Monday, June 28, 2010

make me move

i want to write a poem about sex, and that im not a terrible person/ speller.
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i am disorded but not disorderly. i am broken up. i think nice thoughts like streetlight, and linens, and is there an instruction guid to happiness? i could write one for you.

step one, paint your eyes cobalt blue.
step two, hang fireworks from coat hangers
step three, turn into one of those white weeds, blow away

my heart tried to escape out my throat. okay, i am guilty in ways that you cannot tell anyone, ever, not even your imaginary best friends. or real ones. or myself, freud says i'm an iceburg, but i don't know if he means full of repressed thought or just a fridget bitch that will cut you open.
step four, there is no step four if i am an iceburg, i desperarely need someone to warm me in the palms of their hands. no one ever will though, i sink ships and tear them all apart.
once there was a boy who told people she was not terrible, but he could never get the spelling quit right.
as if they knew better