the paper

Maybe your bones are made of gunpowder
solidified
you'd crush them while inside
between bones and sinew
blood, capillaries
light it up.
burn a fire in you
destroy what was left
by him

you should be sad
but instead
you're pissed

you want to give up
but you think you never will

for now
you'll spend time
with a singular body
"pas deux"

it's the better choice

but you'll always be haunted
by dark eyes
hovering over
darker circles

words

the words that issue
from his mouth
make you gasp for breath
make your shoulders shake
your hear race.

you feel like
he says these things on purpose
to make you fall for him
but you know
it's just his nature

and that makes you fall more.

dry eyes

such a short time
since you've met
and yet
you believe his skin
must be made of chamomile:
green and clay-like
just one texture
as if it were all burned off
and new skin attached
more like a leather shirt
than soft protein::
you feel so calm around him
relaxed and comfortable

all you want is to touch him
feel his skin
his clothes and hair
every time you're together.

he cut you open tonight
dull scalpel down your front
Y-incision like a mortician
or an "I" like dissection.

he raises questions others don't
you hear it from his voice
but mostly
you see it through his eyes

a pause
to take a breath
or a break
but you didn't wait long enough:
a glance through his eyes
and then you left
like smoke sucked through a vacuum

and you fall deeper.

brown eyes

the want is intensified
by circles
tinted purple
stretched tight
cut, sliced
molded, chipped
indented, engraved
and carved
right under them
maybe its the way
your own are reflected in them

"you look so good in blue"
he looks so good in exhaustion and death.
everyone else sees a blank stare

you see what's underneath
and it makes you want to
stare forever

what are you thinking

we're always searching for perfect.

subjected to things unkind
things you wish to never endure
you'd rather skin yourself
hard cut across your abdomen
long slits up your sides
you'd shed your skin like a shirt
it's too tight anyway.

it stresses you
but the way it makes you think
your creativity thrive
is so worth it.

you're still unsure about
them.
maybe that will change
soon.

but chances are it will all fall through
and you'll be stuck here, still

one is such a clear choice
thoughts astray
and yet thoughts the same

but such a mystery is the other
with pretty words
that you're tethered
by guitar strings
unable to be cut


things in your life
changed to flimsy paper
with crayon drawn on
by the deaf, dumb and blind

and when the rain comes
it all washes
away.

fucking look

everyones eyes tell you something
blue screams questions and interest
brown show burning want
some hazel say "tell me everything"
while others whisper "self hate"

anyone can see it
they just have to pay attention

but no one does.

rest easy

sepia
black and white

pretty in two tones
horrid anywhere else

bloodshot eyes
red veins crawl in like vines

red rivers towards pupils
black hole.

let go

close enough to count the eyelashes:
too close.
bottoms stick to tops
corners fused.

a toe over the line
your mind shouts
"ne descends pas"
over and over

you look back
rethink
and retreat.

sapphire

they lay in heaps.
you are the conductor
the inventor
the operator.

the claw decends
attatches to their ribs as you pick
and they either
go home with you
or break in half

and eventually all bones
become brittle and bend
until they snap

and then what are you left with?


constantly ongoing
and switching left and right
between darkhairdarkeyesdarkcircles
and brightbrighthairand
eyes.
ice-filled eyes
if ice
were
blue.

yokoso

you suppose
you could drop one off
like the adjectives
and nouns they really are

and pretend to make it simpler
when it really only makes it
more complicated.

farther with one and
reconnection with the other.

bottled water

falling in love
isn't part of your
life plan.

makes you sick

the eerie,
white glow

makes your smooth hands
seem endless
and pale

makes your metallic nails
look robin blue

makes your eyes
tell lies

a loss for words [not yet]

it's horrible
but you wish to stay in limbo
so you could write forever

eventually
you'll have to pick
one way or another.

your life is only balanced
when it's imbalanced.

this tears away at you
but that's how its always been

and the moment you pick
the moment your life is balanced
or "perfect"

what will you write about then?

eyes

not enough capitals
and too many commas

sahara eyes
drooping like broken blinds
keep them down too long
and they'll never go back

slow mind
churning stomach
dread fills up your heart
as fast as molasses goes.

time is so unkind
slaps you in the face
runs away just out of reach
stronger than you; a faster runner
always gone before you know it.

coughing
peels away your skin
heightens your senses
aggravates and disgusts.

