make ends meet

we live our lives waiting to die
        they say
i'm living my life,
 waiting for you
                          (is that a kind of death, too?)

but isn't it morbid,
   to start with the end?

but what are you and me
  but a collection of loose moments
and words
    and touches

      and accidents? (i didn't mean to love you
                               you don't mean to let me.)

should i talk instead about how you
feel like
             sunlight
taste like
                the rain
                on my skin? does that make it easier for you?

(we have enough endings by now
                 to start something new.)

you will always be alone and then you will die

I breathe and live and want; they call me 'whore'. 'Prostitute'. 'Bitch'. But I've never gotten paid and I don't hate anyone for it. I get what I want, and that's more than most girls can say.

Your stupid trailer is freezing, or I am, and I'm hungry again. I'm not above begging you for something to fill me. It's been three days. Baby, your pity tastes disgusting, but beef jerky's all you've got, so I'll take whatever you let me take.

Whatever I want to take.

You're in a cage and there's the stink of testosterone and blood and fear as you tear into other men like tissue paper. Like Picasso, you paint the walls and floors with red and linoleum and intestines before you sigh. I don't want to be here, anymore, I whisper, lost to the jubilant screams of your crowd, but you hear it anyway. Amber eyes rise to my green, suddenly shifting into my own, like you're saying me too or I'm gonna eat you alive.


I can be content with that.

Innocent. You want to keep me innocent, but I've got voices in my head telling me that I'm a sinner, an insult to God, to take what I want because it's mine, I'm no good, I'm better than anyone. And maybe, baby, it would shock you to your bones to hear what I've got in mind. I want to crawl into your skin and take you from the inside out, claim your heart with my teeth and grind you into the floor with my hips. I want to run my hands through your hair and bite you 'til you bleed (for me, again; this is getting repetitive, isn't it?). Have you dreamt about it? I hear you in the night, low voices and hitching breaths -- do you think about me?


Do you?


I am you and you are me, and nobody is a victim here.



(There's this line to this poem, and it's the one that thrums under my skin whenever I'm with you--)


I'm in a car with a beautiful boy and I feel sick to my bones as they creak against my skin because he's not you, and I want you. When did I get into this? When did you love redheads and propriety and tameness and when did I let you? When did you push me into ice-cold arms and ice-cold smiles and expectant hands?

Is it because I can't tell you I break everything I touch? They shatter and wither and die in front of me, you know, and there's nothing I can do about it because I can't let go. Not ever. Because you can't just sink your claws into someone and wait for them to shove you off, not when everything hurts more on the way out than in. Not when I want your claws and your everything, to compress it with the depth of your voice and the heat of your naked skin and swallow it so it's mine. So I'm happy -- so what? There is no excuse for this.
    (--you wanted to be in love and he happened to get in the way or--)



The road to happiness is the most misleading thing, the cruelest kind of ideal because it makes you put up with so much shit, baby, all for the sake of happiness. Happiness, they all tell me, like it's some kind of state and not a thousand moments strung together, not the high you run and reach for in life, not little presents from life to you. As though it's just another goal, another thing on your to-do list as you sit there in a pinstripe suit and briefcase and affairs with a secretary.


You make me happy, whatever that means. For what it's worth.
(--a man takes his sadness down to the river and throws it in the river but then he's still left with the river or was it--)

But you're always angry, you keep trapping these tornadoes under your flesh and it's not good for you, baby, to keep her from all these disasters. Sometimes, two people fall in love and it's tragic, it is, but sometimes, two people don't love enough and that's even worse. You've got tornadoes for her, hurricanes, blizzards and a dry, dry desert but she's a city of angels and sky-high towers and I'm gasoline and messed up wind patterns and the sun. You blame me and I take it, because you make me happy and I grew up in Kansas and I'm still stupid enough to believe in yellow-brick roads and evil, redheaded witches and a happy ending.



We're a terrifying, dysfunctional tricycle and I would have it any other way than this. Please.


