April

Time ticks away on the clock in my kitchen and as I lay in bed writing on my yellow paper about masturbating I realize what I want more and more. I'll gather all my writings and i'll have a book done by april, someone will pay for it to be printed as a present and I will give them to the people that I hate the most. I write about everyone in the most beautiful poetic words known to man to spite you. All of my lovers have been recorded in history and have their own pages. Someone has been invading and astral projecting themselves in my dreams and whispering things in my ear. I know who you are and I would like it if you would be more creative and make it snow in my dreams or take me to italy. I'd like that a lot. My insides are twisting as blood rains out of my sex and im reminded that I could always bear children. The cherries that I bought at the store the other day are blacker than black and leave my lips stained like the blood. Do your tarot cards often and daydream mostly. You live in my world not the other way around, honey.

Trickery

I still think lovely thoughts of you. tears roll down my soft cheeks and I wish you would scoop them up for me. Days are hard and I often try and find you wondering the streets. Leave secret messages for me at the door. The door to my mind is open, always. Your veins in your arms call out my name. I just want to touch them. Or you to touch me. I still think lovely thoughts of you.

You only eat oatmeal now

heart feels heavy
stomach eats itself from the inside
my skin is like the milk in your cereal
rambling
i use to want to love you
but my mind is made up
made up of chaos
the strawberries overflow and spill outta my mouth
they place pennies over my eyes when i die
and you dont cry, you only smile.

Blinding Light

I wish I could tell you somethings have changed. I wish I could hold your hand and tell you everything is alright just for the sake of saying it out loud so my brain hears it. The rooms are all dark, bare, and lonely. The rooms in my head. Where did I go wrong? What path did I take? Who ate all the bread crumbs? I've been angry a lot lately and I yell at him but only because he is the better parts of me, only because I can't seem to yell at myself and he is the closest thing to me. ME. I. She use to smile a lot. I frown on days when the sun is shining and I feel more at home when the skies turn grey and the rain floods our streets. Yes, our streets. Trying to run away from things. Trying to find new homes with more rooms to hide more baggage. Luggage. All the stupid old suitcases I keep buying from the thrift stores hoping that sometime soon I'll take that trip. I'll get on that plane and fly somewhere more scenic. Fly somewhere where they only speak french to me. Fly somewhere, anywhere, everywhere and nowhere all at once. The thoughts still collide and the dreams still haunt. The only things that have changed are my bangs, my room, and my heart.

premade whiskey and cokes.

It's almost christmas and almost a new year and what I am doing here with everything, everyone and all this nonsense going on around me. These men and these words and their eyes and their speech. I'm waiting around to think of what song to play in my car on the way home to go to sleep in my bed while I'm half intoxicated. I sat at my table the other night with my typewriter and the only sentence that was typed out was some bullshit line about winter and November and the heat warming up in my blood and the warm rush flowing throughout my sex organs. Turning on, turning you on, turn on the fan, it's Florida and it's hot here in December. Records and beats and holidaze and truth and power. Writing poems about..about my life? What have I turned into? Having dreams of writing in a one roomed apartment in New York, in the chelsea hotel, the same room that Dear L. Cohen laid his sweet head, giving head- to men, men who have meant more to me then my own father. The father who danced with me to the Beatles in our kitchen, the man who taught me to feel the music with my body and soul and just mooove with it- the man who I search for in older men with good jobs and good personalities and a certain "thing" about them. Someone who listens to good music, at least. The older men. The smart ones, the ones who have their shit together. Let me take all your records home and lay them out on my floor while I drink vodka and think of other ways to end my life, and while this is all going on, your records are sending me off to my death. my death bed, with my catholic saint candles and my love letters to all of you. You. You. The dedication to the book has been written. Who do I leave the last page to though? These men still litter my notebooks. my moleskins. The black ones that have your name written in them and that end in a year. a different notebook for a different lover. different lover for a different year. creative lying to become a better writer. writing to become a better liar. falling for the wrong kind of gentle winds. these men, these men, these leonard cohens of the world, where are you and why havent you found me lying on my floor with my catholic saint candles and my records flung around the living room waiting for you? no, maybe for my self.

mother may I?

I sometimes dream as does he
But mine are of you and not her
the heart bleeds the eyes run but my legs stay
here with you- not wanting to leave.
this love hurts, sometimes
more than your childhood knee scrapes.
wanting and waiting for you
to understand that my love
may not be honest or clear but it is always there.
that it may hurt and scream and cry
but it is all yours.
I swim in the oceans of your eyes
but I also try to drown myself in them
Imagining your skin is the milk I bathe in-
I submerge my entire being in, on, and around it.
wanting to breathe you in, taste you, feel you, need you-
you, who are the sun the moon and the stars on this planet
And I am the blackness of space
trying to be wherever you are
even just for half the day
my love for you doesn’t evaporate, vanish, or disappear
It stays, longs, wants, and grows more and more
the soft coo’s in my ear and the gentle kisses on my forehead
patch up my bleeding heart and I am no longer the mother mary
But your dear sweet, sweet love.