Thanks giving

Crystal clinging, ringing,
to our health
and that of the ones we cherish
To the memories,
replaying in full color, hd even,
over & over in memory theatres,
the movies we can't wish into
the Real,
the Tangible

You've already misplaced
the assigned saint
and his sterling silver chain
the space on your neck
Baron
and unoccupied
Lost without Catholic Protection

Colander
Microwave cart
Curtains
Cereal bowls
And coming home

6:13am

...and what box will I check

which blank will I fill

and what will I fill that blank in with

when life starts throwing pebbles at my window,

progressing to rocks

because I won't get out of bed until 11am,

demanding I declare my role.

But which roll's whole will I occupy

while rising in a convection oven,

pressure pushing from all points,

expanding from the inside out

by stealing exponents from the air,

outside going in,

my outsides are going in,

concave,

convex,

tic-tac-toe,

three x's,

three o's,

like kisses and hugs

so you'll grow up to be loved,

riding upside down on merry-go-rounds,

'turned on its head'

is this what they always meant?

I never knew

but pretended i did

because, come on, really, you don't know

what a hanging gerund is!?

only anyone who is going to be

anybody (i.e. a good grown-up) knows

what a hanging gerund is.

(Secret: I have no clue what a hanging gerund is)

Who'd have believed those grueling

grammar lessons were real life,

our sophomoric teachers weren't lying

when they scared us into memorizing

trivial information with the warning,

"You're going to need to know this in the real world".

Mrs. Miyomoto: News flash, bitch: I never once was required to write a paper strictly in cursive once I got to high school, not a single instructor forced us to craft lengthy lines of connected penmanship. Nope. they blew their poisonous biproducts into the atmosphere of my disappointed adolescent face when I asked, "Would you like us to print this paper, or curly cue our what through a cute amount of pages?"

"Do you not have access to a computer?" they asked. "Come see me after class..."

Thanks a lot for nothing.

Can't wait to see what kinds of things

college has set up for me,

situations I have been taught were going to be this way,

but are actually that way,

and will employers laugh at me?

or will they just hand me a pink slip

and tell me to go to the principal's office?

doubtful.

Full of doubt.

That's what life is from here on out.

Or so I'm told.

Are you lying to me too?

Dooner: water is a polar molecule.

Don't worry - I will never forget that.

Childs: it is a beautiful day. Don't let it get away.

my final and 3rd draft of collective poems

HERE IS MY SET OF POEMS THAT I TURNED IN A FEW WEEKS AGO! HOPE YOU ALL ENJOY! I DIDN'T WANT THIS TO BE UNDERLINED, P.S.!

Untitled Summer

the crickets have kept me company these past couple nights.

the nights when sleep has slipped from the grasp of my fingers

and found it fancies you

warm, thick, humid air circulates around my exposed skin,

the dark, iron furniture’s icy stare is not cold enough

to cool the emanating heat

dreamless days and slumber elusive evenings have left me

void of my emotions and motivations.

at least my insect friends will sing their sweet summer songs

as soon as dusk settles itself in each evening

the patterns of earthly rotation and

appendage frictions

have become the only two things that

i am sure of anymore

the things I can count on to occur

never changing

never deserting me

never afraid of my expectations

their routine is all I have

bagels toast late at night after Belgium wheat ales

swim through my insides

mom has already fallen asleep and cannot be the big spoon

to my little tonight

Grocery List Work Week

1. The last few nights she’d had a recurring nightmare in which she died alone.

2. This time last year, she was dead.

3. Five years from now, he will be, too.

4. As for God, He was neither here, nor there, and

5. The smell of chlorinated skin grafts brought back those humid, suffocating, lukewarm nights (or were they mornings?), stifling, weaving together the threads of familiar appendages, limbs of lust, skin getting caught on skin from morning moisturizers and perspiration combined, something seeming different, her tongue sensing the stickiness in the atmosphere’s surrounding precipitation, suddenly stuck to the roof of her mouth, leaving her voiceless.

6. Remember remembering. Stroll the nostalgic pavements of her mind’s childhood suburbia. “But there was more than just one she’ll say. I don’t have a hometown to claim.

