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Description
monica.
i am sought-after diamonds
you long to wear as pupils, cutting sclera
from the entrails of your eyes. i am the bluegrass
notes you write on your skin
at dawn and scrub off
when the church bells ring. i am the
pills you take with
blue alcohol and the wearisome medicine
you press under your tongue, swirl inside your mouth,
the money between your breasts,
and the warm job-well-done coating
your taste buds – letting it melt
into your lungs
as the guy breathes hard
and thanks you for the head,
impressive for a first timer (not knowing
you’re really just a liar).

luke.
i am the red embarrassment around your
clavicle. i am the spiders you
feel crawling inside your ulcer-ridden belly, the ticks
of the clock, the haunting
cadences of its thundering voice
as the moon reaches
its highest point, as it skates to
its ultimate death
between your rotting-out teeth. i am the water
you almost perish drinking, the
ashes your roommate (really
under-the-bridge-mate) leaves on your
pillow cases, i am the tears you
subconsciously cry in your sleep because
you were always allergic to your
momma’s cigarettes.

tessa-rei.
i am the grey morning on your
tongue, after it tastes its least favorite
words as you utter them to the wandering policemen:
i am alone and i have no home, sort of
a nomad, sort of an idiot.
i am the suffering inflicted upon
your head, every day
at your paid-for-by-the-government
schooling. i am the voices you hear
that scar your thoughts so
you don’t have to scar
your thighs. i am the girls you love and the
men you fear, the rips in your clothes,
and the slashes in your tires. i am the bibles
you threw away, the hateful phrases you
spat at your sisters, and the hatful
of lies you spread
every day you breathe anew in a city
you’ve never robbed before.

olive.
i’m the clover rings around your
purple fingers, the nonexistence you
feel inside your chest; the heartless, lungless
ribcage you show off
to others who ask why you’re so
beautifully skinny. i am the emptiness you wear
as a blanket when you sleep,
the poverty you feel when your artistic
heart beats to write poetry
but you don’t have a pen or paper,
the stationery inklings of thought and thinking
you crave to share amongst
coffee-drinkers and peace-believers. i am the
booing crowds who dislike your dress
but support your idealism, letting the style of
your being outweigh
the goodness wrapped inside the
literatures of your soul.

jacob.
i am the winter’s cold, sweet fingertips
that caress your shoulders. i am the trains
you sing your passion out on,
the broken guitar necks and
split strings you tie your hair in
when you play hard. i am the crumpled
bills at your feet, the tireless efforts on your legs;
i am the tissues on your eyes. i am the
blood on your lips from the
cheap cigarettes you live on. i am the jury
that deemed you unfit
for life, the phobia that got you fired;
and i am the ledges you hang from
with your weary hands – hand – four – three
two – one finger –
none.

Description
monica.
i am sought-after diamonds
you long to wear as pupils, cutting sclera
from the entrails of your eyes. i am the bluegrass
notes you write on your skin
at dawn and scrub off
when the church bells ring. i am the
pills you take with
blue alcohol and the wearisome medicine
you press under your tongue, swirl inside your mouth,
the money between your breasts,
and the warm job-well-done coating
your taste buds – letting it melt
into your lungs
as the guy breathes hard
and thanks you for the head,
impressive for a first timer (not knowing
you’re really just a liar).

luke.
i am the red embarrassment around your
clavicle. i am the spiders you
feel crawling inside your ulcer-ridden belly, the ticks
of the clock, the haunting
cadences of its thundering voice
as the moon reaches
its highest point, as it skates to
its ultimate death
between your rotting-out teeth. i am the water
you almost perish drinking, the
ashes your roommate (really
under-the-bridge-mate) leaves on your
pillow cases, i am the tears you
subconsciously cry in your sleep because
you were always allergic to your
momma’s cigarettes.

tessa-rei.
i am the grey morning on your
tongue, after it tastes its least favorite
words as you utter them to the wandering policemen:
i am alone and i have no home, sort of
a nomad, sort of an idiot.
i am the suffering inflicted upon
your head, every day
at your paid-for-by-the-government
schooling. i am the voices you hear
that scar your thoughts so
you don’t have to scar
your thighs. i am the girls you love and the
men you fear, the rips in your clothes,
and the slashes in your tires. i am the bibles
you threw away, the hateful phrases you
spat at your sisters, and the hatful
of lies you spread
every day you breathe anew in a city
you’ve never robbed before.

olive.
i’m the clover rings around your
purple fingers, the nonexistence you
feel inside your chest; the heartless, lungless
ribcage you show off
to others who ask why you’re so
beautifully skinny. i am the emptiness you wear
as a blanket when you sleep,
the poverty you feel when your artistic
heart beats to write poetry
but you don’t have a pen or paper,
the stationery inklings of thought and thinking
you crave to share amongst
coffee-drinkers and peace-believers. i am the
booing crowds who dislike your dress
but support your idealism, letting the style of
your being outweigh
the goodness wrapped inside the
literatures of your soul.

jacob.
i am the winter’s cold, sweet fingertips
that caress your shoulders. i am the trains
you sing your passion out on,
the broken guitar necks and
split strings you tie your hair in
when you play hard. i am the crumpled
bills at your feet, the tireless efforts on your legs;
i am the tissues on your eyes. i am the
blood on your lips from the
cheap cigarettes you live on. i am the jury
that deemed you unfit
for life, the phobia that got you fired;
and i am the ledges you hang from
with your weary hands – hand – four – three
two – one finger –
none.