Mnemophobia.

Autumn of 2008.

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A trace of autumn was in your gaze
all it took was silence
shhh -
let the leaves speak.

I was wearing purple,
and my lips were gray

you asked me if it was the end of the world
not for you, no

and the butterflies morphed to chainsaws
they flutter and they carve too

I was your pulse,
remain a slovenly ragdoll

and my nails are no longer pink
but red.

don’t stroke my neck,
don’t autograph my hipbone
don’t scratch my bare back

more chocolate
to despatch those memories

yet I know they will not fade
but cling on like blueberry soup
on a brand new dress.

Sutures on defects.

Even as your hand warmed the left side of my pelvis on the porch of a muddy, wind-battered cabin, I knew you’d eventually skin my bones.

Hang me up to dry, I’m still dripping like mad.
Maybe you altered my memories of it, I don’t know. The pine tree didn’t do it, though.
Not this time.

The sharpened spike of the shady spruce-like tree shattered my solemn, shuddering heart and its sincerity.
Once so clear, so pure, so pungent as I dove into you.

The back of your neck in front of my eyes, you knew. You knew.
My hand, independent of thought, took its place on your right hip and I felt you.
I felt the wave of shivers it made ripple in every direction as I traced with my index finger the line atop the waistband of your jeans, halfway down.

Little, big and minute rushes of pleasure shot through my tendons and muscles. Bones were left alone, for decorticating, fornicating, love.

End of the world.

A warmth emanates from inside me and I smile.
Concrete marks of your beautiful existence and I never have trouble finding the words.
The parliament of psycheparts and emotionpieces inside all vote yes and it scares me.

A screaming consciousness states its opinion through the soulless rain as it leads me back to purgatory and I smile.

Argyle and tears.

As I walk by,
I hope you'll smile at me again.
As I talk to you,
I hope you'll touch my hand.
As I laugh,
I hope you'll wrinkle your nose and wink.
As I get up to leave,
I hope you'll clutch my arm and hug me.
As I giggle and tell you you're an asshole,
I hope you'll stroke my hair and smile again.
As I walk away,
I hope your eyes never leave my retreating back and you'll regret.

"You dodged a bullet", you say.
I want to hurt you for saying that;
You don't know what I seek.

Caffeine in the morning.

This morning,
This state of mind,
This exhaustion of the head.

Butterflies caress the edges of my stomach lining as I feel an accident, (destructive), coming on.
Without reason, I smile.

I'm worn out and bruised, but happiness is probable, if not ecstatically sure.

Make me feel it again.

Contrast of light and dark.

The human mind is riddled with traps, wormholes into the unknown, inescapable crevices and thorns.

She felt herself being pulled into the reaches of her psyche; she couldn’t tell if she would ever be able to fully understand the infinite insides of her thoughts and whether or not she would ever be the same if she tried, but she felt compelled to delve into, responsible for and enticed by the vortex of thoughtbits and dreamditches.

And after that, I never saw daylight again.

Misty-eyed.

The blue drips out of my eyes with every blink;
Drops of soul on the sheets.
Sounds like slow, torturous rain;
the kind that makes you frustrated and your clothes only slightly wet with
large
drops.
My lungs attempt to force their way out through my throat and mouth;
The pressure makes me cough and makes my head spin.
My head feels heavy and less vibrant,
and I feel myself missing your colorful love.
Shocking myself, I lash out and make the situation worse.
You always carried the scent of love;
slight, hardly noticeable and intoxicating.