it's not a routine, it's clockwork

 






Ask me about the amethyst bruises that hang like defective dream catchers
caught in a forgotten siesta under my eyelids. Or how daybreak is a maverick
with fat calves and the taste of dum dum lollipops dipped in last nights
tadka.



Tell me why laying under the stars on the night of a full moon feels like
my deranged first lover. It's a late night pm aching for electric perspiration
and teeth and nails and blood dripping down my lips like sludge. The big
dipper is a hand creeping down my spine conspiring murder for a suicidal
coward and he's expecting desperation before one of us ods. He's a supernova
the closet lesbian in me yearns to detest and I still love him for the
misery. The milky way has no remorse for the worst source of intercourse.
I try too hard.



I've exceed mommies expectations and still resemble that cigarette butt
you couldn't bare to snuff. I'll disappoint you like the most poignant
song that's ever left you in the fetal position before it was burnt out.
I see god in a flickering street light and remember a dusty dead mans open
mouthed apology. Who's to say I'm a sinner?



I smell gun powder and sadness every dusk like clockwork. Ignorance kissed
me with negligence some years back but I don't dare question the spiderwebs
draped around my identity. Curved fingers still trace the pentagram I've
lost faith in. The necklace she left behind for me to wear as if I could
embody universal screams without diving into oblivion raped and smiling.
Never ask about the scars that brand me as an unpayed rental bill impatiently
waiting on an eviction notice.



Death is romanticized till holding hands with a stranger is a vomit stain
worth purging.