hydrocodone,
its like the ice broke and now i'm
in the depths of the murky swamp.

i am in a morning bleary eyed
slumber, still.

my head is pounding and i can barely move.

its the aftermath of all that euphoria, i suppose;
three little happy pills.

i need a cigarette.

yesterday we smoked 17,
and now we have nothing.

***.
i wish we could have made that word into friction,
and droplets of ocean streaming off our bodies.

i've always thought that maybe something could grow
like a plant
between us,
plant its roots through our faces.
i always imagined that one harsh summer, sweaty
blanket night, after open mic,
we'd run the streets barefoot,
and you'd sing tom waits in your
rusty voice, like a garden pail
left out for a couple springs.

and you'd take me somewhere frightening and strange,
where i've never been, even though
my feet roam this tiny town even when my eyes are
sleeping.
then i'd tell you
that
heaven is a foreign concept to me,
and you'd whisper
that there is nothing realer than this earth,
and you would say it with passion, with a bite and a kick in it,
like good hot sauce;
your lips moving harsh and fast against
my stretched neck,
its skin begging for the weight of your kisses.

and then we'd recite poetry with our bodies
under a summer moon,
like an empty plate,
with august skin peeling off our bones,
leaving us raw and intertwined,
a knot of ferocious dreams, and thin
crunchy book pages.

words whispered loudly into the sweet
sweat of the dark,
your hands playing me like a violin
my body singing with your touch.

four cigarettes after;
two for our mouths,
and the others for our hungry hearts.

we'd drive long hours, longer than my stretched out hair,
until the air was absent of pines
until we were far over the leering mountains like snaggle teeth,
jutting out, sharp, distantly lavender.
classic rock would blare from the speakers,
almost crunchy in our palms,
like old, dried flowers,
and walls of heat would slam
solid.

our clothes would be in napping, crumpled, piles
and sunlight like gold coins would spill through the
open windows,
resting on our skin like afternoon breath;
light and hungry.

our fingers would be nesting like slender birds
on the doors, leather burning our palms,
hands holding various types of cigarettes,
thumbs periodically ashing
into the screaming, sweating wind.

the summer was a woman
giving birth.

i wish i could stretch my bones till i'm a little taller
pull my hair out from my head, make it longer.
in a car with wrinkles of rust from years
driving through mountains of dust and old whiskey bottles,
we'd stuff ourselves and our midsummer, sparkling eyes
and tan skin.
two capricorns, two cancers, two aries
burning in their legal freedom, burning with the glory.

most of us suffered through the stuffed,
cabinet town
together,
like secret cigarettes the smallest amount too large for their
hiding place.

we were vast, our souls fingers outstretched
like morning fog,
wandering and grabbing spread out like
cards,
grasping everything we could find.

our souls fingers were like
a desperate man,
roaring for anything to save him.

no cliche flowers,
petals ripped off and stuffed
under our naked bodies.
no sweet nothings whispered
into the deepest crevices of my ears.
no, nothing but
ratty floral couch
under freezing toes,
and silent breathing
-we didnt want to wake up his friends parents-

it didnt hurt,
he moved my body like i was the ocean
tide
pulling in and out
it felt like a mixture of cold
disbelief and riveting
ecstasy.

he didnt even know it was my first time,
and when i told him later, poison almost
visibly dripped down his lips,
but he was quick to **** it back in and sugarcoat
it with honey flavored chapstick.

and i'm not saying i regret it
because it was nice.
but "nice" is not enough for Chandra Lunah Moore.

and afterwards, when he tried to lock me to the small
foam and spring innards
couch
with his soft legs glowing golden with the help of an
off-kilter lamp in the corner,
when my muscles strained against his,
i knew the frightening power of human
desire.
how when he didnt offer a drag from his
cigarette
at all afterwards, just ****** at it needily,
all for himself,
didnt drape his jacket around my
treacherously shivering shoulders
like he had on the walk there,
didnt carry me the rest of the way,
stomping through the snow,
lips bitter after two long drags
off a joint,
he didnt hold me like he did so many times before,
(almost like he believed he was heavier with the weight of my
saved up childhood, like some kind of bank account. life savings,
dragging on his shoulders, making them, sag. skin heavy with my touch.
and i was lighter, without it.
i could walk.
he was obviously carrying the real burden.)
i knew, when he kissed me goodbye and it tasted like
a
wasted night
spent on not getting what he
wanted

i knew he was meaningless and i would
never again settle for
                                     just
                                            nice.