My skin wears need. Like
static from an old t.v. screen-
willing you to touch.
But don’t touch me, OK?
Don’t look me in the eye,
and don’t ask.
Don’t ask 'cause I’d say yes,
when I should say no.
I’d say yes and I’d mean it.
But the whole world ‘d fall apart
after.

Temptation
all around me,
I want to hug it
with a *******.

Place your hand
on my stomach,
feel the wash
of digestion.

I slide my fingers up
her
rib cage
strumming
them
like chords,
until I hear a giggle
of music.

I let myself
in
that night.

As you waited
in the backroom
bedroom,
with all your backroom
sexuality.

All the latent
passion
that crept during the day
is let loose
when I unlock
your neck
with my tongue.

Shivering
neckbones
make a noise
like ornaments
caressing
on a christmas
tree.

The gift
of your body
isn't lost
on me,
but the gift of love
can't make it through
this process of unlocking,
unraveling
and
*******.

Love
straps her bra
on,
pulls her ******* up
and closes her legs.

And I don't even miss it,
because love speaks
with a tongue for talking
not
*******.

there is this, an unrecognizable feeling
like a question wanting to be asked
but anxious of the answers
a longing, a wanting a solitude refusing to be broken
but expresses itself stubbornly
usurping the moment
a rigor mortis and a birth
colliding and infusing
dividing and dispersing
a coil winded
both urgent and passive
past and becoming
entangled on an intention

Language dancing like laughter
as you bustle by
I suddenly realize
that I am in your debt
for smiles too numerous
to count.

Catching my reflection in the mirror, I noticed that I look beautiful today.
I look like still sadness, or slight grief, or a breeze through eucalyptus trees.
I smell like the sea.

I feel like a storm, or like the shore freshly pummeled by waves.

My skin is peaches. My skin is rain. My eyes are rain.

I want it to rain so that I can cry and belong. The sadness never stops with talking.
I'm talking all the time now
tying myself into knots and hanging my brain to dry when the clouds die

I'd like to slap you.
If only anger could boil over and burn our eyes and make us all forget
I would callous over my burns and it wouldn't matter anymore
Layers of burnt skin



I'm like an orange, I think. I'm easy to peel
and easy to eat away piece by piece