Mystery of Mine

i must confess
to dressing up in your words
when you leave the light on
door unlocked
there is no heat
in this damn place, but
still i
read you naked
breathless
wrap your poems around my shoulders
drape them
'cross my legs

i said i
read you naked
fingertips with eyes
you write in braille
i smooth my skin
against your sheets

how does one love a poem?
metaphorical mumbo jumbo aside
if you are the words
and the words are the verse
i could love you

when
you reach me
into me
your soliloquies
hold conversations with my thoughts
you read me
edges to spine
fingers tracing secrets
across my back

i bend
for you are heavy
with mystery
do you hear me?
because
these words
can be written for no other

the familiar enigma
the shrouded mirror
i etch my name
across your glass
so you can see
the depth of rabbit holes

i want to follow you
through mazes
i find you
amazing

(well, maybe)

see
few things are certain
save for
this urge
to cup face with hands
look deep into eyes
and understand
what lies beneath surface

words like crack rock
addiction in my veins
please
stop speaking
it scares me
how my thoughts
leak from your lips
before i've tasted them on my tongue
where did you come from?
and where have you been?
two steps behind my footprints
are you the one
making meals from my breadcrumbs?

the faceless form
wearing my shadow
i feel you
stepping on my thoughts
the whisper in the dial tone
the figure
forming from the static
the space where windows
meet sills

i find you
in the
in-betweens
of dreams
and waking hours
you creep through my subconscious
weaving
webs that lock me up
i'm prostrate
at the foot of your voice
marionette to your thoughts
and slave to your stories
they are
my own
self-portraits painted
by foreign hand

understand, i don't
understand how you understand
all that has not been spoken
my head, your merry-go-round
and i'm
just along for the ride

i have lost my mind.
arise with poems in head
i compose
in dreams
awake to soiled sheets
wet spots of words
i birth the nile in my sleep
rising with tides
i'm spilling
all over myself
brewing thoughts
filtered through pores
and dripping onto papers

the muse has taken over.

it is easy to oblige you
grant entry to secret spaces
read me with your touch
i think i
write in case you are hungry
fill yourself up with
all of myself
your mystery for my own
i am spread on tables
open
for the taking

Terminus.

If intentions wielded knives, I would
slit you from sternum to stomach,
neck to navel,
wide open.
Peel back puckered skin
to examine your insides.

Where are the parts of me
that have been stolen?

If there was one wish tonight
it would be for you
to crawl out from behind my eyelids;
the darkness is long
and passes slowly
when thoughts
are solely of you.

What kind of fuckery have we become?
How much longer must we rake across coals
the dying carcass
of this rotting fruit?
My heart has spoiled
into grapes of wrath
left out in the sun,
dreams deferred
for far too long
while you play baby
with soiled britches,
content to wallow in your own excrement
as I make amends for your messes.

No longer shall I play Magdalen
to your bullshit god complex;
confined to the role of beggar
stumbling through your crowded streets;
heavy hearted and empty handed
living off scraps you lay at my feet.

(if you must know,
i love you with the finality of suicide.
the bravery of allowing lips
bearing razor blades
to caress the skin of tender necks.
i love you
with the necessity of respiration,
inhaling your exhalations
until breath
turns shallow when you stray too far.)

But in your absence,
I am a tomb.
The final resting place for your promises
whispered
through midnight's twisted sheets.
Man in the moon
why must you mock me
with your cycles of indecision?
The night grows cold
and I've crown tired
of waiting
on future destinations.

Welcome to Arkham
( case study :: the repentant whore, driven mad by her own hands )


walls seal air, tight,
in the vacuum of a scream
bouncing off soundproof cages;
hands, gnawed off and dripping
to prevent fingers from constricting 'round throats.
bloody nubs pressing up
against moonlit window panes
looking for a way out

she aches
from deep within the bowels
of a belly full of tears
choking on souls, devoured,
cant
stomach their cries
beating up against insides.

becomes bulimic with guilt;
vomits up her history
of knights in shining armor,
spits out
breastplates pierced by her wicked ways,
visions of victims laying impotent on the floor.

insanity
is the mask of the whore,
the masochistic martyr
licking wounds of self-pity
with the same tongue
used to wear down backbones
of former lovers.

she speaks in poems
recited backwards to rewind the lies
offered up as dowry for the marriage of her heart.
watch
as she folds herself into corners,
arms full of knees hugged up against chest,
Poison Ivy choked by her own vines.
hair matted and twisted,
a faux medusa
rocking in the darkness.

look deep into the mirror, little girl.
etch the memories of her tears
onto your glassy eyes
and you will see
there are no such things
as superheroes and villains,
just angels with wings
ripped, torn, and stapled back together
in varying stages
of falling
down.