constructing the interstate

the body was made of pure cement.
each rib glued together.
thumb tacks lining the mortar between each nerve.
the hair was the hardest to pin down.
it was wild, covering the
body's face and obscuring the leakage
pouring from the blank spaces
where manhole covers were still needed.
holes for men to climb down into
the sewage lined heart,
the shit infested wasteland constantly
dumped on by countless men before.
the hair was the problem.
it made the body seem alive.
the hair must burn.
the body must be broken down
again. jackhammered.
traffic backed up.
the body reopened with each passing semi,
questioned if there was a reason
for this destruction at all.

11/21/14

Frodo: I can't do this, Sam.

Sam: I know. It's all wrong. By right we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.

Frodo: What are we holding onto, Sam? 

Sam: That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo... and it's worth fighting for. 

Because when I'm feeling sad or confused or anything, these words help the most.

the first attempt

Her name was Mary, but she was no virgin.
Her insides were made up of blackberry dust and
needles, memories of the day the ferris wheel froze.
It stood in the middle of the fair and made shadowed
cliffs across the snowy hills.

The voice behind her licked at the space
behind her knees, blew her kisses as the edges
called her closer and begged for a release.
"You'll die if you keep this up, little girl,
you'll die if you don't kill yourself first."

via *

battle scars

I dressed like Seattle that day, my hair liquefying into the Puget Sound.

I wanted to be my own home, built inside my own bones.

But inside his strong arms our lavender bodies fell together,

Struggling humans opposed to these falsely perfect people riddled with expectation.

He moved me, begged me to punch him in the ribs,

Find his heart- he craved determination and diligence.

Only screaming and breathing and breaking emotion down

Will let my skin know war, the last sentence he speaks in the dark

The last bullet hole of a bleeding turquoise sentence.

How do you know the distinction between lover of sex and sex addict when

Having the lights off makes it all so much more forbidden and foggy?

Send me right to hell. Send me swiftly right on down.

via *

scorpion venom

It was easy for ninety people
to drink eighty bottles of wine.

It's hard to paint
the tumors hot pink,
to let all of the venom in the world
eat up your blood and sting your
stomach lining.

It was so hard to feel my breath
and my bones turn to ashes
while I tried to look happy
to still be here.

In the violet hour before
it all begins again, I can hear
the other side calling so softly.
Like moths burning on a light bulb.

I'm so close- closing my eyes
is so goddamned easy.

But then they all come through
the door and I snap back to myself.
The weapons won't be laid down today.
Dying is much too easy.

Let's make Hell wish it could have me.

via *

A

Agog, adj.

I cannot imagine how hard this is for her. To hear me down the hall and remember how my skin looked when it was pressed against him instead of her. And then she goes and lets me into her room and starts to dance. She moves her hips and sways her head. She grabs my hands and makes me move with her. She makes me let go and she lets me be with her dancing our hearts out.

Agglomeration, n.

The whole world is made of bones and crushed flower petals and empty bathtubs. His hands on his back. His nails already had bits of my flesh underneath them, why not add more skin from another to help bury me further.

I never made you love me. I never made you pretend. But you're the one who said it first. You threw me in the air and dropped me in the puddle and you said it. You forgot to take me out of the puddle before you hydroplaned right through it.

via *