ShimmeringHeart

she told me i was beautiful on the sidewalk, and she cut her hair in the bathroom. he happened to glance and catch my purple stardust - too bad the back window was open and my penlines drifted out in a cloud of nicotine. we wrote on pads of lined paper five inches wide, and believed with all our guilt-smoked hearts that one day light would come save us from the things we didn't know. the ice-cream wasn't sour, so she dipped her pearls in my sympathy, having a hard time keeping it together. i could tell the gallows were mossing over and our chance would be gone soon; i pulled them into the streets - i

your mushroom roots left lumps of scar tissue on the glands that produce sympathy. twining cells, suffocating without eyes, water that does not bear whispers too afraid to be spoken. i asked the moon what the crow gave her, and whether it helped with the shakes. miss had no answer, but i threw freshly shined pennies into my black-deep well and paused a wish. there was something in the scent of my breath visible in the crisp fall air that reminded me of your collarbone bruises - there was a new trail made that night. miss told my dreams what the crow gifted, but my dreams never told me.

when balloons pop and the glitter finds its way into our skin and the perfect sugar roses lose their color, the clock tick-tick-tock-tick-tick- tocks under the skin coating my scalp, like thick frosting on chocolate (but they don't carry raspberry filling), when laughing until your ribs ache doesn't fill your shoulder-blades or collar-bone, or molars, or metacarpals, or tell you why the suede fabric isn't real. and suddenly there is no reason for a wish. there is merely extinguished flame and half-hearted clapping; a life snuffed out and one not even begun, and still no one believes in aching window eyes.

in her spare time she wrote musicals, ate peas in nutella, and had a difficult time explaining her idea of time travel. she knew exactly how to do it though. she thought her hair was gray, but everyone said it was blond. gray was more romantic, though. in her mind, she was three years old, tutu and pointed feet in front of the mirror, being not perfect enough. she had problems with spelling, math, and conversations, but damn was she good in bed. or at least, so i heard. she told me once it was a distraction, because she didn't have enough money to go pearl-diving for answers. another time, she said dreams smell like cinna

i think it was something about your eyebrow/soul/funny little words, but yesterday i walked to the grassy area with the misspelled manhole cover that you pointed out and wrote chicken scratches in the ground and paper, hoping the sun would stop and i could think correctly for once - once. i told you that i forgot how to be real, how to be solid and touchable, but you wouldn't believe that light-bulb screams were that painful. so last week was surprisingly real, without giggling clavicle etches and funny - funny i forgot it.

leech letters seep from underneath fingerwebs and behind ugly, ugly synapses. stained ink manuscripts haunt the back of your eyelids, paper-thin membranes covering colors of muddied puddle rainbows. the print is soaking your marrow in dreams.

i left my breath under the dirty ice floe and waited for the resin sun to melt the leaf tips, setting free my conception of reality. funny smelling ideas and fresh scabs make for winter reborn, hibernation. imagined angels foretell ozone snow and slowing synapses, a numbed, barely functioning cardiac system. marked toxic and child-friendly, i poured rainbow insides on the gray sidewalks that remind people too much of themselves. raindrops cleansed an upturned face, troubled with guilt stained marrow and gloss too long forgotten. menthol-wrapped secrets tucked between hair and woolen cap, i learned poetry in the snow, on

we are shells, oceans between our developments. show air breathes you, please.

brush your fingers over these spiderweb bruises and tell me. tell me there are ladybirds between my teeth and butterfly dust behind my ears. trace skin-tight sillymarks, whispering of violin seas, striped paperclips, and fresh blueberry laughter. oxygen plus hydrogen does not equal anything of importance without lime green sock weight tracing the junctions. scabby knees from who knows when, they aren't going away. nothing goes away here. the sun is still today, spreading cloudtears over maddening generic coverings. piano sighs plus vintage curtains equals insomnia and bruised retinas, reminiscent of grandfather. memorize every

please, drown in lace with me, at least. at least. tack my ill-fed tears on your cheeks and. oh lord. and. i'm terrified of the dark, so shut the closet door and languish, suffocating in mechanical grief. the carpet is too stained for. anything, we're too stained for anything. stop. stutttttter. sto-stut. stutter. quick, take that star and paint my bedroom walls with it, i want to see. see. i want to see. don't fall in love, it spirals and turns circles in itself until birds feed on your stomach and ffff-f-alling (lord it's falling) and eventually you will buy paper leaves and shred them in anxiety, so your house will look l

+ hands touched fingers laced ribbons tied zippers zipped mouths closed eyelid to eyelid cheek to cheek my yes [and then] your no - a lie for a lie heart in two halves the latch of your suitcase your hand on the doorknob tires on the street quiet and quiet and i'm all alone