she sleeps.

and sometimes,
she keeps jim morrison
at her bedside,
because every other night light burns out
before her eyes can adjust.
another excuse to:
distance herself from her creators,
and run towards self-destructive idols
in hopes that they may teach her to

explode bright.

she expresses.

and sometimes,
it drips onto the papers
kept on her neglected night stand.
during their passage from
hand to pen,
love to resentment,
they twist and reform,
dance and play,
scream and
die.
mother says:
words aren't enough,
but her bedside idols have proven
nothing else

is needed.

she believes.

and sometimes,
she drapes the mother of god
around her neck,
and says:
yes, this is what i need,
beyond the words,
beyond the dead whispers.
but when she slips back into bed,
her under-the-covers jim morrison
steals her from an undeserving god, and
melts the silver of religion
to use as whisky,
to catch her laughter.
to use as paint,
to color her cheeks.
to use as ink,
to catch her words
and place them gently
onto sheets and walls and
windows and curtains and
lovers and piano keys and
sunshine and starlight and,
yes,
neglected night stand papers.
and
anything else she

may touch,

to ensure that

she loves.