sometimes i like being kissed on the neck.

and all over & over;

but i'm still not a whore.

Inhaling winter ecstasy,

i was never much of a summer person.

the mystics chant me bonfire spells,

and shadows dance between our bodies,

aligning the silver flames

stitching themselves

into our finger tips.

medicine wheels and

rosary necklaces,

thoughtless catalogs of so much


i am falling, so quickly,

through immeasurable space and blackness;

the faint memory of piano keys being pressed

by a dark haired boy, man, roll up my arms,

and wordlessly, i descend into this

bitter world, and crawl among the earth.

squirming like the disgusting worm i am.

those lawless doodles on my chemistry notes,

the chaotic order my dreams concur.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

The guardian angel who stands over my bed,

gingerly strokes my hair- it never seems to grow.

the demons scatter, turning into thick black paint for me

to use on the canvas at the wake of dawn as i get no sleep,

and being resourceful, i'll transform them into something glorious-

but a signature darkness hangs about the finished product.

eyeliner stains in the sink, lipstick prints on the bathroom mirror.

you feel trapped, so identical, so carbon copy,

and you hate it. you despise yourself.

smear the makeup on the toilet paper, leave it by the door.

take the razor and buzz the side of your head,

your boyfriend's going to be upset.

but i am not like you, sweetheart.

i am not cutting edge, not fashionable, or savy.

i am an artist, mad and insane.

but still, not a whore.