Guinea Pigs and Lab Rats

if a trial-offered

fully voluntary

closely watched

meticulously monitored

sleep

was a viable option

as an alternative to

the rushing

crushing

devastating

destructive

thoughts

that parade around

this skull like

they fucking own the

joint

how could i ever

say no?

a one-way journey

one could

get lost in

the space between

the letters

on a page,

swimming against

the current of curves

and jagged lines,

amidst the swirls

of an s and the

loops of an o,

among the loneliness

of a z

and the enthusiasm

of an e.

one could

simply get lost

and never return;

and i would not

have the

courage

to

beckon

me

back.

It Cannot Be Left Alone

it must be suppressed

before it will(and it will)

consume.

but how does one unhinge

a jaw and swallow it whole

if one was not fortunate enough

to have been born a snake?

A Reflection on the Remaining Fragments of a Recovering Psyche

i. how?

this exoskeleton has grown so rigid,

so impossibly stubborn that it can not be maneuvered!

suffocation(and therefore death;

it

typically,naturally follows)is imminent.

we've no choice now

but to wait

for the darkness.

ii. and then?

cracking,along the spine.

wallpaperskin begins to peel,to curl

away from the soft pink underneath.

a wiggling finger,a vibrating toe.

darkness has not yet

won.

iii. something like?

rejuvenation. rekindling.

arduous symphonies sing of the

rediscovered tombs

from days past,

glorify the freedom felt and

understood from

sarcophagi which were too small for

the most compact of

bodies.

iv. but after?

a touch. a kiss. a flittering

of lashes against

dewey skin.

like enzymes and substrates,

locking and keying,

exhausted bodies collapse

onto one another,

fueled and masked by the

laborious breathing

of lungs and diaphragm

grappling desperately for oxygen.

v. and all for?

a moment.

that moment.

unification, completeness.

press closer, harder,

but to no avail,

for even "together"

is never quite

close enough

for me.

And Then The Synapses Misfired and Things No Longer Make Sense

swarms of sleeping larvae are writhing in this fleshcase, gently reminding that existence continues, even if apparent life does not. sleeping forever, after all, is hardly a punishment. gather up the twilight-haze and tie it with an atropa belladonna bouquet, so innocent and explosive in its deadly deception.

lavender poisons the air as lips whisper unheard words to a far-off ear no one can see. but not even the most powerful of ear trumpets, as far as it will burrow, can amplify the sound.

the toxic mist moves in like a silent stampede, and, much to the terror of the unknowing masses, brings apathy wherever it goes.

Answering the Unanswerable

the prospect of

articulation seems

impossible

when confronted with

an inquiry

no lexicon

could ever hope to

expound.

It Sounded Kind of Orca-ish

low-frequency symphonies(un-listen-able

to you,to me)echo the

things i do not(willnot,cannot)say.

do they mourn or do they exalt?perhaps

joyandloss are two halves of

their whole.

mourn(jubilant)ing mammoth,

you are no match

for the crux

that

pulsatespulsatespulsates

within this chest,for

even you

are dwarfed by

this sanguine nucleus and all that it holds,

this pith i have

come to behold;but

nothing does it mean

if he is not the kindling

for

this flame.

The Shortest Distance Between Two Points Isn't Short Enough

a breath for miles.

a glance for ag(won't you

come

closer?)es.

my limbs move through

the motions

of every day necessities

;

i can brush my teeth

and apply this mask,

and , if i

c o n c e n t r a t e ,

i can be

none the wiser.

but where i am

is

where you are not,

and without you

is

without

what i want

most.

please

come close

and rectify this

glaring vacancy that

has

taken up residency

inside of this skin.

please

come

close.

(photo credit)

A Reflection on the Brief History of Us

how many others

have touched the lips of a

lover,

waiting for(expecting)it

all

to

combust?

how many others

have pressed their head to

his chest,

listening for the

(inevitable?)cracking

in

his

heart?

how many others

have had heavy,

overwhelmed lids at

the feeling

of love that

swells

and

billows

from places never

to have existed

before?

how many others

have pressed their fingertips

to their lover's

skin,

electricity and

numbness

the communication between

tingling

appendages?

won't you

let me always be the

other

in your pair?;

hearts or diamonds

or spades or clubs,

whatever suit

you'd prefer.

tug on my hem,

tug on my sleeve,

wrap me up in

everything

you are(intoxicating),

and

please,

don't ever

let me go.

Healing Takes Time

i am a burnt tongue,

its function pointless and evaporated

at the carelessness of its owner.

press me against something, anything;

i will feel it, know that it is there,

but will be powerless to experience it

the way that i should;

be patient.

i am waiting for the day

when my dead and damaged cells

will have all but shed and disappeared

and i will know what it is like

to be complete again.

I Will Craft My Rebuttal

purposes are

scattered and plentiful,

tangled in

the spindling of

worker bees

and

soldier ants.

in the back room

of my skull,

i have jars full of

these purposes,

neatly labelled,

arranged according to

size

and

obligation

(starting with

the largest.

naturally).

but there is

one jar

which has not

collected dust,

whose lid has

been opened

and closed

and opened again

more times

than it had agreed to.

i clutch it close

and push it away.

it sings to me

and

scolds me.

it beckons me

and

repels me.

slowly lift its

lid,

let its voice

fill the air.

its words are

simple

and it asks

what i always

ask

and what i

always

seek:

how

on this earth

can i

convince you

to stay?

