SoothingAngel

"Ribs don't contort, you idiot."              Mine do, mine do. All this time I thought you anatomical. All this time I was pushing you in through my skin, shoving you into thighs and gathered kneecaps. I was so partial to the malfunctions. But you have been deeper. You have traveled further than ventricles and clavicles, you have broken intestines and stomachs, And surpassed 2 & a half years this coming August 24th of heartbeats, and haphazard lung-diseases. You were vaccinated by wings; By rippling keyboards and face-onions destined for billboards and greatness. My abs, hurt. There is no sickness like the remainder of you

* We are straddling the rim of summer's gradebook, sweat, clawing at skin folds & glands, aching to be released, to know carbon monoxide and sunshine. I am finding myself in beginnings, and all of your opposites have been graced-over, for now, for now, I miss the bald spots on his chin & the way our hands always found each other, crowds did not really separate us, he is always around corners, waiting at lockers without padlocks. two plurals make a singular, in this world of bracelets and un-interpreted night-wakings. We first connected, through wire-lids. You told me what it was like, to know that the darkness in darkness wa

You are atonal. There are half-notes disregarded, Whole deceptive cadences blotted out. reckless, your shape has become airborne-- and before inhales I am cast upon asphalt; you wait for me there, getting comfortable in potholes, making noise alongside oil-changes, fishing without lure under license plates, and  you are not permitted breadth. You have always tried to be polite, with your indecent exposure and razor-ridden keyboard, but all pleadings have turned you against yourself. so commonly you find the best courtesy in blood-seams. You are this swelling comma inside of me; You keep expanding within my breastbone, I'm ge

There were twenty thousand pounds of a girl underwater, and he told her to use the doodle section of that particular spiral. Something about subjects, something about that being where poetry belonged. I was wearing absolutely nothing but you down to my skivvies; and sprawling, I was not cold, in thirty-seven degree Fahrenheit blankets, I was prettier with weaker bones; I could feel them—their eyes, on the window shield—they kept waving and driving in circles. I was only a headache spread out on a quilt mountain, it was seven o' clock when the sunset started—and an hour before I had not been able to keep my soda down, or the tips

I had known how terrible the thunder was. How involved it was in the affairs of northern snowstorms. and I had known precisely, and intimately, the incalculable ways that you would be taken. and in how many, (but only one) ways, you would give yourself over to the things you didn’t feel like breaking  so late at night; to harps. how you would halt your tongue (but of course not before shoving it down my throat in the most vulnerable Friday there ever was) and leave your sorries, within the part of rain-boots that my toes crashed into. You were a bastard when it came to contradictions; and you are excellent, excell

We are unspeakable; our vocals have become available only in lowercase sharps and guitar strings. Apologies,  always made it worse for us; because we weren’t sorry. It dismayed us like nothing else could;      there were no lips quite as upside down                                            as ours when we weren’t besideeachother. and there will never be such mouths again. We

you said, "hold nothing back", but what else can I do? all of my bones, they are screaming, for you.    this is not a graveyard, and that is where the trouble starts, Eric. that is where (this) trouble                 happens; quickly,   harshly--               and absolutely vein-wrackingly. I could(n't)weigh you down, with skeletons, and I shouldn't (erase contraction) let go, of beautiful hands.            I am grabbing            desks, decayed; avoiding immortal            keyboards, I am-- I cannot. I cannot show you, what, you have done to me. Such, such, a headstone, would smear hurtings on the bifocals of your a

there is a taste in my mouth, that cannot be understood by the bud of my tongue. I am hesitant about swallowing—about swallowing such wave-length conceptions; there is no telling, you see, there is no way of telling what sort of inflamed my vocal chords could swell                           to, on the way                  down. there is a way—there is a way,  of telling and knowing how lonely my skin will be without you—and how, knowing how if I meet the maker of me—and if I, allow him waist—and windows of more than one species— if I do this, things                       will be happening quickly                   and

and they had a quiet only staircases remembered. i get weaker in my knuckles and calves, when i think about your keys being forlorn, for the ignition of your airplane. (do you smell the youngness of it?                                                       can you taste the wrinkles that won't                                                       become creases?) and my poetry, wilts, staggers, doesn't know how to stoporspaceitselfout-- when you don't put periods at the ends of your sentences; wilt. stagger. I cannot think about you quietly--for you have blared yourself, in the green of ink; slipped through the nostrils (her