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it got cold. it would.

the clouds it seemed, ate the sun. and goosebumps came along with the absence of the warmth,
and you touched them gently,
like my skin was some fragile thing, that you did not want to break.
like you were blind and the bumps on my skin were Braille letters,
and it spelled out a secret only the tips of your fingers knew how to read.
i need a pack of Marbs, stat.

my stepfather told me to stop smoking so much or I'd get a hole in my throat and I wouldn't be able to sing with my pretty little voice anymore.

i said *******.
sometimes I wonder about how many poems were possibly written about us,
and how we'll never get to read them.
it's back.
I thought it was gone,
                but no it's back.
it took me only a couple of agonizing moments to remember that when you touch yourself like that, it leaves scars that you can't erase.
                 my mother sat there by the kitchen counter, dumbfounded like I had just slapped her across the face,
I wanted to yell and scream
I T S N O T Y OU R F A U LT
but it's not true is it?
that's the only reason is shower with the door locked, and I guide my lovers hands away from my thighs.
that's why I like kissing people in the dark,
so they don't see my past on my skin, rather than hearing it come from my mouth.
so my old friend is back.
                                           i wonder how long she'll stay this time.
there are pens,
they leave words, on paper,
they dance with the language of art.

there are paintbrushes,
they glide upon canvases
magenta
violet
and sometimes you can make that empty sort of grey-ish blue,
like the one that's reflected upon pale skin when it's just before dawn.

