Two-hundred and Seventy-six: Third-grade Tulips

In my dreams I wrestle third-grade tulips and scrawl midget graffiti on opaque walls while thistle down falls on Blyton mornings. I strangle amaranth guilt, stroking cats that aren’t mine, decapitating dolls I know I’ll only lose.  I braid hopes, folding in shadows like ribbons as maroon lace simmers on the cliffs of my id.

Two-hundred and Thirty-two: One Stupid Fucking Poem

He was right, you know. He had the answers when you didn’t even want to ask the questions. This makes me smile like bitter chocolate. This person that you can’t stand made me sit down and listen. He knows me better than you ever will; he can turn my pages easily because I’m still looking at you.

Seven: Seven

Wake for me in the morning, when the dreams of your sins are too heavy for me to push off. By day I am underwater, a muted sloth with mottled thoughts escaping like bubbles. I need to steal other people’s virtues to survive as my tattoo-tapping feet burn oceans of denial. By day I am