inside my stomach something is clawing:
a sound, a muffled heartbeat, a caged animal.

i fill the lines in,
i take another bath in your leftover water and i think
i've grown closer to slipping.

the world hasn't shone on us. the world hasn't even really noticed
the way we build nests just to burn them, the way we both hunger for
the smells released under the stripper's corset. the world ignores.

we take someone home with us,
we take a razor to our hair, we take away the clothes
and we lie naked in the street with our hands in the air, with our
bodies being forgotten as mud is slung from the passing cars.

my mother warned me about feeding on my own skin,
she warned me about finding a place outside that's too comfortable to leave;
she always warned me when it was too late.

your mother warned you, too:
she told you not to take the money from someone else's buried treasure,
not to crack your knuckles at the very moment you orgasm
and never to fake it when you weren't sure about the reality behind it.

we've ignored the clawing inside my stomach, we've failed the white rabbit,
we have brought nectar to our lips for the last time

and we've cut out the middle man when he never even existed.

04/06/2011

Posted on 04/06/2011
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