7. When she answers the phone, pressing the cordless receiver to her ear, a seashell supposedly whispering oceanic secrets, she’ll be asked to “accept the charges of a collect call from Soledad State Prison” by a robotic male’s voice. No and it’s always no. She places the hand-held back into its cradle to recharge the lithium battery, the superfluous skeletons of the silent, hollow, shells returned to their sand sender; they never say a goddamn thing; maybe tiny grains give off energy, give tales to tell.

I Left Breakfast & Lunch For You At The Front Desk

I hurry to his hamper

or rather lack thereof

a mountain of mixed materials

a dirty hill of haphazard

thrown laundry

once worn garments

love his skin’s smell

in the same way as I do

clinging to the static electricity

that only skin cells can generate

A ball of undershirts

he uses as single entities

smother my nose with the scent

of his days the days

during solitary confinement

I more often than not

am without his company

the comfort of bare epidermal canvas

an oil painting brushed into being

by his strokes

I dream of the Downy dryer sheets

mixed with a cigarette addiction

and a blatant refusal to

rub a deodorizing stick

beneath his pits

a sea of sweat with waves crashing sweetly

no sour undertow to sweep

an inexperienced swimmer beyond

comfortable zones

A drumstick tucked between rolling plains

cotton anarchy

black skinny jeans

pedometer

metronome

keys singing from the belt loops

the ability to unlock the most secret of doors

hallways spanning in front of us now

where will the maze come to an end?

when will we find the pot of gold?

Why I Write

I turned forty-two yesterday

Two years ago to the day

(to the day)

when the mammography center

called with malicious results,

no sympathy in his tone.

I found my old notebooks

I wanted to explore the things

I used to believe were the most trying,

the things I believed were truths,

my truths

I never imagined chemotherapy cocktails,

radiation waves of emotion,

tufts of wispy blonde strands,

fuzzy orbs falling out

by my scalp’s square inch

What did I know then that I have forgotten to know now?

What have I learned to forget?

(my heart’s survival strategies)

I laugh to myself in the privacy of our guest room,

chuckle softly in an embarrassed,

yet proud, sort of way when I thumb through pages

of penmanship scrawled in flurries of urgent creativity,

series separated for separated love interests,

my youth was never a lonely place

How strange the heart and mind once were

(or are they still elusive in their meaning?)

What connection do they have?

I used to think with my heart

(Now, I’ve forgotten how)

I think, perhaps,

some of the beats were given away,

the majority of my tissues dissolved

once in the hands of my many subjects

(A ventricle gifted in child birth)

(An atria to my husband)

(A valve or two for my household duties)

(I kept none for myself)

But I cannot take back what I’ve willingly doled out

(No, no)

Now, I am left to deal with what is left:

A wig,

An empty nest,

And a spouse who sleeps in a separate bed.

“Ring out the bells that still can ring.

Forget your perfect offering.

There is a crack in everything.

That’s how the light gets in.”

-Leonard Cohen

My Sunday starts when I slip away

from the sheets still warm with my skin’s heat,

I shower away Saturday night’s cigarettes,

cranberry juice,

vodka,

club soda,

step out onto the wasteland of surrounding cement.

Cars flash past on the slick asphalt,

the whirring of buses,

the occasional subwoofer

pounding out the beat of a broken heart,

life surrounding me

and my soul could not feel so sorry for itself

tempos lost

as heels tap ground quartz,

and I used to believe Tinkerbell

had sprinkled pixie dust across the sidewalks

when the sun would reveal their sparkles,

catching my peripheral.

Dear T,

I confess this to you trusting your knowledge

of human fallibility, and your accepting nature:

loneliness has nothing to do with the people

I can count as caring and supporting

my decisions. Loneliness is a sleepless

Saturday night, crickets rubbing

their insect appendages against each

other, causing the friction responsible for a warm,

summer soundtrack, the tick-tock of my Peter Pan clock

tracking their orchestra, a metronome, keeping their tempo together.

I’ve lost my tempo.

Funny, isn’t it, that someone capable

of setting the pace for an entire five-piece

band is the one responsible for this off

beat note that has become my life,

my days,

my sleepless nights,

the absence of your company, good company.

Or, actually, no-

I am the one that catalyzed this dropping of the drumstick

chain of events. And now, look what I’ve done.

I’ve allowed the wooden percussion producing piece

to lay on the floor next to the base pedal for far too long,

so long not only you have taken notice,

but also the rest of the lounge patrons.

“We paid $5 to get in for this?” they’ll say.