"i wasn't born to be a skeleton"
take it any way you wish
you're both skin and bones
and born to live and not
die.

even though each day you live
you're one step closer
to never waking again.

pessimist:
the only way you'll ever live.

self hate comes so late
you caress it in your arms
with your lips
on your hips
and tuck it in the folds of your
mind.

"baby" wont save you now
you wish it could
but it wont ever come anyway.

you want it so bad
because when you had it
it was the most beautiful thing.

you wish it was all out there
known at a subconscious basis
for these words never reach
the eyes of those you love

but for now you'll carve
beautiful creations into your soul
and onto your beige canvas
in hopes of one day glorifying them
to people just like you.

you could go on but your main focus:
love and how late nights makes you weary
make you a genius
make you insane.

but you'll always love how it makes
you feel.
not in the morning
but when living the moment.

the subject:
the main title:
the plot, the summary, the synopsis:

the Imbalanced only ever bites
at the corners of your cerebellum
and you like keeping it that way
and you wish to forever
and you hope to
but who knows what tomorrow will bring
sly smiles
calloused fingers and those
fucking goddamn eyes.


the Confusion
maybe you will always love.
filed under:
the one who got away
and you feel as though
this is you for someone else.
you miss the words he gave you
for you're always giving and never
receiving them.
the twice you ever touched
you barely remember and wish
to feel again and much more.
mostly you want
to memorize the warm slip
of hand to hand
or something of the like.
and maybe it's need more than want
at this point.
maybe you just need
to know the truth
or just need
his eyes to yours


and finally, the Unknown.
maybe more known now than before
you wish to pursue but can't
yet.
he is new to your life
and yet you love his personality
immediately you felt at ease
felt the need to be with him
always.
his eyes, too
they affect you
and every time you meet them with yours
something clicks in you
clicks into place
or to the right direction
and you just know.
know everything all at once.

and so from one's eyes
the knowledge

the other's,
emotion

and the last's
you don't get anything
at all.

endless well

everything about you is tired
but your mind.

classifying people
as emotions
nouns and adjectives
is so demeaning
and fitting.

the unknown grows more and more
known
and you fall deeper and deeper
and now you know
you cannot stop it.

easter

his love
is like cursing
jesus fucking christ
on easter sunday.

you think you still love
the Confusion
everything about him:
unknown.
touched maybe once
or twice

spoken words,
barely

and shared love
many times


the Unknown you've seen
spoken with
touched
often and
many times now.
sounds obscene, but it's
not.
it's ridiculous to speak of love
but every time you meet his eyes
you can't help it.


the Imbalanced
you have nothing with
maybe that one day
but now, you could grab out
to the dust filled winds
enclose your hand
and come out with nothing.

you could take a chance
but you know
it would end
in ashes.

choose

three-way:
busy intersections
and pronged sporks.

a tie.

you don't know which is right
the unknown
the imbalanced
or the confusion.

get over it

you wish there was a constant,
instead of
shooting up
-towards the sky, not in your veins
and falling down.

you decide: you'll give up
and you know soon
that will change
because that's how it went

and how it will always go.

written

trapped in silks
whites, mostly
some pinks and yellows
feather-light colors

they encase you in an orb
pull you down and back

like a bad trip

and you wonder if its guilt
or something else

if you try and escape
the silks become solid glass
and suffocate you dry

so how does one move forward
in a situation such as this?

with this:
one small connection of what you wished for
brown eyes to brown eyes
and two smiles.

shy bitch

your eyes have been opened
to the others around you
and all you want is to be with them
all of them
all of the time.

but you can't
because there is one
more perfect and more beautiful
than all the others
and you can't fuck this up
anymore.

painters with reds and blacks
paint what you feel onto your skin
and you know everyone can see

you just want to hold
and be held

you just want words passed between lips
hands to hands
and eyes connected by brown, imaginary strings

and the heavy lock holding you down
allows none of this

and you would tear off part of you
just to break free
because it meant something even better.

try, now.

