I drag you
up my arm.
Mouths
become serpents,
crawling like hunger.
Lashes too long
fly
with breaths
too short.
You have
climbed a tower
you can never
retreat from,
or forget.

 

Scorpios.
Beautiful constellations,
but that is all an appearance.
They touch my eyes,
—my mind—
until I smile,
but then they bite me,
until I bleed.

 

Do not be afraid to spit them out.
I find nothing better than your pretty locution.
I crave no more than your carved vocables.
I know I do not know myself
how to use them in the three-dimensional world,
but you do.
And mine may spread
like water across a page,
but yours fill my mouth,
and my mind.
And I swallow them whole and only want more.
And I feel things when you use them.
So I’ll take another glass.
Please fill me up.
Fill.
Me.
Up.
With your words.
 

have my fingers lost their prints?
maybe they're in that corn maze,
where i left that one friend.
or maybe they're at the ocean,
where i pushed my body against its waves,
trying to peel myself from my skin.
yet perhaps they're in my brain, 
like floating foreign objects
trying to reattach through hardened membranes.
but they could just be on my fingers,
and i wouldn't know
because who doesn't know themself better
than myself. 



 

i once
         fell
hard.

eyes

in          and          out 

of love.

head
        pounded.
heart
       


plummeted.

i once
         fell
hard.

helpme

do it again.




 

I think
I almost stopped
breathing.
I am gasping
through pouring rain.
I open my eyes
—my mouth—
and 
breath.
I am 

breathing.

I feel

a heart

beating.

I am

breathing.


 

Your moonlight skin
cries along with 
the silver sky.
 

Your heart is,
so quick to,
dry up,
crack,
forget,
like this ink.

I called you.
You spoke in fire.
I spoke through falling rain.
You told me you saw a plastic mess and left it.
I told you I grew tree roots from my hands.
You informed me of broken china.
I informed you I was stuck to the wall with super glue.
You notified me through eight books.
I notified you through nine,
but then you switched to ten.
You stomped across your telephone,
while I muddled by mine.
You gulped oxygen,
while I telescoped the window.
The sky was lightning.
We were the burning meadow below it.
You concluded that I never talk.
I ended with you never looked.
But if you had been the wanderer I thought you were,
you would have known
my eyes are books
and your ears are broken.