linnuella

you taste my lips kiss like honey, it drips a trail, like fingertips tracing down to my collarbone you grasp at my passion holding it underneath your tongue like a secret you whisper me to complete I am yours you breathe smoke into my lungs trading moods and memories as we lapse into silent moments I pray with you in my hands I climb in through the window of your mind fragile curtains hang around your pretense you wrap me in the silk of your touch cold hands on my spine I shiver as you press leaving purple kisses I am bruised my cheekbones hold silhouettes regrets you nearly loved me

i. I am a natural lucid dreamer. When I was sick, I dreamed away whole strings of days that burst with causal power, as if the sun, shining past my silted eyelids, had spilled a home behind them. You watched how well I played that girl: high heels, sparkle eyes, sitting on his work desk with my lips curled, legs crossed, booze at needle length beneath my skin expelling floral tones, pectoral blushes. I pretended to fall asleep on top of his blankets so I had access to my concave nest, a place without his hands on my stomach, no, and without his mouth on my shoulder. Now I am not even here and he doesn't know, not at all. ii. My res

... and maybe the difference in children is that they could say they loved who they were and their friends and their family and all they'd seen so far because that was just the natural response, not really having the mind to specifically call certain events forward and use them as justification.  They were just... themselves, and that was enough, and they could say they loved and loved because it was the first thing that came into their heads, the first thoughts being happy and joyous without being shot down by all the bad years and months and days, with dates gone sour and throwing up in someone else's toilet and getting a headache in class

          is how I get processed       out of her staticky poems   when she wakes in a tree-womb of elastic things being digested,        a pulsating room of sparks     blown up for a meager flame     like her kinked stray hairs          backlit by the morning;       a methodical recollection,             a stirring together    of lime juice and basil seeds           into carbonated water.

. Driving on the curb cured of swamplands and horizontals my atmosphere dear takes wholesome bites of water outed are the undersides of bridge smudged chasms birdy hellcalls and undone song he knows only fire pursues the winged torn letters three years gone of the antediluvian   disintegrated into charm and clarity and the promise of a moment in time that springs everlastingly will be flooded and the pulmonary one ways dripping varied shades of moving cars in fresh killed greys keeping time with the hacks of self against love while our hands are crossed in universes pleading with the dying that cannot slow down but winds and wi