We were on the phone
And you picked up a *******
****** needle

When          I         was          thirteen
My     best      friend     called     me
from     the     hospital    payphone.
She     scratched     her   veins    out
And   I   was   the   one   who   bled


ink.

Yellow bird
flew into
my eye.

Made a nest of
My mind.

I am still finding
Feathers.

You:

Maybe                   everythings                   taken                   higher
Carrying  out  capsules  across  illegiment,  narcisstic  ­exhaustion.
Another                                       new                                          day?
Help! Everything rhetorical or insane now                             exists.

Once       more
I am        floored
by        indulgence
a            greed
a      ­   lust
a    need
complete   me        to bleed
in    my        left     nostril.
Last night,      I  fell   from   the           sky.
Saw    why       I   existed
and        misted   the   glass
with    my   bind,    i   am   bound
I   found   M D A   in   my      D N A
A  ray     of
Ad   dic  tion—
con flic tion,     res tric tion,    cru ci fi xion
He was     more than       just a friend
Ended in me      coming     back
attack of       parachutes.
no—not   an      american  raid
blade    cut the     lines
weighed     out the     fines
swallowing paper       and singing the      signs.

He  saw  though     the   redbull,
the   xanax, the pro  zac,
the    this-   that
your    mix-   match emotions
that    k i l l e d   like   a rat-trap.

And   for    what?
Artificial    love.
A       c r a c k
in   my    parachute   attack:      I deny.
Last   night,    I   f e l l   from  the  sky.

Cold hands, I trapped on the side of my cheek.
From frostbitten fingers, bruises leak.
Cold hands, I locked in mine to make warm,
Whose ice seeped into me as you harm.

I said to you once that science and ***
Should never annex
Like Austria to Germany—
However, science and love,
I believe it to be...

Well, it's chemistry.

The tempt, sing to bring my vanity.
The temptation, to travel to unravel my sanity.
The tempted, rather than gather my trust.
The tempter, would not neglect to inject me with lust.

Pathological.
Unrealistically:
Chemotherapy?

Two men in a jail cell.
One with a scalpel.
One roped to a chair.

The man with a scalpel,
He is no medicine man—
He is a torturer.

The man in the chair,
He is no prisoner of war—
He is a civilian.

Weeks pass by and
The door never opens
Until—

On the one-hundrenth night
Out of the cell, crawls
Only one man

On his skin, there lies
A masterpiece.
A raised rendition of "Starry Night."

Eyes glance back into
His previous prison,
Only to find—

An empty chair.
A scalpel.
A reflection.

My spine has snapped, is tapping out acid.
Needle sewn to my vein, chained to my mind.
Pulse pumps powder, pulling me to placid.
Change into strange with the substance, I find.

Found myself like mold on cold bathroom floor—
My mind reeling with the feeling of stone.
The only desire I require is more.
Heartbeat to start a fleet of thoughts, alone.

Nation of realization—perhaps
We took and we shook the nook of pink pills
Getting bright as the night does, then relapse.
Ravaged by headaches and blue savage chills.

I try to bleed out need for evil’s seed
The red Devil—she’d force feed me her greed.

Your past is a tumor,
Genetically stitched at birth.
An excessive development of cells.
Growing,
Inoperable.

She picks up a needle
Places it to her wrist
Plunges down
Engulfs in mist

She picks up a needle
Places it to her wrist
Scratches her vein
In a fairy tale twist

She picks up a needle
Places it to her wrist
Thinks only once
Doubt dismissed

She picks up a needle
Places it to her wrist
Runs to a world
That does not exist

This silver chalice passed to me,
Ornate with family gold.
Shines with wealth for all to see.
The honor in my hold.

Yet I would rather sip from the rim
of my own and not from him.
And carve my own
Glass out of stone.

I wish calories were burned by love
So I could be as thin as
The only girls
You think of.