And all I can do is retrieve this fallen soldier,

the failed Hammer of God attempt from the dusty stage floor,

and do my best to keep the next melody’s beat.

I hope you won’t leave before I’m given that chance.

Please stay.

Don’t go.

Love,

A

Lost Boys

I.

I wander through the park,

trying to find myself amongst

my rose garden companions,

and why wouldn’t I?

Delicate petals invite me in,

to touch,

to feel,

to experience something else

that is just as fragile and breakable

as a palette of human emotions

I search for myself amongst

this smorgasbord of beauty

blessed to breathe their breezes

As hard as I look,

squinting my eyes to focus,

digging deeper and deeper into the dirt,

I am not here to be found,

I don’t think I want to be found

I will just search for Peter Pan

in visits to follow,

a little girl to my right claims

to have spotted him in the forest

behind my bench,

swears she saw him, dad

Is that not the wish we all bestow

upon the second start to the left?

To be taken away to a place

where growing up is forbidden?

***

II.

A little girl has grown

into adolescence, I gave up

on the promise of a Never, Never Land,

of always being allowed to flee

responsibility.

Bells from Santa’s sash have lost

their ring of seasonal song,

the only rustle of tree branches

stem from spring susurrous breezes,

summer dusk spent searching shadows,

my Pan surrendered to Hook,

was that not too long ago?

No one will ever know,

the devices detecting time’s tally

were destroyed by Shmee,

the Easter bunny’s eggs, trampled yolks,

Leprachaun feet dripping yellow.

“My sweet girl,

you were so sure you saw every young hearts’

desire, but you’ve forgotten the most

important part regarding your end of the deal;

you were told to hold on to your baby teeth.

Did that fairy thief pick-pocket your sockets too?

Did she forget to compensate with silver dollars

so shiny and new, you could see straight down

your throat into your soul, through the spot

in your smile where your gums could no longer

grasp one of its pearls?

Or did your molars lose their babies when you lost your marbles?”

Seven

Isn’t it strange to think one day it won’t be like this;

that one day, we will not have one of those weeks

where every day’s diction is that of a sailor,

where we are pleased with our

perfectly carved out pumpkin roles,

to fill those roles like a tea light,

illuminating the cracks,

the crooked smile,

hollowed out eyes,

from the inside out,

but when will that elusive hour arrive,

when will the plane begin the final decent

into a concrete world of constructed happiness,

where happiness is a tangible thing

that you really can buy at the corner store,

there are 57 varieties

and the formulas keep on multiplying for more varieties,

composed with customer satisfaction on the line,

coming soon, can you believe that

they have found a way to force feed us

endorphin induced smiles without

the pharmaceutical pigs playing mastermind?

(and what will be the next quick fix after this

product becomes back ordered, sold out,

unavailable to the general public, only the wealthy

growing grins the size of their bellies,

the middle class moving back into a mediocre mass,

a bolus of half masticated,

the manufactured meat of 800 animals,

sacrificed for one bite that doesn’t even seem to satisfy,

and the poor, well, they were already Debby downers from the get-go)

Instructions for Finding A Way To Keep Myself Whole:

1. Transfer $20 meant for child #1’s weekend fun into my fun account – get pedicure

2. At 4:00, do not begin planning dinner – observe and record child #2’s mechanism for dealing with this curve ball, and attempt imitation

3. Sleep in, or at least stay in bed, until 9:00 a.m. come Saturday AND Sunday morning

4. Research non-sexual foot massage business listings, and see if they provide tickling on their menu – be prepared for confused responses in broken English

5. Turn your phone off for a day

6. Throw water in your boss’s face when she morphs into monster mode

7. Get a puppy

8. Win $15 on the lottery scratchers from Monte Vista Market to add to fun account.

June I

I long mostly for warm, quiet evenings of dusk, when we would eat dinner as a family on the wooden deck, three years remodeled, now some sort of plastic material not resembling wood whatsoever, all too late, their childhoods fled months ago (though, I can still sense it throbbing inside of one) and my youngest will not get the chance to trip over her clumsy feet, my clumsy feet, sliding into the grain of the splinters growing opposite, as if she were stealing 2^nd, her forearms pulsating with the pain brightly, Pepto-Bismol pink with irritation, slivers every centimeter of skin.

