Roses whisper about me.

Shrubs are two faced.

My eyes are berries that the hungry
Can pick.

In my hands,

the shadow of an unearned stigmata.

Hope for the eternal bliss of purposeful suffering.

Blank space is a conduit for meaning.

I fill the page with myself,
My ruby blood shimmering with neon green viruses

That unzip my best idea
Like a double helix.

The blue balloon was not my only idea –

Covering in the caverns of my 8th birthday.

Nature always takes its due

Dew

Do nothing as the river rises.

We already know next time

we will be cleansed with fire.

My thighs are a miracle of alabaster silk blooming like a rose. My secret scent is rose, vanilla, and extravagance. The language of flowers flows monthly through the corridors of my core. Essentially, I am his dream he holds at night as he sleeps on a game trail by an angry river. Soft, yielding, sublime, and barely real. I press my faintly glowing flesh against him, warming him. He’s got a letter only my envelope can mail.

My body is a twirly slide. My body is as soft as a spring day. Stars are woven in my hair, holding my mind back from coating the universe in glitter. Women stitch centuries together in parlors of pearlescent priorities. They always have. I run my personality through the hoop that doubles as a halo in low light, my backbone embroidered on a cream color cheese cloth.

Raw reality sizzles over the thin blue flame of my imagination, charring some facts and leaving other truths underdone. In my celestial home, I sweep stellar crumbs off my dining room table and wipe down the windows with tears. I have velvet covered books on stargazing in my shining foyer, and guests from universes of universities. Light belongs to me. Darkness siphons off my life day by orbiting day. Malingering suns pierce the authenticity of cold.

My 7 faces are stacked on a shelf in the back of my closet. I try on two before I choose the softest of two evils. My eyes have nostalgic lens filters. In this reconstructed reality of marble and glass, I envision velvet cushions and burgundy shrouds. My name is a museum of sound fruitfully multiplying in the ears of angels. Across the street from my home, the Silence Store and Great Art Mart in a rundown strip mall. Delinquent ghosts skateboard on the crumbling parking lot.

Light shaped women promenade along the proletariat public space, a space defined by signs and porous desires. Water courses through me at 90 miles an hour, and the rapids are teeming with sizzling ideas. Poetry lives in the air. The crinkled dawn is so hard. Remember when she said, “I’m gonna leave you early for paradise?” It’s another day of you and me in ethereal dreams. The 90s pirhouette in my old house. My sister canoes in her mortal art. Time drags me towars death, but he pulls me with a balloon string as I ride in a laundry basket beside him, so I’m having literally the time of my life. I flow into Friday like a flower wilting its way through Autumn. At the end my seams are torn and my seas shorn in half like Moses has a bone to pick with my water personally. The fish here smell like failure. Addie swims through my synapses, pondering Walden Pond.

Erase my sneaky eyes and lurid lips. Cross out my bifurcated nose. Let my loose tresses cascade over my honest skin. My memories I left in a hospital bed, anaesthetized and in debt. As men wade through the reeking bog searching for bodies, my memories awaken…are quickly put under again.

A cacophony of stars burns in their vast, black blankey of existential dread. Skiers on the alpine slopes of my frosty mind are frequently eaten by snowmen. My home is a craggy, coastal, creaking thing. Feasting on the spectral color palette of righteous ghosts, my famished feelings decide to starve another time. I wash up on the shore twice a day, a tide of cornerless flesh and eerie suppositions of drowning. Daugnter of sea, sister of the lobsters around the world all boiling at once, friend of vicious bunnies. My name is erased by the storms that blister our hands and hearts.