OPEN-BRAIN SURGERY

im so dramatic lol

i haven't written a poem in forever and i'm starting to think that this is the end

to ink and paper and ink-paper processing

of life and wickedness and love and sin.

this is a truth i find hard to swallow

no matter how wide and how hallowed

i will myself to be—

cavernous; ever-going; the key to art is to never stop flowing

in words or technicolor or cuts or lighting

that color the rough things we experience far less striking

a hamartia! nothing is perfect, after all

maybe the rough things are sharper than i thought

maybe my lips are tougher than they ought

to be, ladies, we kiss like flowers, don't we?

with our mouths wide open,

our tongues laying flat,

ready to receive the sun in the form of a he-ocean, a god-man,

ready to be plucked and pruned and pocketed neatly

until none of us

are left

quite as beautiful as before.

i kiss like a lady possessed, with hot coal pressed between my lips. i scorch in love, i burn in love, i take buildings down in my wake. i'd be something like nothing without it, and i'll kill him if it keeps me ignited.

(such a pretty way to die, with your lipgloss sticky on his cheeks

i bet you wanted him dead, too.)

be a minx —

there's nothing wrong with a little party

after a murder. after a little service; after you seal your salvation and his, because if he couldn't worship your body

nobody can.

"why'd you do that to him, baby? he was such a nice boy."

nice boys don't stick there claws into your neck while you sleep, and they don't comb blood through your soft hair and tell you that you look pretty. nice boys don't know how to whisper lies or poke needles through the slights of your body, and nice boys don't know how to kill you.