Sta.sh
everytime. sometimes
I catch little stars
on the edge of my irises,
or the ocean
collecting upheavals of tides
in the famine
of my throat.
in most cases
flowers shoot
from my marrows,
turning my bones
into a cross between
a garden and a
graveyard,
because
they're always there
everytime damn time
a bit of my heart
rots instead of dies
and tries to grow back
on it's own.
in other occasions,
my teeth kill me.
they don't rattle
like the way they do in
body language,
but they tumble and
shake and ache
their way out
of their gumlines
when speech grows
unneeded.
This angers me
- (and believe me
anger is never
a necessity. just
a discovery).
I hate the way my body
assumes the anatomy
of Sexton or of Cummings
and tries to sew itself
together to fit
the damn description.
I hate the way my
back elongates my spine
just to curl it into
an arch when
I'm hiding
paper
inside wounds
and makes me spill ink
instead of tears.
I hate the way my brain
rackets inside my skull
whenever I turn into
some kind of place
only people would prefer
to die in.
- and yet I lose sleep just trying
to fill out the metaphors
in these blanks.
)
. I used to hate swearing, but now I love it! It's a goddamn, motherfucking vent, perhaps? 
watch, too! I'm glad you enjoy my artwork!
!
