of organic matter

its been a year since i cheated and let you win.

salted smokers kiss in the ghettos where we first met. discarded crack pipes,

tinted bottles, half sleeping in their brown paper homes reflecting sunlight into clouded prisms with backwards color schemes the smell of damp women and car exhaust soaking through heavy hair pregnant teens lazily painting their nails, slim pubescent legs hanging off fire escapes, they turned up their faces,and laughing against the august dust, wished us luck
luck meant that i was a romantic and entirely intoxicated by your escapism, your mellowed streets, the peeling bark of a revisited rape scene
i begged for it. so you took me home, where we both spoke soft , a tone carefully dismissing our animal nature to fuck and kill
cats cradle on your vicious tongue, i washed down your licked finger tips, left you to tend your bed, and with sea legs walked alone through times square

away away away

theres a scar that runs the length of the under side of my chin

when its hot the spaces that were stitched together become raised,

like if i search hard enough i might be able to find some piece of my past by running my fingers over it like braille

i cant feel heat, nor cold, nor delicate touch in that silvery laced piece of myself, my sturdy flesh refusing to deliver sensation

do this make me vulnerable enough for you?

am i a steady target now?

four.

tiny ceramic rabbits litter the lawn next door, i grieve for their peeling panicked faces
sallow lights flashing over, bursting bulbs drowning me, holding my head still, turning left, i cant help but vomit and stare, lifeless ornamental scripture ridden hole of a woman, ten fingers for ten rabbits

three

nothing changed

i've still got a handful of disconnected numbers, a mouthful of lust filled praises, earrings like a rococo medallion

i am just less ..less what i was, more so a tabby picking meat off chicken bones in the space between houses with unlisted addresses.

houses not home.



i do not write of this, because it is so fucking sad to think of.



homelessness over homeliness that is.

two

while my drunk brother was spinning tops on the lawn paved over with fresh tar from daddies lungs my skirt hung low, bearing a scratched belly carved out with tinsel teeth, little wood grain marks.

one

he came home with roley polies in his jeans
two in each pocket, rubbed between his fingers, laces of exoskeletal beads
threaded with the stop and go of downtown streets