You stand by the window with black lips
So the fallen just keep falling;
and the lies,
just keep crawling
across my arm like the rats that you kept in silver cages.
I think that I'm mixing it all up (again)
like the remainder
and the reminder
as we should be;
or that on-going nightmare
that leaves me wide awake in the middle of the night
and lets my eye lids droop while I work,
or go to school-
did you know that I would destroy the world if I had it in the palm of my hand,
I would want the silence
for just one.
I've never written about how you came to me in the middle of the night,
glowing milky white,
when you put your hand on me my skin turned purple-
ghosts are so cold that they burn me;
and you said:
"how are you?"
and I couldn't stop starring at your black lips,
(you were so simple,
like five years could incinerate like acid and time meant nothing-
do ghosts un-reminded live through time?)
or how when you crawled on top of me I didn't cry out,
like I did the first time that you pushed hard against me
with a pearly cigarette between your middle and index finger.
The kiss from your banshee lips
left imprints and handprints,
your transparent heat left scars that I've never shown to anyone.
"Are you alright?"
and my lips quake
take me with you (when you leave again)
because I need your silence
I miss it like
I miss you
and your cold fingers
inside of me.
And when you crawl inside,
I shutter from the freeze
but stay silent
and remember how you can move in all the right directions
- drive me off the
and fall into me again.
I don't believe in redemption
but you whisper in my ear that peace is waiting for me on the other side of the door,
even the whore is kissed like a little girl in heaven.
And you still make love
(like the sixteen year old that I remember)
with your leather jacket on,
and as you grind
I think that I would love to be the leather that stretches across your back.
I want to go with you when you leave this time,
I just stare at your black lips and whisper:
the seam of threads
that I painted on canvas like I could be good at color combinations one day.
We're monochromatically damned spirits
and when you cum its like lace is inside of me again,
and there's no pain on your face anymore
but I still trace the line of you
to try and find the beginning
(which I never do)
like ghost's we turn lies into truth.
We're used to each other
-I get that now-
"I was with you when it happened!"
And I burst into tears like a child
and cry against your leather-
leather and lace (that's us)-
(you cannot escape calumny baby girl;
but I hovered over you when you stopped breathing-
looking at my red energy on the pavement-
I don't know what I looked like when I was on the ground
(I think at that point I was hovering)
still driving to work with the radio on,
but still scared enough to jump from my body)
and you put your palm on my breast and kiss me
(kisses that burned my lips years ago; I had forgotten what fire tasted like until now)
and I think back to the fortune teller that you paid ten dollars to, to read my palm-
that I would be the mother
of both son's
but they wouldn't be yours-
and I think, shit she was right.
I can't stand it when you leave,
its like my soul
slipping out of my fingertips
the only thing that I have of you is the dream that keeps me up at night
and the smoke
the fills the air
(you filter it through lungs that don't breath anymore
and then divide it's scent across my walls
so that days later I will suddenly
I can't move back in time
to those days again and fix
the broken shit:
"I have to go;"
you say (your all whispers now)
"but I can hear you when you write."
that you write about me"
and you cover yourself with me;
so cold that my fingertips are numb for days;
and by the time you disappear your white
has turned back to your monochromatic grays.