The nights where watermelon slices sufficed as a side dish, the corn on the cob Minnie Mouse holders, buttery juices dripping from baby chins, down to bare bellies, washing away the last traces of Coppertone protection. The short grasses still matted from where the small, inflatable pool was constructed, I inflated each of the two tiers myself, then delivered huge pots of warmth from the kitchen sink tap, filling its emptiness, a tepid temperature, beach towels thrown into the dryer five minutes before their pruned, innocent skin emerged from the water wars of splashing siblings.

I didn’t want them to ever be cold. I’d feel just terrible.

June II

When the seasons switch from Spring to Summer, and everyone is fooled by the month, July will be foggy and so will August, the expectations that come with a time of year when my insides are bubbles floating to the top of a Swarovski crystal champagne flute, and dusk seems to last for an eternity, a blissful eternity, more moments to hear infinite infant giggles, the smell of sprinkler heads unloading magazines of glee with machine gun patterns, bullets of water, the droplets dispersing, resembling the exact opposite of calendar month, a precise setting selected for the string of multi-colored lights illuminating a Douglas Fir Christmas tree.

I give it one week. Tops.

And on the 8^th day, we will rest, thinking the summer has finally figured out when to arrive, awakening early from slumber so deep and efficient, the heat takes if out of me, even though I felt uncomfortable with the sheets beneath me, exposed and vulnerable without their thin sheath of security. I love the way my skin tingles when she wipes my neck and back with a light blue washcloth and gently blows an air of relief over my landscapes, disappointment growing as the moisture dries and my solace flees. I tried to preserve that sensation by leaving my bed mostly made. I sucked on the corner of the cloth while she was in the kitchen refilling my water cup.

When the brightness with which a summer sun finds a way to filter through wooden blinds doesn’t come, I will not know when to rise and shine, when the ideal time to start slurping down slices of seedless, juicy filled, perfectly textured melons with a frosted and sprinkled Pop-Tart.

The sky will be cement, a hot headache burst of sick shooting up into my head, straight from the belly always right before I vomit, it must’ve been the ground chuck she used to make the hamburgers for dinner on the deck, again.

Just yesterday, the backyard was serving its patio furniture purpose, but today the benches are covered with fancy jackets to prevent the moisture dense atmosphere from ruining their finely lacquered finish, the wood promised it would not rot if those who sit upon it promised they would not, either.

July

I never check to see if the coast is clear, to spy any mosquito eaters or moths, any winged invaders, awaiting my forgetfulness, using my lapse, unconscious behaviors, to rush a door, the door I pull inward, they always seem to seize the opportunity, the minutest of moments, I swear they’ve got special sensors that sound when the door knob turns.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life watching the spectacle my parents become as they chase after a warm weathered guest, even the insects are confused, a flimsy fly swatter, pastel and plastic, slapping unsuccessfully at the precise point of a latex painted ceiling, the crossing of coordinates where a feisty flyer rested only a flutter ago.

Now, there are phantom blinds, these expensive covers that hide inside the walls, pulled from the darkness when fresh air is crucial. I forget to close those too, and my parents do not. I have walked into the tightly woven netting three times already, and when I push the screens back into the depth of sheetrock, fumbling over profane slanders, the pests translate and hear an invitation: “come on in!”.

They laugh when I smack into the blinds. I can hear them, so amused they are crying.

a few of my most recent

ROY G BIV NEVER EATS SOGGY WAFFLES

Bells from Santa’s sash have lost

their ring of seasonal song,

the only rustle of tree branches

stem from spring susurrous breezes,

summer dusk spent searching shadows,

my Pan surrendered to Hook,

was that not too long ago?

No one will ever know,

the devices detecting time’s tally

were destroyed by Shmee,

the Easter bunny’s eggs, trampled yolks,

Leprachaun feet dripping yellow.

“My sweet girl,

you were so sure you saw every young hearts’

desire, but you’ve forgotten the most

important part regarding your end of the deal;

you were told to hold on to your baby teeth.

Did that fairy thief pick-pocket your sockets too?

Did she forget to compensate with silver dollars

so shiny and new, you could see straight down

your throat into your soul, through the spot

in your smile where your gums could no longer

grasp one of its pearls?

Or did your molars lose their babies when you lost your marbles?”