and then there are mouths,
and they paint with warm, slick tongues,
on cold freckled flesh,
and they move up and down spines,
and they adorn throats,
and make marks,
disguised love letters on skin,
like the
purple you see in freezing toes,
and lilacs peeking up from spring snow.
my morning dreams,
are scattered and
faint,
like dust in the lazy sunlight,
drifting through the window.
your skin is just too far away from me.
Lovely, lets go drive somewhere.
Lets go on a roadtrip to nowhere.
Forget all our worries, and our past, and our future, and disappear in the beckoning call of the stars, and the waning moon.
To old tapes that our parents liked, and our mother cried to one thousand times before our own tears hit the brown leather interior of this big vast van.
Far too big for both of our egos, yet too small for this beauty… Rumbling along with a feisty engine, and the scent shadows of cigarette smoke, love, and a ladies expensive Sauvé perfume encased in the seats. Memoirs of a distant past.
The Rolling Stones. Bob Dylan. Chubby Checker. Motley Crue. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Nirvana. Smashing Pumpkins, Pearl Jam. The Doors. Frank Sinatra. Aretha Franklin. Simon and Garfunkel. Bobbie Gentry. Too many to name.
They filled the night to the top.
And trailed behind us, weaving its way in the corners of traffic, and windows of hot personalities, sweating their worries in the dark heat of the summer night.
We stop at some roadside diner; one o’clock in the morning drab slumped over all the tables. Questioning the road we take, we order coffee from the wrinkly lady named Susie, and leave it on Johns tab. We don’t even know him, but if we emptied out our pockets here and now, all we would find is lint.
We can roll down the windows, and unbuckle our seat belts on some abandoned road, racing to infinity, and only visible for this moment. We can stick out our pretty little heads, and yell into the night, cursing everything that doomed us, and everyone that doubted the freedom, the spirit that we have. It will just all just disappear in the wind.
Slipping past cornfields, alleys, coffee shops, and tiny towns, where every single one of those people have a life and a story that we could never imagine. Either that, or they have nothing at all…
Then we can stop on the side of the road, overlooking the sea, moonlight reflected upon its crashing face, and we can put something mellow on, in that ancient tape player. A tape which the label has long since warn off. But three words remain.
1967. For Marline.
A mix that was passed on from your old boyfriend, from his father’s grave… Who knows what his name was. Who knows where, or who he is now. He could be a man forgotten of all memories but you, and strives upon the image of that pretty face, but you forgot him already.
Now you can’t remember.
But we can LIVE, here and now, and we can look back upon this moment forever, while we drive back to our lives, and know, without saying anything, that we are all that any of us will ever need, and we didn’t need anybody to tell us anything because of that.
its morning,
not even purple yet,
like a bruise on the snow, blue and pink and black
reflected from the sky and the tempest within
i lie covered in his voice
singing in the sharp winter dawn air, slicing my cheeks with knife-like metaphors,
his words like honey,
how can something be so sweet and yet so
lethal?
be patient, for hell knows i am not.
- let me have my freedom. i am a wild, flowering vine, do not trim me to fit into your garden.
- when you kiss me do it gratefully. be grateful that i will share my fire with you, and not burn you down to ashes instead.
- bite my lips, and do not be afraid to dare. jump into the unknowing with me.
i like surprises.
- get drunk with me. drink whiskey in wine glasses, get drunk with me and write on my body in a pen, covering me with your drunken scrawl. let me show you parts of myself that have never been kissed by the sun.
- hold onto my waist with strong hands, do not be afraid to put your fingers on my skin. do it, and do it surely. do not touch me lightly, do it with a purpose. be strong, yet be fragile. i am not delicate, yet handle me with care.
- kiss my neck, graze your lips all over my body. let me feel you like rain on my body, a steady thrum.
- do not for a second have the impression that you are ever using me. you are a silly boy and i am a dreaming girl, who walks fast, who has a whole world in her mind. believe me, you will know if you are ever even a tiny portion of it.
i'll probably just end up using you.
i know what i want.
and do not assume that you are always it.
- speak to me like your words are roses, that graze my skin under soft cotton sheets. do not hold anything back, say everything that can possibly fit in your mouth, and do not be surprised if i leave you when petals become thorns.
- i am not attached to you.
i have a whole life ahead of me, and i want to experience every moment of it, living so thoroughly that i will not miss even a second.
i want to see the world, walk barefoot in the most remote places, i want to love and much as i can.
i want to kiss strangers, i want to make love in France with a beret on, i want to drink coffee in the shower, and i want to listen to vinyl late into the night, dancing with the music pulling me to and fro, that is enough.
i do not need you there to step on my feet.
- if you want to enchant me, do not speak unsure or shyly, move as if your fingernails could cause hurricane, and hold me in your arms like i am a storm just waiting to rain down its fury.
kiss me like i am a volcano, at any moment ready to erupt. however do not be cautious of this fact.
be ready to throw yourself in.
- speak french to me.
- even though it is dangerous to be attached to me (like driving a car over a cliff, to end up barely alive sinking into the restless ocean, actually), you must treat me with the utmost respect.
i will not always be happy and kind, but i will kiss you often, and i'll like touching you, and i'll like your bare, raw skin, bleeding on the pages of your journal in the late dusk of the oncoming night.
however if you think that i am your plaything, that you are using me, that i am a flimsy, easy girl, then you are deathly mistaken, prey only to your childish ignorance.
i am the universe.
i am so vast, you will never know even half of me.
i am an elaborate piece of art.
you are only a part of this journey i call my life.
- i will love you, but only if you understand that i am an endless book of poetry,
a whole bottle of wine,
a masterpiece made of golden flesh, blood of fire,
and each of my bones are engraved with stories to tell,
and i crave this life more than i will ever crave any dependency on people who i know can never
give me exactly what i want.
because i am incredibly brilliant and endless, and i hold every word to
pleasure you,
and destroy you,
on my mere tongue.
"i'm Rookie"

maybe i'll say it someday when I'm driving
naked skin burning on a sun kissed motorcycle seat
past old fruit stands,
toward some shadowed, dehydrated strangers arms,
in the texas heat.
i'll show them my homemade tattoos,
and recite some poetry to them.

i'll be wearing nothing but a feather headband,
and thigh high socks,
with a flask of throat burning
fire
trapped to the side of my leg.
i'll have nothing, and i'll need nothing,

but the open road,
and strangers hands caressing my candlelit skin,
when you can softly hear the rain at night,
like warm sweat of the
desert sky.
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