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“the flesh covers the bone and they put a mind in there and sometimes a soul, and the women break vases against the walls and the men drink too much and nobody finds the one but keep looking crawling in and out of beds. flesh covers the bone and the flesh searches for more than flesh. there's no chance at all: we are all trapped by a singular fate. nobody ever finds the one. the city dumps fill the junkyards fill the madhouses fill the hospitals fill the graveyards fill nothing else fills. ”

—Charles Bukowski, “Alone With Everybody”

     I want to love a thunderstorm -
an angry boy with thunder in his eyes,
cut glass teeth and a lightning bolt tongue
that sparks a fire in my veins
with every tumultuous kiss.

     Or perhaps a boy with wildfire
flickering in his eyes. With smoke that billows
from the corners of his smirk,
and spills into the capacity
of my unassuming lungs.

     Or maybe he’ll be a hurricane -
gentle at first, then crashing
and engulfing,
and capturing my seashell heart
in all his saltwater love.

          (d.s.)

one night
when the rain tick-ticked 
softly
against my window
i remembered someone once told me
that it takes twenty-one days
to make a habit,
but a lifetime to break it. 

if i spent twenty-one days loving you,
would i ever stop?

I hunger for love
But live on a diet of
Only loneliness

Skin

I think there are bed bugs in your mattress.
Last night after you fucked me
My blood felt a little bit thinner,
And I had the strongest urge to rip apart the skin at the nape of my neck.

You used to write me love letters in pencil.
After I read them my fingertips were left stained with gray soot that whispered the ghosts of your words.

She wrote you a love letter
Of her name and seven numbers in blue ink.
It was folded 3 times and pushed into the corner of your blue jeans pocket.

Now, when you tell me im beautiful,
I smile with my lips closed.
There are parasites under my tongue that are eating away at the few words I have left for you.

Now, when you touch me,
I only want to pull away from your leeching fingers.
You take the warmth from her body in filthy motel rooms at deadly hours and transfer it to mine,
Then back to hers every thursday night.

I think there are bed bugs in your mattress.
Every night I want to pull you off of me like a tick.
I hear her six-legged words in my ears
And I feel her seductive fingers in the sheets
And I just want to rip off all of my fucking skin.
I want you to wake up to my rotting bones.

His chest, my pillow
And his arms are my blanket
His breathing, my warmth
His embrace is my refuge
And his life, my ecstasy. 

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