June I

I long mostly for warm, quiet evenings of dusk, when we would eat dinner as a family on the wooden deck, three years remodeled, now some sort of plastic material not resembling wood whatsoever, all too late, their childhoods fled months ago (though, I can still sense it throbbing inside of one) and my youngest will not get the chance to trip over her clumsy feet, my clumsy feet, sliding into the grain of the splinters growing opposite, as if she were stealing 2^nd, her forearms pulsating with the pain brightly, Pepto-Bismol pink with irritation, slivers every centimeter of skin.

The nights where watermelon slices sufficed as a side dish, the corn on the cob Minnie Mouse holders, buttery juices dripping from baby chins, down to bare bellies, washing away the last traces of Coppertone protection. The short grasses still matted from where the small, inflatable pool was constructed, two tiers full of my lungs most loving of gestures, then delivered huge pots of warmth from the kitchen sink tap, my walk imitating a pregnancy oppressing waddle under the weight of all the water, filling its emptiness, a tepid temperature, beach towels thrown into the dryer five minutes before their pruned, innocent skin emerged from the water wars of splashing siblings.

I didn’t want them to ever be cold. I’d feel just terrible.

June II

When the seasons switch from Spring to Summer, and everyone is fooled by the month, July will be foggy and so will August, the expectations that come with a time of year when my insides are bubbles floating to the top of a Swarovski crystal champagne flute, and dusk seems to last for an eternity, a blissful eternity, more moments to hear infinite infant giggles, the smell of sprinkler heads unloading magazines of glee with machine gun patterns, bullets of water, the droplets dispersing, resembling the exact opposite of calendar month, a precise setting selected for the string of multi-colored lights illuminating a Douglas Fir Christmas tree.

I give it one week. Tops.

And on the 8^th day, we will rest, thinking the summer has finally figured out when to arrive, finally after all of these mashed potato Junes, awakening early from slumber so deep and efficient, the heat takes it out of me, rest rejuvenate my cells, even though I felt uncomfortable with the sheets beneath my body, exposed and vulnerable without their thin sheath of security, lying on top of my comfort zone, the way that I love my skin’s tingle when she wipes my neck and back with a light blue, cold and wet washcloth, gently blowing an air of relief over my landscapes, disappointment growing as the moisture dries and my solace flees. I tried to preserve the sensation by leaving my bed mostly made. I sucked on the corner of the cloth while she was in the kitchen refilling my water cup.

When the brightness with which a summer sun finds a way to filter through wooden blinds doesn’t chirp, I will not know when to rise and shine, my biological clock’s batteries stopped, when is the ideal time to start slurping down slices of seedless, juicy filled, perfectly textured melons with a frosted and sprinkled Pop-Tart?

The sky will be cement, a hot headache burst of sick shooting up into my head, straight from the belly always right before I vomit, it must’ve been the ground chuck she used to make the hamburgers for dinner on the deck, again. Literally, sick of marine layers.

Just yesterday, the backyard was serving its patio furniture purpose, but today the benches are covered with fancy jackets to prevent the moisture dense atmosphere from ruining their finely lacquered finish, the wooden seats promised they would not rot if those who sit upon them promised they would not, either.

July

I never check to see if the coast is clear, to spy any mosquito eaters or moths, any winged invaders, awaiting my forgetfulness, using my lapse, unconscious behaviors, to rush a door, the door I pull inward, they always seem to seize the opportunity, the minutest of moments, I swear they’ve got special sensors that sound when the door knob turns.

I’ve spent a good portion of my life watching the spectacle my parents become as they chase after a warm weathered guest, even the insects are confused, a flimsy fly swatter, pastel and plastic, slapping unsuccessfully at the precise point of a latex painted ceiling, the crossing of coordinates where a feisty flyer rested only a flutter ago.

Now, there are phantom blinds, these expensive covers that hide inside the walls, pulled from the darkness when fresh air is crucial, and doors open themselves. I forget to summon these screens though, but, of course, my parents cannot forget the “investment”. I have walked into the tightly woven netting three times already, and as I push their nightmare-named transparency back into the depth of sheetrock, fumbling over profane slanders, the pests translate and hear an invitation: “come on in!”.

They’re laughing when I smack into the blinds. I can hear them, so amused they are crying.

