It's not your fault that I can't be trusted. It's not your fault that my body is a ship that others wanted to pirate. and I'm sorry for that, I am, I'm sorry except I'm not. they have been gone a while and I'm still feeling funny. girl flesh became a warm ode to survival and you should have never asked me to change.

the body that writes an exquisite contract with its dirty skin, becomes a dirty corpse, we are all filthy and bleeding. do not ignore any obligations to yourself. it is worse than you thought. go to bed a weapon and wake up with lies. 

We are those who bare demons and great cosmetic strangeness, our homes are horrors but that's what makes us crawl. look at you, growing. hands clean at last. there was a time for waiting but it has passed. 

selfish is not an insult anymore

you are keeping your sacrifices in your
mouth but no one is listening. 
the source of the heart, only torment,
which expects things in return.

Some boys have been a dream to me:
they put on my father's suits and
sweet talk me out of a backup plan.
then the storm comes our jaws are
heavy and we clench and half-show
the hurt we have seen and the
wariness never ends because no one
was prepared. 

What is a nice guy?
I have met so many, or so I've been told. 
they talk about Orpheus and
sonnets before morning
drip from their tongues –
the same tongues
that ask, "why are you being so
goddamn difficult?"
it is my fault for not knowing a
nice guy when I see him.

Dreams end and then we forget.
I am next to you and next moment your voice
is like a song, whose lyrics I once knew.
There was a time when I liked listening. when
I thought about your voice a lot.
and I rolled out of bed to call you
and tell you, a June routine, the
sunlight felt too hot, "I'm sorry,"
I would say. these are places
I don't ever want to see again.