My Love For Her Blisters My Skin | Art by Pejak

Shuffled around like a crap hand – pejak

they liked using me on the rookies.

 

This isn’t a poem. It isn’t a story –

It’s just an observation,

that some behaviors can’t be explained,

some emotions can’t be categorized.

*

I was a violent shit, head lost in self hatred.

I guess that was God’s joke on us both.

 

 

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Steel on Tender | Art by Troy Brooks

I was thinking of the times I lost my heart to strangers,

And it occurred to me that each boy stained me blue,

–          each girl red.

 

I remember how they tasted, deep in my throat, in my dreams and puff-blowing sheet streams.

The boys were salty

–          The girls, peach-fed.

 

*

 

Remembering all I used to dream makes me feel wheezy.

I dreamt of enjoying multiple lives, spread smooth over the cracks between each new lover.

Each crack represented to me a leap into a fuzzy world hung far and further from my own (oh please, God).

 

But now there’s no use in romanticising, or counting the branches left broken/unbroken from each lofty tumble.

Each love was a perfect hue of gOld.

Of forgotten.

Of starry-night dew.

Each love since ironed,

Fresh pressed just for you.   troy brooks

I’d feel you sooner | Art by Alice Wellinger

Alice WellingerLock me up in the chicken farm, Mr.

Pluck me off and eat my liver, I heard it’s a delicacy in Turkey.

Rip my head off string by skinny string and prop me on your tongue.

Squeeze me out off of my limbs and gut me out from chamber to sticky chamber.

I’d take anything from you at this point. Truthfully, I wouldn’t mind if you hurt me, or cursed me with that serpent’s eye. I just want to be able to feel that you looked at me, just once, and let me show my eyes.

Wedding Vows, Day 24: Dear Lover

I hope that ring slices clean through your bony finger and slimes past your toes, riding the blood it soaped up. You messed yourself. Go fuck yourself. I hope your brain explodes out of your skull, I hope the birds peck your skin off  – slowly and with deliberateness.

Wishful thinking’s a sin your momma cooked up before she blotted you out of her frame. This is my game now. My name I want to sear through your face and all through your neck brace. You head-case.

You’ll thank me, hate me, then leave me twice more – kiss me, lick me, then knock at my door, fucker.