too tired

Too tired to tell

if the lines that frame my too-thin-lips

spelled onomatopoeias in framework

like comic-blurbs I felt myself

miming in bold

...

Each paragraph unparralled

a speech spoken far too spiratically

in words that only fingers yelling

"Come Hither" can say.

...

I'm too tired to spell it out for you

in fifth-grade-solo-standing-style

too young to perform in solilique

contimplating in consonants

too eager to let you walk away.

...

Highway

Your hands smooth signals

Follow my highway

Hip to thighway.

Slow-sipping at my skin

Each pore perking up

Stretching, screaming: Touch me.

A fond memory of a dream.

...

Steam building, uncertain

a foggy memory

dancing between shower curtains

fully clothed in purple lace.

...

hot disaster

I'm hot and headed for you

A sweet disaster wrapped

invisible bubble wrap.

Ready for stardom

A fleeting image of you

A burning polaroid

destroyed in ashes of evidence.

breathing through plexiglass images

inhaling stale pixals

pressing skin to palm

perplexed in pieces on the ground

picking up the dial

redialed

untied

and exhaled.

passionate-young-artist

Baby snuck into the kitchen cupboard. It was empty, a light oak, and just big enough for her to fit inside without any cans of corn, or cylinders of breadcrumbs, or even a knock-off pound of linguine. The store had cleared out, except for a few of the employees, lingering, picking up tiny pencils dropped by careless customers who neglected to fill out their notepads with manufacture part, aisle, and row numbers. None of them spoke Swedish like Baby once thought. In fact, most of them were adolescents who went to the same schools as her, drank the same fountain water, and swore the same swears. Only they wore yellow shirts, and Baby hated the color yellow.

Baby cracked open the cabinet door and peeked out just in time to watch the curly-haired teen hobble down the stairs. The lights dimmed, and she heard the door click locked as it echoed through the warehouse bouncing off each mirror and aluminum chair. Baby smiled. She knew Jake could be anywhere. There could be twenty kitchens, twelve bedrooms, fourteen bathrooms, three living rooms she'd have to explore; not to mention the cabinets, desks and pantries-- and the children's area. It could take her days.

Feel Unreal

Where did you go

When I held your kiss

but let the rest of you fall

...

strait to the ground

...

Each sensation unreal

the feelings untrue

or maybe the most real

that you'll ever feel.