Hauntings Are Not Reserved For the Dead

i am fairly

certain

that if you were to

r e a c h(stretch,stretch)

out for me,

your hands would pass

right thro(in and out)ugh

me;

i am an illusion.

i am the lingering remnants

of who and what i

used to be.

i have faded and weathered,

like the photograph that

sits on your

cob-webbed window

sill,

bleached by the

sun's

too-powerful strike,

my corners curled

and my edges worn,

my structure broken

and my chemicals diluted.

i am

nothing more than

some vague silhouette of

a girl

who once existed

in a once-beautiful world.

i am nothing

more

than

a ghost.

A Poem in Four Acts

i.

goodmorningyou, hesitant to

greet(how you put up a fight)the

waking world,

tangled in cotton protectors,

strands everywhichway,

blockading those pools i adore,

with vocal chords only

capable

of quiet(content)eruptions;

ii.

to goodafternoonyou, adventurous

and bursting through the

metaphoric(literal)walls,

absorbing the seasonal sun

and passing breeze,

toes wriggling with(in) their

unwelcome confines,

dashing forward

at the speed of something in

be

tween

lightandsound;

iii.

to goodnightyou, connecting

with the

out-there-world before

wrapping me up in everything you

are,

heating my skin with your skin(i've

good circulation),and

mingling my breath with your

breath,

until we come together in

ways only we can(only you,only me),

hesitant to leave each other's

head(how we put up a fight),as

we tangle ourselves in cotton protectors

and each other,

our vocal cho(harmonious)rds only

capable of exhausted(arduous)eruptions;

iv.

to everyyou that i can manage

to find,

and how i adore

eachandeveryone

down to the most miniscule(microscopic)cell

in this tired body

with all of my might.

Jaws Theme

to stay afloat

in a sea so intent

on letting(demanding that)you drown

is just asking for trouble

for which no one is really

prepared(as if they can).

but kick harder,

won't you?

paddle stronger,

won't you?

tread the water.

stay afloat.

stay alive.

A 10.0 on the Richter Scale

it's in the way

i can curl up

i n y o u,

like an old familiar story.

it's the way

you warm me

like a cup of steaming

tea,

enveloped by

chilled fingers.

it's the way

you call to me,

i the navigator

with a compass

that points

home.

it's the way

you find me

when i am lost,

tugging gently

at the laces of my

shoes to bring my

feet back down.

it's the way

i love you

when you steal my words

and steal my breath,

that i know that

no matter what the world brings

and no matter what the world steals

and no matter what the world is,

things,

you,

i,

us,

are going

to be

okay.

Fly Away Home

to feel at

home

in a place so far from

the dwelling, officially termed,

to feel a

love

in a place overflowing with

strangers and unfamiliar faces,

to feel that

peace

in a place as tumultuous

as anywhere to Timbuktu,

to feel a

"something"

that has no name but

is stronger than the Himalayas,

to feel a

loss

at having once found it all,

hoping one's feet will somehow

wander back to those

cobblestone paths

and overgrown mews,

to the "ou" instead of "o" and "s" instead of "z,"

to the dreaded prawn-flavored-everythings,

to the seed that has found its landing,

knowing that if it only had the chance,

with perhaps a bit of sun and

a bit of water,

it could blossom into

something

spectacular.

Illuminated, Illuminated

darkness seeps, without a sound,

into the very fabric of my skin.

merely a drop at first glance,

but it slowly invades and pillages

every nearby cell until i know

nothing but night.

the glide of a fingertip,

the brush of a lip,

and the darkness retreats,

unable to survive in battle against

this unnamed and unsung savior.

suddenly, i breathe.

suddenly, i heal.

i no longer know of fear,

and i no longer know of pain,

for i catch sight of your eyes

and know,

truly, i know,

what is love.

The Softest Fabric is A Memory

at the end of the day,

at the end of a life,

all that i have,

all that we ever have,

are the sauntering recollections

of our joy, our sadness,

our anger, and our love

to wrap around us

like a blanket,

letting us know that

it was

worth it.

It Never Stood a Chance

a bucket with a pinhole
is destined to fail. but it
will try and try and try to
make you proud, to keep
you from regretting having
ever purchased it. after
all, how can you hold a
grudge against something
that knows no other
existence except one that
is flawed? please be forgiving,
won't you? it will never leave
you. it could never abandon
you. it will have no choice but
to become your closest
ally.

My Day Begins and Ends at 5am

letters and combinations

always seem to disappoint

when trying to explain to you

the entropic actuality inside of

this fleshtone vessel. the quiet

hum of the cold air spewing

from that contraption is the

only cadence to the rushing,

crimson rivers in my ears. we

breathe this steady pattern of

inhale and exhale, of gather and

release, until i realize that i am

keeping time with you and that

this

is the only way i can manage to

explain the frenzy. more than a

culmination of cells and atoms

and follicles and blood, more than

these jobs we tire of and this

heat we create, more than the

words we whisper and the nothings

we slur with our tongues, we are

more than what we are perceived

to be and what we convince ourselves

we are not. i have no other, clever way

of telling you that i now understand

that i have lived, endured, breathed

if only for

these moments with you.