I adore mistakes,
the way they slip off my tongue
in that baby blue way,
innocent.

Sometimes I consider
sliding these blemishes in between
the letters
of the words I write,
just so nothing could be
perfect,
and I can savor the taste of
wasting away
in this cliché English language
(until you come after me with
big vocabularies and
dictionaries,
claiming I'm sinning against
the god(s) of literature).

So instead
I run my tongue down
bloody knees,
licking away the "accidental"
trip I took
on concrete.

Some people say
I'm a shy step away from
insanity,
but I like to think of it as
(flawed) ecstasy.