistence
ace bandaids
until the puddle
lessens.
but she still
buries the bullet.


erects a deflect
detour
with
flashing orange horses
and tries
to live something
less horrible.

those formative years never really go away

I am the fat chick.

the
splat
chick.

the
ditch our date on the 8th
chick.

the
plastic glasses
the
fantastic fat rolls
the
five chin folds
chick.

the
forget I'm fat funny girl
the
big boobed too soon boom across the room
chick.

she owns my soul.
she knits a net of regret that
touches my toes
and she
has the license
to drive
this shift.

she is all my shit
and scoffs
and the blonde
chick
I've become.

she knows my secrets
she inks them in eager
genes
that promise to repeat.

she is my evil
she is my vile
she lives.

what's the point

hey,
strange fruit,
you blew it.
you bruised it.
you refused it.

you
blackandblued
it.
spewed
God's gift
grace trace
those
pearly gates
all over
the
fucking
place.

what a waste
you were

sour grapes
spoiled faith
erased name

go away

pack your shit
and pretend
it never
existed.
embrace addictive
liquids
and
pills
& pack your
gills
with metallic
quills.

write yourself
off
ink
your life
in lies
lie next to
him
and cry

contemplate
exits
over breakfast
eggs
and spill salt
over your
toast

you never deserved
ripe fruit
anyway,
did you?

I love the sound of a popped cork

wine
is kind
to my mind.

grateful
grapes
grope at
my onus
and erase

it rolls
behind my eyes
and severs
stable ties:
gravity
depravity
and the things
I want to do
to the man
in front of me.

this
wine
unwinds
blinds
sighs
and sings.
it
gives me
wings
and
thinner thighs
almond eyes
and an ass
for guys.

it
grinds
my imperfect.
whispers
I'm worth it
and have some
more,
you deserve it.

it wins
without a fight.
it flies
without a flight.
it sees
without sight
it conquers
all my might
and eases
all my plights.

I'll have some more.
I deserve it