disgust in disguise
your love cloaked in lies.

you will miss me when i'm gone.

i can't hear you over those pants.

somebody turn off the damn moon.

i could see the couple in my driver's side view mirror, kissing, gently.

it's when i look in the mirror, and expect to see a face. a face not my own.
a voice cracked and weary, yay, i do hear thee.

when i see my reflection i am absolutely transfixed by an image of myself paused in time. as if surprised i do indeed exist.

i hear the thunder, rolling in.

they call me scarlett viletti like vile
i spew venom and bile
my body no more than a weapon.

i've told so many lies
not long now 'til i'll die
my heart alone won't get me to heaven.

familiarity breeds contempt.

a drunken letter to myself. found behind my bed.

verbatim, from the back of a torn envelope:

"i get the spins real easy these days partially to bad judgment partially because the boss won't let us eat or take a break and well hey

so i decide to go on one of my vomadventures and don't have glasses but make it towards crickets and water and i can almost hear the moon can't see it but know it's there a big ol' pancake of light

jesus i've invented the time machine and i'm 16."

i am but onion skin.

the warm body in the room, breathing furniture, transformed over-night to no more than a single, albeit most collossal pachederm.

a bird's eye view of tiwsting, highly viscous floors composed neatly of swarovski crystals and free-range eggshells to form a river basin dried and ready to traverse.