when i dye my hair, the black turns my white hairs blue
which provides me with a head full of black and blue
and i think it’s just perfect
i think the mixture is the stuff gods are made of
the very things on repeat as i crawl into bed 
the things that i want to be bad about
i want to let them die
and let them burn under your skin for once
and i want to be wrong here
i want to believe it’s the wine making me think this way
it’s the bitemarks on the dead flowers
it’s the potential wasted in the bottom of the vase




the perspective turns us away from being lovers
it turns us into strands of hair left in the bathroom sink
it’s forcing me to shave off the hair on my knuckles
to send a postcard to a stranger every day for one month
to not leave a return address
to give them the words i’d say to you
and maybe they’ll forward it onto the next stranger
and on the street one day you will look in an alley and see
someone holding a postcard with my handwriting
and you will not remember right away
you will walk by 
but be struck with the idea that you’ve seen it before
and you will run back! run back to the man and grab the postcard
and it will say everything was ruined
and it will say everything was just a paintbrush away from being ok
and it will tell you i didn’t cause the dent in the kitchen wall
and you will know why i drank wine in the middle of the day
you can walk away without the postcard
you can crumple it and throw it away
but you will only be able to pretend you didn’t know for the next few seconds.

02/20/2010