Seven

Isn’t it strange to think one day it won’t be like this;

that one day, we will not have one of those weeks

where every day’s diction is that of a sailor,

where we are pleased with our

perfectly carved out pumpkin roles,

to fill those roles like a tea light,

illuminating the cracks,

the crooked smile,

hollowed out eyes,

from the inside out,

but when will that elusive hour arrive,

when will the plane begin the final decent

into a concrete world of constructed happiness,

where happiness is a tangible thing

that you really can buy at the corner store,

there are 57 varieties

and the formulas keep on multiplying,

the appeal to any sort of person inevitable,

composed with customer satisfaction on the line,

coming soon, can you believe

they have found a way to force feed us

endorphin induced smiles without

the pharmaceutical pigs playing mastermind?

(and what will be the next quick fix after this

product becomes back ordered, sold out,

unavailable to the general public, only the wealthy

growing grins the size of their bellies,

the middle class moving back into a mediocre mass,

a bolus of half masticated,

the manufactured meat of 800 animals,

sacrificed for one bite that doesn’t even seem to satisfy,

and the poor? well, they were already Debby downers from the get-go

Hell or High Water...Melon (written 4-5-10)

Hell or High Water…Melon

“I have a sweet tooth,” I’d say. “It’s this one in front,” pointing to one of my two front chiclets. They though I’d kick the habit as soon as adulthood began pushing the baby traits out of their sockets, or when I flew over my streamed handles, breaking my fall with my mouth on a square of cracked cement, the gray, sparkly kind. But no. Someone built my brother and me a pirate ship in our backyard. By pirate ship, I mean a platform of plywood balanced on pine pegs supporting a square structure with a doorless doorway, an octagon window, and a roof surrounded by a railing, the cake’s cherry, a hand crafted wheel that resembled Captain Hook’s. I fell off of that platform, my fresh skin scraping the splinters that protruded from the beams they forgot to smoothen with sand paper on my way down to an inflatable pool. I clawed my way to the top of a half-domed fence covering home plate at a friend’s birthday party. Somewhere between cramming marshmallow after marshmallow into my mouth in an intense round of chubby bunny and hot dog scarfing, I’d convinced myself that my phobia concerning places of altitude could be cured by tackling the sharply woven wires of that damned fence. I fell on the way back down. At the very least, I can stand with my pride inflating my chest, instead of enlarging my head, when I reveal my inexplicable love affair with America’s favorite past time, regardless of the scraped knees, sore wrists, and bruised ego I sustained as a result of soaring downward from the fence once my shoe had slipped away and my fingers surrendered to searing, screaming under crimson abrasions. But I’ve never minded soaring, or floating, or flying much; quite the contrary! If I had been genetically engineered with the ability to fly, an orange and black cape whipping the wind behind me into cream, the tops of the redwoods finally revealing their beauty, the houses the size of the models my brother used to beat me in Monopoly last week, the cars the atoms making up a cell of… a cell of something, I am not sure, I cannot see that far and I have forgotten my glasses again! Damn! How could I have left my specs behind on my day of blast off!? I am moving to the moon, you see, where I can drift about the cheesy surface, host baseball games in the stadium sized craters, amen the baking temperatures on all of my favorite recipes to correspond to the increased sitance between my oven and sea-level, and not have to worry about the gravity grabbing at my feet ever again. it is probably pretty impossible to trip, stumble, falter, or find yourself face to face with the floor when the force that fucks with your equilibrium is nowhere to be found. Plus, I hear the Earth is breathtaking this time of year against the sugar sprinkled asphalt sky. I can’t stand it here anymore in California; I’m growing more claustrophobic with every cosmetic surgery executed, every actor who’s elected politically, with every penny that’s pinched from parents’ pockets to push us to the surface of a sea of debt, with the hipster’s elevator eyes stopping at each of my floors to criticize. I need space. Outer space. I can’t get off the ground down here.

The Sky Is Falling (written 10-26-09)

…And the heavens have split open,

the sun spilling out onto the soil

that reeks of stale urine,

homelessness,

the kind of odor that my olfactory system recognizes

after only one calendar’s worth

of city dwelling.

I was waiting for the bus

to bring me home,

home,

faking when I fumbled over

the words, “feeling festivious”

while on the phone with my mother.

Martha Ann moved the asphalt-stained clouds

and her warmth rained down

onto my black lobo sweatshirt,

my left shoulder peeking out,

an orange creamsicle

and a pink heart

painted on my skin,

my collar bones will never protrude.

I think she then kissed my skin

because she felt me beginning to brood.

and because she likes their illustrations,

decorations.