And we're standing on the edge of a cliff, and we've both got choices to make, baby. But not really, right? I'd move mountains and cross oceans for you, but you'd die for me (and that's the worst part, it is, it is; it's not romantic like in the fairytales, having someone's life in your palm like that).

I am standing on the edge of a cliff and you're by my side, lingering in the peripheries, lingering in the darkness, until I kiss you, isn't it? I kiss you, mouth open and warm, and slide my hands across your chest, your back, and it's supposed to fix everything, isn't it? A kiss is supposed to wake you up, isn't it?


Isn't it?
   (--love, too, will ruin us.)

exitus acta probat

onceuponatime.

You're afraid to fall asleep.

You are, you are, even if you try to tell Mum otherwise; you're afraid of the monsters and half-spider half-lion creatures twining around your legs and sinking fangs into your skin. You're afraid of the dark and you're afraid of the shadows and you're afraid of the way the sky goes green and blue and orange and purple in the shift between night and day -- terrified that the sun won't be able to chase the dark sky away, one day.

But, though you try and try and try, you fail each time.

And you sleep.

i.

You're awake -- or the dream equivalent of being awake -- the dregs of your consciousness and the fabric of your dreams ghosting around the edges of your body, like satin and silk and cobwebs. There is a boy -- there is always a boy, even in places that are yours and yours alone -- and he has the greenest eyes you ever did see; shining emeralds in a sea of disheartened greys.

"I am Adam."

"I am Eve."

He stares at the length of your neck, the swell of your bottom lip, the curve of your breast and sneers. Flushing with shame and disgust, you want to wrap the dream tighter around yourself -- keep this other out; chase him away with the sun. But he won't go, you know he won't, though how you know will always be a mystery to you.

Still, you can't help but stare at him from under your stupid girl-lashes, grey, cut-glass eyes reflecting his green perfectly.

...

You're awake.

ii.

"You are a very pretty girl," he says, demands, even as you shake your head. "You are." he insists.

Teeth sink into those girl-lips of yours, "well, you are a very pretty boy."

"Yes," he laughs, like gravel and dirt and whiskey, "yes, I am."

You shiver. He gives you his jacket.

You give him pink ribbons for his gold-spun hair.

iii.

"Your skin is soft and warm," he frowns, "mine is different."

He offers his arm to you, pulls your hand to run along the heated flesh from arm to shoulder to chest to hips, and over again. You frown, too, pulling your hand back.

"You're a boy," you argue, "you're not supposed to be like me."

"That's stupid. I want to be pretty, too."

Huffing, you pull off your white dress, press the bundle into his arms. "There. Now you'll look like the prettiest princess of them all."

He gives you his faded jeans, torn by the knees from overuse.

iv.

"Your hair is nice," you mourn, running impatient, jealous hands through the golden strands, "it's so very nice. A girl would want hair like yours."

He stares up at you from your lap, one hand fisted in the green grass, the blue sky catching his emerald eyes, sunlight beating down on you both. "Why would you want that? Your hair is lovely and long. I want hair like that."

You pull out silver scissors, and fear flashes through his eyes; like he's made a confession and you are to execute him for his crimes. But you simply bring the silver to your own hair, and snickt, snickt. Bring up the strands, press them close to his, and whisper by his ear, "you can, you can."

v.

"I want it," you demand, hands on his chest. He looks up at you in surprise, mouth falling open. "Kiss me. I only want a taste."

So he does, pressing his mouth against your own, sliding his tongue against your own, teeth catching on lips. Chests pressed together, skin burning, burning, burning--

--When he pulls away, you both laugh -- him like windchimes, and you like gravel and dirt and whiskey and the secret things people do in the dark places of a bar.

vi.

"I am Adam," you say, with gold-spun hair, frayed jeans, and an angular frame, voice low and drumming.

"I am Eve," she says, with ribbons in her hair, a white dress and whimsical voice.

happilyeverafter.

You're awake, finally.

we're going round in circles

1.
    i tried to write you a letter once,
       and i felt like spiders crawled out my throat,
    leaving cobwebs where all those words should've been;

        i tried to pass them off as silk,
     and i've never seen you so terrified.

