(at night after the cold rain came and street
lights shattered the pavement)
i am not owner of you and you are not owner of me
a body i live in
a house i call home
squeaking staircases shards of glass and the
attic of my grandparents' things
mice in those walls and the smell
of dead books
and i do not have a home.
ask for it from behind
feels especially cheap
i can kiss a man for ten seconds and know how i
should kiss him the rest of my life.
in a window.
survival to suicide.
plastic glove waving from a skinny
waving at me.
to stop living for others (mom +) worry)
means to live for me
means to die. i am not.
yours. mine. alone. together.
'remember no one will ever love the
real you' feels true.
not sad. just true.
for it's ideal to be
on a vast beach meditating before the ocean and an eternal sunrise
all alone no others no people just me and the universe and earth and
that from which i came.
faced with real.
there are four or
i play tricks on the others to trip them up.
when she needs to work i forget what she must remember i put off the
bullshit she feels she must get done before play. i fuck just to piss
her off. i sabotage her.
i sink her into a little pit of despair
she loses muscle control and becomes a pile. a pile
is incapable of productivity other than that imposed upon it by its
own nature. chemicals.
piles dont 'accomplish'
i am so tired of trying to accomplish things.
letting go of that which was never held. never.
i let go of
family and body and desire for good and desire for love and
jaded. sex is a tool. a medium through which jade comes
i vomit mentally.
split splat on sacred ground.
am so. tiny. and i am so infinite. and you (niverse) are so big. and
jesus how did we go from survival to suicide?
see neither cloud nor sky.
the night is bright in my