Made it up in my head some whimsical tale that swings behind me as if to procede question mark, where did she come from, no not from this world... couldnt be.

Who smiles mid day in the sun, or taps her fingers like a piano on her knee? Who moves their feet to sounds unheard and hums hauntingly. Not me, and Im from here, so she musnt be.

Who wears socks to her knees in rainbow shades or pjs in public, who sings aloud as she saunters, and closes her eyes to feel the hand of wind brush her face. So strange Id say, I wouldn't be.

She's got dark eyes but no angles, a rounded body with a broad build. moves like an express package with brisk bold strides and a fluxuating grin showing smirk and masculine. Her flat feet swell and pound against asphalt, fast and misdirected, as if to give sass and deny what they all say: If she wants a man thats not the way... no she shouldnt be....

But she found a man, two you see, and they occupied her heart evenly. Precarious with whimsy they learned to tight rope walk without waver. This was important because there were plenty of distractions that led to stray. Rabid beasts of doubt released against promise. Yet, despite the bombs falling through the sky clouding the vision of social interface the battle field possessed soldiers armed with guns that shot wild flowers. bushels of them all bunched with silk ribbons that upon impact with solid space for standing, also commonly refered to as ground, are taged with poetic verse. Maybe a line or a few, nothing too long... but never a haiku...haiku in the land was a five letter word unspoken. haikus create odd chemical reactions when combined with wildflowers.

the problem with an internal narritive is that it can swim in your head too long and the moment you recite it you start to hear your own stale truth as only being partial truth and suddenly all these other variables come to light. And the story keeps getting retold only with different higlights, and revisions, so much so that it can seem each telling is a new story, a new lie.

When it came to them she could see herself, intagled in the lie, as a witness and a contributer. As all key characters play their part Billie knew that she would play hers, but at what price?

Shed taken up competitive eating with herself, nurturing her body with only sugar and fat. It was an oxymoron really, a survival mechanism for the weak, and she was indeed the village idiot, or at least she felt she was feeding the village.

What distinguished her from one of those ladies that hoards cats or old newspaper clippings was that she was hoarding her emotions like one of those wholy toads who houses their writhing young children and visibly proves evidence to their leaving once theyve come of age. The ulitmate empty nest syndrom worn upon skin.

Cuttlefish, nameless mother martyr toad, rabbit fetus,

.rat fetus with tender hands and tiny nails, so cute youd hapily own it, place it near the resined baby brown bat you keep at home on your alter.

---

I bore into his soul, he shant forget me, but he can surely will me away. Funny thing about skeptical minds is they all know the game, when to fold if the stakes are too high... she didnt know daring anymore. And how could she, when she was always the temptress, the one taunting the mild manored who had all been kept inside far too long. What is love or light when everything reflected has pulled the drapes closed?

I just want to know you he said

I dont just want you to know me

I want you to love me

I want to be the home you come back to, I want to bury myself in your flesh and know that our bones were made for bracing eachother. I want to feel my place is by your side, and our futures are intertwined and I dont want anything less.

She was addicted to stimulants, it meant that she could feel something, that she could know she was alive. That rush of blood flow, the dialated viens, synaptic firing, quickened breath. She yearned to feel something more than the dull drone of a fake cry, she didnt know how to cry anymore, she was so detached and attached all at once.

Ive made a list of all your wrong doings and there is so much clarity now.

How do I get over myself here, to remember that I am worthy of love, to not be so desperate in wanting to be with someone and share with someone

take this time to invest love into your friendships and yourself.

I think its the weight of bodies, the heat of breath, the surge of dialated pupils that has me. It is all so poetic I supose, it is all so pulse. Who doesnt want this.

What does it mean to be addicted to love when all we are is love

the spirituals will say that love is all we are.

And yet why do I feel so empty?

Hot like fire-xx

replicating bliss, how many times we went the way carried on the bliss of yesterday never knew it really sop cant explode cant explode cant explode

“you need to feel completely happy alone and find great support and intense friendships platonically to be able to be in relationships without projecting expectations or hopes beyond whats possible”. -Jay Bomb

Ride it together uh huh, making love with eachother uh huh

I want something deep, and something wild and fun all at once... I want to trust someone enough to explore, not just put on a concept and claim missionary.

Costumes dont suit me

I dont want to preach preach preach until I fall untouchable

I dont want to be breathless in vain

turn red without fight

I want to fuck with a side of fight I want the passion to consume us

in all the ways that feel full

I want your hands to hurt me tender

and love me long into the night

some things sound amazing as if they should make sense... it is the balance between logic and poetry that I seek

lets get clear, lets beat them into beauty plainly spread, for power is not in dominance, but in surrender.

Grown up and growing out, rooted without sprout, spineless things that fling their bodies in the sun, and collapse with the wind.

I listened to men with soft voices sing in a whisper and felt the core of my body quiver,

felt the weight of earth inverted laying on the grass,

the must of dew that had risen early and a love that wilted daisy chains.

Will I make it in this modern world where everything is claimed and everyone's a cynic

is there any room for poetry?

This is the way I think she said, I think in ryhtm and verse, I want the words out loud

juxtapose this without crucifixion,

on your tongue, and in the world.

Make it a quest for vision

Ill be the visionary if youll be my muse, I can find it all in you. I am blessed with sensitivity at best, and cursed by a cruel world

but it isnt that cruel billie, it isnt that cruel. It is beautiful and tame if youll let it be.

I am the rebel that steals your t-shirts and sings loud when you arent listening

ill dance in my underwear with the blinds closed but Ill let you watch.