2.
   you told me you were a growing boy,
      and i could feel you under my skin,
   you bloom, flowers of blue and purple,
      spring time love and part-time lovers,

   it is winter again,
     and you're taller than ever.

3.
  i dreamt that i told you what each crack in my skin meant,
      and you flooded me with your liquid kisses and pacific eyes,
  and called me your sahara.

      your eyes are thirsty now,
  and i am still your sahara.

4.
      the sun leaked blood secrets into the sky,
  and i watched the dawn arrive.
      he told me he loved me,
  and all i could say was goodnight.

5.
  you think you're funny
      and sometimes i think i'm the joke,
  i bite your punchline and fall,

      hook, line and
                             sink her.


6.
      you can't draw and i can't sing,
  but i write you love songs with my lips,
      and you make me mona lisa-smiles with your hands,

  and maybe, we don't need to be perfect,
      just happy.

a/n: sorry for the hiatus. exams and personal issues have reduced my muse to a whimpering mess.

shall i compare thee to a summer's night?

(for the earthgoddess. i love you and keep strong.)

this is easy, you think, and purse your lips.
pillows are deppilf to the cool side as you press your feverish skin,
and you're sure you can't sleep tonight.

it doesn't take much to forget, you reckon, as red strands caress your cheek.
push them away and huff some more, soles (souls) of your feet pad-padding against linoleum ground,
his voice and hands follow achingly in your steps, thick molasses stretching out along your shadows.

you still kind of love him, you admit, and drink freezing, condensing water,
it's not that which drips steadily onto the table in front of you and each droplet shows you a thousand moons;
the stars are dead, long before you see them.

dear dryad daughter, time's a-tickin'

(for thedreamer)

-tick
        there's a grandfather clock adorned in twisting oak,
        and it looms above you, ancient, mad and menacing,
                                                                                       -tock,
tick-
        the pendulum's burnished edge reflects his g-g-green
        eyes and it swings serenely from one side to the o-
        ther like conversation and banter 'tween you should,
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        there's clear glass covering the gold as hands worry
        away across a glinting face and you've always been
        a tad transparent to those who know how to look,
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        marble floors just create a thousand overlapping
        shadows, parts of his personality you never ever
        wanted to see; he walks away, the best things end.
                                                                                      -tock,
tick-
        there's a grandfather clock adorned in twisting oak,
        and it looms above you, taking up it's old bad-paid
        job; it looms above you and shields you from the
        world.
                                                                                      -tock.

"i think we need to get that clock fixed."
"no, leave it. it's always been like that."

walls

travel-worn trainers tip-toe
and it kind of feels like i've dipped my
finger and the edges of my
consciousness in the burning cold
of liquid nitrogen.
there's a cool, biting wind, snarling
you can't do this, you can't do this,
and gravel's never felt so sharp through
red rubber and my sole, my soul is
slip-slip-sliding against cool, metal walls;


you're cold, so cold
and i can't scale you.

this is a battle of wills,

and a battle of tongues,

in every way.

so, are you ready?

crossed your fingers

"I promise you, I'll be here when it all falls down."

"Really?"

Do you remember?

Your hair was long and the heat clung to our skin and there were tears streaming down your face when you told me you missed him. I knew - I always know, don't you know? - knew how that felt more than anyone. And then, came the secrets, spilling forth from my mouth as easily as the lies, choking and burning my throat with their intensity and coal-like taste (not everything has a happy ending, love).

Do you remember?

We sat, side by side, thighs pressed together as the corners of old tomes dug into our backs. You toss your lank, black locks back and shoot me a tentative smile. When I said I wouldn't tell anyone, I meant - mean - forever. And your own secrets burst out from pressed lips but they were light and airy and dissapeared into insignificance as soon as they were uttered. Mine settled on our shoulders, like soot on statues.

Do you remember?

One day, side by side the two of you. Your hair cut short and yours dyed brown. Matching clothes and voices and inside jokes. Arms around shoulders and secrets that shine. I'm not part of this anymore, surprise, surprise.

Do you remember?

Leaving me behind? Because I sure as hell fucking don't.

"Really."