I want to kiss everyone,
to feel their mouths,
to see their eyes up close,
to taste their wet.
My skin is cold longing for wet.
I can't see the future through my wet.
Words won't come out my mouth without wet.
They hang on my vocal cords,
waiting for a glass of water to swallow them down.
Words I do share
leave me hanging,
I'm hung up like clothes that never dry,
like ropes with no swing,
like a kite on a line,
like a girl waiting for a call.
There's a song I'm weaving from my string of moods,
elated like meringue,
light and lickable,
down like a dog at my feet,
a grave beneath a tree,
a plane skidding to a stop.
Passion and pain feel the same;
love aching in my bones,
sorrow crying in my heart,
longing for my father,
longing to be young,
longing for sex that pins me down,
that sets me free,
Passion or pain,
I can't tell the difference,
feels like a hand hanging in the air above my cheek.
A hand that use to hold mine,
that brushed away my fears of losing those I love,
of losing faith in tomorrow,
of losing myself.
I'm lost, again, still.
I hear birds that I want to slap.
I hear pounding that comes from within.
I hear echoes that feel real. I'm not good enough.
I can't act.
I'm too skinny, too hairy, too controlling.
I am out of control but this time it's inside,
where it's dark,
like the refrigerator when it's closed,
a closet with a burned out light,
a coffin sealed tight.
I can't breath in here.
I forgot how to sing.
I don't remember my real name.
I've never had a lucky number.
My favorite color was never red.
I saw in black,
like eyes that are closed,
like living underwater,
like being beneath too many blankets.
I raised myself on streets and tops of buildings,
in courtyards and across avenues,
in parks littered with smells,
in alley's littered with rats,
littered with crooks, and money, and desperate women,
and no good men.