she’s two decades old,
in terms of vineyards and wine
she is full bodied and mature enough to
pop open and enjoy.
but like all red wines she will leave stains if
long royal fingers marring grace
on that white crisp oxford.
it seems to be in my nature;
this italian way.
hotblooded and loud mouthed
with hands that spar like antlers
and eyes burning away like
carving knives tracing necks.
she’s two decades old,
i grew up in a city tinged with cicadas
and their blinking wings.
where everything had the hint of german blood
flowing through it.
all gothic and brightly blonde;
with names like eden
and mount adams.
and with our city’s glassy-eyed sky
all of us sear with summertime heat
giant trapped bugs on our bellies
squirming our limbs splayed out
looking for all the world like swimmers.
with the pushing, thrusting, beg
but steadily stuck for the taking.
“but what if it doesn’t?”
i find my drowsy lips asking you.
“but what if the moon is only the worst thing that’s ever happened to the sun?”
what if the sun never wanted to shed his
and only ever is wishing for Orion’s arrows
to fire at the rising skull of moon,
so he could shoot her down
because the sun might be a greedy god,
hungry only for his only light.
and not the pilfered pale shine
i ask you all of these with my clumsy mouth.
and you do not respond.
because the answer is simple, and doesn’t need
to be stated.
that star, bled its light
alone in space for a billion years
before she came.
the only one who would raise her face
and shine back at him.
- girl: i kinda like horses
- ty: WE MADE YOUR ROOM INTO A HORSE AND DECORATED IT WITH HORSES AND HERE WE GOT YOU 3 PET HORSES AND WE ARE PAYING FOR SURGERY TO MAKE YOU A HORSE
and even the silly long-necked doctors
with their swan-white coats and sleeves
all nod and agree
that my tiny-boned baby teeth
and free my fleshy tongue.
stick the love muscle out between
where it will wait patiently to receive
the little yellow-eyed baby blue pills.
slickly sliding down my throat
eager to take
and swallow sugar for normalcy’s sake.
fuck the cuckoo’s nest
i’ll sew my lips shut after they spill seeds of this truth,
that the hospital full of ropes and razor shadows,
is the only place i’ve found my body
able to finally find sleep enough,
to let this mind rest like the dead.