Pretty girl kisses the face of pretty boy,
and how pretty the picture of them
posed, on the center of an ice storm
passing fluently (like the sweet-nothings
bubbling from tongues) - the perfect pigment
lies in her pretty eyes:

You say I'm pretty but do you mean it?

To be polite - I was paused on the frame
of your lips, stretching myself, blurring
myself where the lines freeze unclear,
and you no longer hear me.

You ... the stammer ... are,


but there are too many 'whys' in that sentence,
to many maybes, calculated, and shy. Fly-by
words sliding on pageantry tiaras that silent
princess wear and purge,

a plague of pretty.
Am I?

And pretty girl chews the skin on pretty boy,
tiny pinpricks scaring gooseflesh feathers,
eyeballs (brown) and ten fingers pinch my
palms - am I wrong, that when you hold
my face in those same hands they form
the shape of crooked prayer?

Our crucifixion or pretty plump games.
And we, merely well taught players.
Your love plagiarizes me. Copies me
into prickly sentences,

while pretty girl slaps the face of pretty boy:

I always had a thing for you ... the smile ...
the weight ... I wait ... nothing

pretty silence,
pretty uncertainty.

Or the shape of my so-called pretty face.