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 Lesson on How to Make the Mind Go Mad

it will not leave.

it burrows and burrows

inside of

this dilapidated haunt,

nestling so comfortably

in the depths of my

ventricles and atriums,

reinventing itself in such

clever disguises

as it travels about the bloodstream,

finding new habitats

which it likes to call

home.

how quietly it waits.

how patiently it breathes,

methodically outstretching a hand

or some disfigured protuberance,

scarcely making contact

with its surroundings,

sending my synapses into

a frenzy.

my god,

how your very skin enraptures me

with its heady bouquet.

one taste awakens this

dark, ugly thing

from its false hibernation

as i come to

understand

that with all of my strength

and all of my might,

i must conquer this

daemon,

while still trying to comprehend

and trying to believe in

how you have

chosen

to stay.

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.

Symbiosis of the Homo Sapien

someday,

when science allows it,

i will peel my skin

from my bones,

and my freed cage

will wander

from body to body,

zipping up a

different

fleshoodie

every single day

just to say,

after it has found its

way back to its

original casing,

"i've been a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

of all different sizes

and all shades of human.

there were women

and men

and some children,

when i could manage

to fit.

they were black,

they were white,

they were asian,

they were hispanic,

they were mutts.

they had congestive heart failure,

they had diabetes,

they had cancer,

they had restless leg syndrome.

they hated

and they loved

and they mourned.

but now that i've been

a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

i've come to realize:

we

are all

the same."

Graying-Out Process

there's

a strange concoction of

repulsion

and

disgust

as

hollow eyes peer

back to me.

it won't be long

before i am

coughing

the mutated name

i will have acquired,

choking on the

sound

of who i am

turning into,

the pallid cage

of what i was

and what i

should be.

i am the walking dead,

atrocity embodied

of what can happen

when

apathy

goes

unchecked.

Grains of Sand Are Inaccurate Measurements of Time

i don't know

about the

befores,

and i can't know

about the

afters.

all i have are the

nows(this now,and

that now,and how nows).

but every now

feels like a hundred nows

for every now

that i have with you

is enough.

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?

Neighborhood Watch

i ooze into places i shouldn't,

and i drip into holes

that are too deep.

fingers go into soc(electric!)kets,

tongues taste the could-be-poisonous,

toes get too close to passing motorbikes,

scarves whirl dangerously near ceiling fans.

always at the risk of kablam and fizzbang,

always friends with kerplunk and kersplat,(they

are a pair, aren't they?)i am always

on the endangered list,

the kind that sends out disclaimer flyers to

the surrounding neighborhoods:

"she may spontaneously combust!" or

"she may bring about her own demise!" or

"she may talk of beautiful things, but believe in nothing!" or,

my favorite,

"she has issues!"

but there is someone(he must know who he is)

who shoos away kerplunk and kersplat;

who makes kablam and fizzbang

just onomatopoeia-s;

who renews her hope

and renews her courage

and renews her strength

and renews her love

with every touch of his hand

and every brush of his lips.

until she has no choice(no

matter her futile attempts

at stating otherwise)but to believe him.

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.