The cat flap.
***** dishes.
Petrol hands.
The taste of tongue.
“I want you to see me drunk”
Lamplight.
Gagged.
Her favourite colour was yellow.
You sound like rain.
I can tell when you are looking at me.
December.
High trees.
The bird mouth.
Advertise me: I pretend to pretend.

I don't dream.
Pretend.
On a scale of 0 to now -
Kisses.
“Where are you?”
I'll hold you.
The sound of rain does not feel cold.
Bone.
A fire extinguisher under water.
Probably, nobody does.
Arms.
“I hope so”
Blue universes
Blue heads
“Ok”

No, you're not.
Blankets and he is asleep.

I forgot what you wanted me to know.
“Ok”

Where they hide the grizzly bears.
Blindfolded.
As close as I can get.
I would understand you better.
I know, I wouldn't be here if I liked it

“Ok”
Go
Go
Go
“Go”

My head on a bony shoulder
All joints and points and edges,
I'm only half interested in the way this feels
The mind is even fresher, I can smell what you're thinking
It smells like meat
Like boy, like fire, like chimney, like ***** music, censorship, like man.

Still, as I look up at you
I can only taste the trampoline my heart bounces on
Babe, what is flying when you are a child?
They tell me falling is even worse.
These days, I wear my running shoes when I stand in love
Did you know that, bony shoulder boy?

I suppose you'd never ask.
Too busy paving highways in your mind, silly boy
I've made my way through gravel, still embedded in each hand - see?
A brain with pathways and sidewalks is too glamorous for me
See your arms gloved in tar
See the sweat of knowledge piling pillars
Who can touch you without something sticking?
Tongue to the trampoline type friction
Who can understand you, boy? Highways crossing over like veins
You are all the trains I'm running late for.
I wish I could ask you where you would go
if I was going there with you.

You've made it clear you love travelers
And I've made it clear I love bony shoulders and boys in flames
We are neither of all these things.
Like we are of water but not of rain
I've got my running shoes on, and you've got your mechanics outstretched.
Look down at me again, like you did when I asked you if this was okay.

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

I like how you dance to no music,
looking around so no one thinks you're a lunatic.
And how you get mad at the wind for messing up everything, mostly your hair.
I can't help but smile, mostly because you're unaware,
of my selfish thoughts that you'll never leave.

us
as humans
are three parts
struggle
one part
curiousity

asking our god
Google
how to solve
our problems

using .org
as a relevant source
for reasonable destruction

"whats the most painless way
to **** myself?"

"how can i tell if my boyfriend is cheating on me?"

we are unsure
if blood or electricity
runs through our veins

and we are almost certain
that some form of cruelty
lives in all of our hearts

living with brains running on
wifi signals
and vocal cords
fueled by poison

we suffer
and we make others
suffer