From the moon

The moon loves watching you.
Without you, turns crushed blueberry blue.
Falls and crumbles like porcelain that flew
Across that room, coated with love dew.

Night falls quick
Gooey and thick.
With a sunray powered stick,
Poke holes that go "flick"

The sun shines through
The moon comes to you
I haven't got a clue,
but I grew
and I'm glued.

When Snowflake Met Earth.

Like zombie petals she falls.
The dirt opens up its arms
And swallows her into its pit.
Pink fleshy porcelain dolls
With cracked cheeks and sweaters un-knit.
Plummet the sky while he's knelt on his knees
She's in a disguise, delicate disease.
She wears frayed lace and burns his skin numb
When she lands on his tongue
Like carved droplets of cum.
He soaks in the nectar of a poisoned past
And her sharp edges melt alarmingly fast.
Sucking the ruby from his cheeks
The venom so bitter, begins to leak.
Swirls that curl like ringlets of hair
Like scarlet in dreams
Like ripped up seams
(from her lips).
Then from his pores the flowers did grow
Blushing peonies and lilies of snow
Candy syrup and honey dipped hearts
Done up in bows like twirling rainbows
Created a garden of destined fantasy.

Held together by intertwined fingers.
Held forever by a gaze which lingers.

two-oh-six, redredred

There are numbers I pick. I pick them out of the big angry morning sky, like ripe pink cherries on the horizon. They indicate. How many stairs will I fall down before I am paralyzed? How many books will I flip through until I reach enlightenment? How many. How many days? How much time do we have left until we have all our time left? I wait, you wait- stick me in a crate, use yourself as bait.

I was sitting in the kitchen and staring at the counter. Flick on, flick off. Light, dark. I thought to myself that if I were to rip this entire counter off the wall and take it outside beneath the stripping sun, I'd witness every imperfection dancing for me. I think I would applaud.

There was a knife. White handle, coconut innards- he hates those. It can cut well, can tongues be cut well? Raspberry jam, seedy and viscous sticks to the ridges of my mouth. I lift the sharp edge from the spongy muscle between my lips, I am careful as a child opening the forbidden cookie jar before dinnertime. I am nicked. It hurts and I wonder why I did that. Red is a delicious color. I taste of metallic red licorice.

There was a number. two-oh-six. 206. twohundredandsix.
This is the Daze Period. I drag my feet and gaze and the happy mistakes, they are such pesky show-offs. I trip and fall and bleed and crawl. Crawl towards that line, leaving a trail of fruit punch slurpie from my palms and knees. But I see it. I see you. I'm dripping, but I see you.

Your tongue will clean my wounds, your body will be my band aid, your lips- paradise salvation.

I'm moving quick. I'll be there soon. I know you can't always see me but if you squint real hard you'll see the slurpie trail, and a swarm of ants, and my bobbing head.

It's all on the horizon. I swear.