squashy purple sleeping bags

i feel now like he can't hide anymore,
can't pretend to not be even slightly impressed by me,
slightly awed,
slightly turned on because there is only so much
that you can conceal behind an accent and a robe and
a cynical air and i stopped trying to care
and now the words come effortlessly and we've moved past touch
(something i've been craving just a tad bit too much)
with my feet on his chest and his hands on my breasts and a rhythmic coughing
and clearwater and dawn.

how to handle morgan, among other things

it's a fucking monsoon out there and sometimes it seems like i'm the only one walking through it but tonight we're going out and tonight i'm not going to drown and tonight is a night on the town and tonight's gonna be a good night.

rain falling from the eaves like a waterfall and nobody drew the ace but she pulled up like the queen of diamonds my best friend and we raised our plastic cups to the ceiling fan and the stick-on stars the only ones we've had and it was a good night.

she didn't get a handle that time but it was a good night. go tell the captain i remember it.

vampires is a bit strong but...

veins in arms, earnest eyes,
stroking back your hair, playing, there.

i hadn't realized what i missed until i got it,
stars and the wind through my hair, solitude and sugarland

but luck is the last thing on my mind when i'm visiting,
encouraging strangers with a light touch and quick thinking,
head over heels for blond boys with beers and i'm not even drinking
elliptical sorrow so he's nowhere near,
i'm too far away because this isn't home.
i want the sweat and the signal,
the blood and the bone,
sleep deprivation, bathrooms with locks,
happy smoked hallways and the Jabberwocks.

(i only wish they were prettier)

fall into me

I am Jill's bitten nails,
hammered into gaping holes,
sagging down with a heavy load,
bending under the weight of art for art's sake.

I am Jack's empty wallet,
diamond dogs and lost credit cards,
sunk below light's reach with pirate boots.

but I am not,
and I am your blue-eyed wanderer,
blue-lined warrior, the burn of whiskey in the back of your throat,
the brazier in your belly.
I am an impermeable flannel shirt.
I am a princess poster and your first memory.

worn

cleaning out the closet,
metaphorically and not
wanting to get rid of it,
wanting and not.

internal war:
the cleaning-crazy-remodeling-lady vs.
the collecting-protecting-intuition.

i should be writing a letter.

shells

dirty little redhead boy
(devil spawn, satan's child)
playing in the sand
(mutters curses at me for a while)

we're fine here,
underneath the ping-pong tables
and the blond waiters.

I'm dirty, too, but he's smiling.
Until we get home, and the older one
(he's supposed to be better)
starts shouting, losing his temper,
and I bike home, still dirty,
with the crushed beauty of the shells in my pocket.

everything that changes in a year

the sunshine filled my heart to bursting,
i skipped and sang and tried my hand at transposing,
couldn't edit out my mental voice but walked fast,
not paranoid but cautious,
and i'm glad it was mine before i was yours.

but i miss being in love.