living proof:
the bleach stains
show glow in the dark
on your throat.
scarred, soft flesh
he feels them when he
searches you with his tongue

the day you were about to
give up
a stone
or maybe a mere bird
changed a pattern in the wind
and everything went back to normal
and things were bright again

and yet you fucked up.
and you can't even articulate
how bad you feel or what you did.

but now that you know
what you needed to:

nails on marble floors
just to get one centimeter closer

because that's how much you want it.

marriage is so far off

the wise words of a fool:
"no one's perfect"

which imperfections
should you go with?

you have a choice:

heavy liquids
burning virgin throats
something that burns a fire
in your
stomach

or
in succession
every
fucking
day
cloud yourself with lies
and everything you're not
and everything you want to be

both are such evil
vile
things that you don't know
which is worse or
better.

and if it's true
"for better or for worse"
then it wouldn't matter in the end,
would it?

the two extremes

you're torn between two extremes
and there is no medium.

to become a caged box
a mystery, a lock
with no key
pandora couldn't open you
if she tried.

or
something expected
like an open fucking book
a ballot
a confession box in church
something to be scrutinized
under magnified eyes.

the first
brings you nothing at all
safety, yes
but nothing you thrive on

and the second
brings you misery
brings you yourself
[born wednesday, fill with woe]

you don't know which appeals more to
you
so you'll stick yourself
in the position that hurts the most
and that is

be nothing
and nowhere
at all.

tomorrow

you know you'll feel the same
you'll want to rip your skin
from your bones
sinew and muscle

it's almost like
this isn't you
it's something even more haunting
even more horrible, morbid
and sick.

this new skin you acquired
when, you don't know
nor where or how or why,
but it's too tight
and too heavy

like tissue paper
doused with oil
so tender and so


unwanted.

and pain seems endless and yet
fake
when you think of peeling your skin
and spreading your old, frayed wings

and tomorrow
every step closer you take
to that place
and him
will be one more beat of your heart
that hurts that much worse

and every step
brings you closer to what you
don't want to face
and what you don't want to know
or hear
and what you want more than anything
at all.

done for

"we are done for"
carved, cut, sewn and drawn.

you used to believe
in fate.
and now you're not sure
what you believe in at all.

you knew from the moment
the word 'love' popped into your head
not so slow
like flowers blooming
but more like
a child's dream dissipating
that you would be destroyed by this

and now
you sit and decay
uncomfortable in your own skin
nails digging
skin catching under them
red raw and still stressed
cliché and yet
it's you.

you may be eating your words
soon enough
bleached plates
hot, hot water
the memory burns your mouth
from plate to fork to tongue
the poison follows.

with photosynthesis
sunlight is turned into energy,
and with hatred
anger is turned into anything you want.

this is where it gets
you.

it's over and you know it
and you'd feel bad
because you brought this upon
so many others before.
but your heart is somewhere
hitching rides on trains
and ghost-town ferris wheels.

and just
gone.

for now

you've lost

it's late

it will always be
more one than the
other.

it's in the air
sweeter scents
and better tastes;
prettier words.

it's in the stars
and in you.

to sleep and to see him
and to wake to him;
things you can foresee.

before this,
you never thought of solidity, but:
rock eroded to an hourglass shape
the middle too thin;
about to break.

affairs are never fair,
and you know this well
and perhaps when you wished for it
it was a way to punish yourself
for what was exemplified to you.

but why should it be you
who is punished?

all you feel is,
this time you're open
and scared of what could happen.
always before you felt chained
or hidden.

scale-covered demon:
the children's mothers
hid their young from you.

but now you have someone
whose pretty words washed you,
cleansed away all the hate
and you feel as if you could curl up
with him forever

and not feel fake about it.

another

when his words come to you
you wish to trace his lips
with your fingertips
and
watch him as he sleeps;
observe if his eyelashes brush his
cheeks.

but
away from it all
when its down to reality,
it's another you find
in the dark.

many others in fact,
but one in particular
and it's wrong what you do
but you love it.

and you want this
like you wanted the other
but less so and more profound
all at once.

you should stop
but you know you never will
and you fear if he feels true
he'll hurt.

and that's all you were ever good at.