Untitled #1

The hands that care pull me down towards green soil, while the hands that bind promise me euphoria, LSD, and domination. He promises that he will crucify me. Will I die for my sins, or will it be a sin to die this way? Where did the love grow, in what room of my heart? I dream that I'm lost in new rooms of my own home, and she is nowhere to be found. Only pink handcuffs and silk ropes. Will I die for his sins, for my own, or at the hands of my own kisses?

Untitled #2

Hands and teeth and the rest of a body. She says her hands are like plastic bags on the impure beach she loves so much. A stain, a blemish, scars on her lover's thighs. I look past the impurity and see love, grace, and hope.

Her hands are like mysteries, ink, and masculinity. And then, there's the issue of the jewelry. The gold metal like shackles, or a lock and key. or a knife that traces my inner thighs and throat. If I asked him to kill me, was it ever a crime at all?

3. Jewelry

There is a reason
I am afraid
of metal detectors.
My body is a minefield,
a shooting range,
a crime scene.

I've known
sixteen different lovers
in the past two years, all of them
lodged like anchors
in the surface of my skin.
They touch my ears, take
body shots, and there are some
whose touch no one
can see unless
I am naked and exposed, all
pink and porcelain flesh
trembling, recoiling, roiling
beneath the needle.

Someday, I will
throw away my weapons,
settle down, and
commit to the woman
I love. Until then,
I will bring metallic lovers back
to my home
in the middle of the steamy, empty night.

Untitled #3

re(more and more)
s(in, the breaking of
[bond
age]
All I wanted was
chains and violence,
eye never signed
way way so far up
for this.

And now,
my stomach is

twofold
toofull

You spent two years shrinking
while I swallowed a whale.
Always biblical
anal
ogies
You said
I could never
make
{love up}
but the

mis:

-handling
-stake
-carriage
-stress

has gone too far.