Tuesday, February 10, 2015


she says that i am like reading braille, like running trembling fingertips over foreign lines and
strange bumps. she says that i am written in a language that she cannot speak
but is getting the hang of, 
my heart is fluorescent blue like an ocean or an aquarium or a bruise


it's getting dirty, i cannot keep my room clean, i cannot
keep myself from collecting guilt on clear glass sides, pulling algae up like fuzzy blankets.
i am petty, i am enamored, i am an ant hill, i am frenzied like shaken wasps, i am
in a dirty room that smells like fresh trees.
if we turn off all the lights
the puzzle pieces fit.

the maps don't go on the paths we need but surely lead
somewhere, to the forest or the bottom of
the ocean, "this'll be the death of you either way, both written in a language you cannot
speak but are getting the hang of".
i'd climb a thousand trees if your perch was in one of them
i'd climb a thousand trees, the scratch of my nail marks on the bark 
looking just a bit like eight gouged
i love you i love you i love you's

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