Your voice is like laquerblack nails
down a clean smooth chalkboard,
letting the gritty noise
the pitchless waves
reverbrate inside of me.

The walls of my womb are scrunching up
at the silliness of the masquerade
I'm desperate
desperate
desperate not to start it all again.

Believe me
I could dig my hands into
the nearest, safest point of reference.
I could grip until my knuckles bled into the bedsheets
if I would only shake you from my skin.

But then when have I ever set upon
a task, and then abandonned?
You were always just my little darkspot.
Guiltiest of pleasures, you
delight in Loki mischeif now and then and I comply.

Remember that my armor's thinning out for this
and I'll perceive each world as if
the gong of sweet sincerity
was cra-ckl-ing my broken ears.
(I'm smiling as you lip the words.)

Do as you may- I'll just uphold my promises
(and drain my eyes on pillowcases
flood the world with ink and paper-
then I guess I'll sit and wait
for ending notes of still reprise).

It's rolling me and knotting me.
They've paid their 2cent fee to see a rougey whore
get just what she deserves from this.
It's just as well we're barely breaking even
'cause the encore's bad enough without the acting.

01/29/2004

Author's Note: Icky feelings are good for one thing: poetry.

Posted on 01/30/2004
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