GalateaSometimes, she is my mistressSneaking in through my window and seducing me out of sleepShe keeps me up past sunrise, whispering sweet promises in my earSilencing me with her smoldering passion, stripping me until inspiration strikesShe makes me sing, until the sheets are slathered in a thick skin of poetrySending shivers up my spine and igniting my senses with her ghostly fingersShe is a lover and a shadow, nowhere to be seen when I wakeSometimes, she is my psychosisSuffocating and strong, I can do nothing but submit to her graspShe seethes, like a snake constricting around me until my sight blurs to smokeSlowly, she consumes me with sick reverence and searing obsessionShe stifles me because she refuses to be restrained, yet I long for her kissSevering haggard breaths from my lips, leaving me stunned and achingShe is a succubus and a nightmare, haunting meSometimes, she is my saintStifling sobs against my shoulder, shaking me until my tears start to fallShe has so much
Bad HabitsS.She always rubs her mouth,like there’s a secret she can’t say out loud.Tracing her own lips to prevent a smile, a frown, or a tear.Sometimes her real smile peeks through, but you can only see it in her squinted almond eyes; dark amber, and soft, just like that bashful grin.Sometimes a frown shows when no one is looking, followed by a wistful sigh and a simple wipe of the palm across that silent mouth, trying to push the bad feelings and words away.Sometimes tears roll past her knuckles; she fails to catch them at the source because she’s scared to wipe her eyes raw, so she brushes them away after they’ve fallen in the crook of her pink lips.She always hides her mouth,as if she’s afraid to speak.M.She never faces you completely,like you’re not worth her full attention.Averting her cold gaze, she walks with a haughty, empty stride.Even when her striking blue eyes are pointed at you, her chin is always tilted up and shoulder
.the sun did notkiss my skinyesterday, he sleptlateshowed hisface around noonand then went backto bed; theearth exhaled
sati(ate)dit's ironic,isn't it? the waythey say "hunger gnaws"like the way our teethscrape against bones.for all thecalories that are counted,you still feelempty. you aren'tbeautiful untilyou are digestingnothing but airand maybe your own guilt.that's just the wayliving is thesedays: swallowingglass shards toslice up your insides soyou can ignorethe other kind of pain yourstomach is feeling.but when people askif you're doing okay you justsmile and nod even thoughyou can't help butthink "if honesty wastangible, i'd eat it rightnow."life hasan acquired taste andsome days you'dlike to rip yourtongue out.
Tangential AsymptotesI think about falling in math class.The boy in front of me is writing diligently, noting each and every word as though he forgot it was all in the textbook. He has dark hair all tangled up in the back like a bramble of thornbushes and his green hoodie looks like it could use a good washing.The professor is rattling on about asymptotes, about two lines that go on forever, getting closer and closer but never touching. He tells us about the Greek roots of the word; asymptotos, that it means "not falling together," and he scribbles nonsense equations on the board and hopes that we understand them better than he does because tenure is the only reason he's teaching this class.As much as I hate math, I have to admit there's something beautiful about the concept. Something romantic and longing, something I can relate to in a sea of cold precision and dispassionate numbers.I think about falling in math class. I think about fractals and their intricate patterns, turning equations into art. T
Not A Pipe DreamI am living in the shadow of my potentialAnd lately patience seems to be in short supplyWhile expectation overflows in abundancePipe dream, is it not enough that I have tried?No, I can not accept that you are a failureThe words you chose were ever so carefully placedIt should be of no importance whatsoeverIf the message conveyed was not to their tasteI am living in the shadow of my potentialI’m in utero but I will be somebody soonBurst through these rusty pipes that corrode my dreamsAnd flood the floor of my creative wombMay I suggest that you are already someoneAnd that each stroke you paint is as desiredFrom your cold creative heart to your burning handIt’s no concern of yours if it doesn’t catch fire
letters from the seai.sometimes when i wake upbefore the sun rises, when i’m all aloneand it feels like i might be the only person in the worldi notice that my face is wetand i wonder if it’s becausei’ve been swimming with you in my dreamsii.i remember youin the summer nights under the corsican starsand the warmth of your skin in the cold seawateri rememberhow the phosphorescence coated our bodiesas we swam together, the salty tang of the ocean and your fingers up my spineand us glowing like soft stars in the nighti remember how i wished it could last foreveriii.now i wonder if the tides and my tearswere so different after all
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thelanguid crevices ofher fingertips, scribbling profanitiesall over her skin.she's just mismatched bones& blue bruises, telling of forbiddenlove through archaic letters.a tongue made forwanderlust, & eyes madefor the stars,even the devil fears her.
all of your lives have been addictsmy cathas turnedmy front porchinto a graveyardas if to say:this is what we needbut tonightshe tried to lick my clawsback to hands& I said to her:"I do not have 9 livesto spend on the bathroom floorwith 13-hour insomniacan't we just kill the mockingbirdspull the concreteout of our throats& get this dyingover withalready"butshe's got 8 lives down& doesn't answer questions twice
The Girl With The Jackalope SmileShe always told me her life was a cake walkBut I'll never understand what kind of happiness comes from Crushing pastries under your footShe could stitch sunshine along her wristsAnd leave the rest of us in the darkTrying to paint our own cerulean skiesAnd leaving us all bereft when we only managedTo stain our skins blueAnd she could dance a two-tattoo on the arch of moon beamsLicking her diamond lips to taste something moreWillow wick finger tips gleaming with still flamesTempting a hand into her grasp so that she might Burn life back into our hollowed bodiesShe traced constellations on her lungsSo she could breathe the star dustAnd have shimmering breath all year longInstead of just in DecemberHer canines glinted when she grinnedCandle drops of light shinning in each toothAnd melting our hibernation patchworkTo reveal our summer skinHer veins surged with hot apple cider and wildfires And her cigarette smoke smelt of burning woodHer orange and red
.you should haveemerged with life; yourlittle roots should haveclutched the soil in theirtiny white fists, andgrowni did not mean to trampleyou, i did not mean tolet my body killyour body
i haven't forgottentell me, boywho is your god.do not say itis the limbsthat spread youbetween knowingand comfort;do not tell me it ishands wrapping a headboard, nor a mouthtugging your namefor salvation.i want to know who it isthat makes you lucent,bent beneath the dark,weeping,because there is no divinitylike the one that makesyou bleed
notes on a matchbook love.if I were the typeto say how I really felt,I'd tell you thatI hope you choke on your apologieslike they're arsenicand your nails are alreadystriped whitewith the poison.I'd let you knowthat I'll never be a bodyfor you to touchjust because I know that's all you want.I'll never be a fairy in a bottleat your waist.this is no storybook, andI am no myth.hear my silence,feel the cold absencerespond to your weak "I'm sorry"s.I beg you,pyromaniac,stop digging the hole,stop speaking,stop, just stop.Hush and watch the flamesengulf the image you sold me.you can tell me I'm beautiful as much as you want,but I know that it's not enough,that you'll always want more,that you've been a wolfbetween my legs all this timeand my fingers are bruisedfrom holding the leash.now every time you whisper"please be okay",I will always tell you thatI'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine.I will forever pretend that I've grown up from you,that I've become a mysteryy
OSometimes I think about buyinga ring that represents foreverBut who needs golden bandswhen cold fingertips on my skindraw eternity in shy circles