These wrists are rivers, my body ran through ’em like mercury men on kerosene streets. Know what it means to have your mother type out text to stretch that thread turned red, what it means to wake up wet when your eyes are dry and your skin covered in last night’s eulogy. I take up space in a twin sized bed and those doorknobs seem lower as I encroach on my two biggest fears, taxes and death, Crohns and cancer, life and love, ever and after. I still think the earth is flat ’cause it feels like I could fall right off; I’m still an alter boy on knees at heart, though it hurts, and I could get up anytime you want. It gets harder to force feed the silent lies like finger prick strips when you choke on simple syrup but girls’ lips are like caramel, keep these sweet kisses in a mason jar and pluck ’em when you give me up for Lent. What do you do when you see all your poems are broken love boats, never let go, but I wonder which boys know they made me go home crying, and I intend to allude to them ’til hell comes home and I give her the rest of my mind’s pieces. She’s got them bull’s eye birthmarks and I, animal intentions, but human interventions of attention span keep any plans from fruition, and when I treat me like a kid I know I’m just kidding except her single cell leaves no room for the conjugations so I sit by the phone surrounded; stall the sentence’s end because eventually we fear it will become the creator. For now I’ll just remember that the black holes in our chests turned us into pyrite (sink your teeth in) to act so shine in our half-truth bedroom eyes.
Stacy’s thighs are springtime and Paris fireworks nights, and Christ Himself would be speechless when she parts. I am hit in the third rib thinking of us running away, running back to bed, and when she looks at me I see Missouri’s stars. We know what we wish we were to one another. I cannot keep promises I don’t make but when I am silent all we hear are gas pipes hissing inside the chest cavity systems. I don’t wanna be the one to love more, I wanna be in love, and that’s all and that’s enough. I’m no Dim Stars or dinette set, no plaything or write, write right about the last rites I lay down as promise silverware during dinner. Just remember we grow green from scorched earth too, and I hold my breath for your phone calls.