Underwear Project: teal silk g-string, black leggings, black mini skirt, white/mint push up bra, and dark gray low v-neck t-shirt.

i bought an at home pregnancy test from the drug store down the street from your parents' house, pissed on the strip, and waited 15 minutes.

two blue lines.

negative.

i still haven't had my period.

but we celebrate.

your cock is hard and warm, my tongue massaging the stress out of your sensitive skin.

relief.

i spit parts of our children: miniature limbs, fingers, bald heads, toothless gums, and crying eyes, into the toilet, rinse with mouthwash, brush their tiny bones, and soft sticky skin off the surface of my teeth, and flush.

i love you, but neither of us are ready for that responsibility, and i don't think we will ever be.

that's okay, because at least we realize that unlike so many other dumb fucks that inhabit this world, we don't believe that kids are the solution to all our problems; we believe that answer lies somewhere inside ourselves, if only we could find it.

neither of us have the ability to raise and control another human being, hell we can't even control ourselves, but trust me we're working on it, even though, right now it's not going so well, except for not being pregnant.

we shoot up our final bags, take a couple of xanax, smoke a joint, and then a cig out of our bedroom window, then eat some twizzlers, and birthday cake oreos for dinner, before you turn the lights off and put on a bbc documentary about creatures that live in the deep ocean, and their mating habits.

both of us crawl into bed, and kill the remaining seconds of the day with the words, "good night" and "i love you," until we slip out of consciousness wrapped in each other's arms.

tomorrow, i'll spread my legs, and it will be your turn to get me off, which shouldn't be a problem because your tongue is fully rested.

for an hour tonight, i thought about losing an arm and dying because i thought i had a blood clot in my left arm

this word is a tyrannosaurus rex composed of crumpled up balls of loose-leaf paper, containing scribbles and sketches of embarrassing artwork, notes from college, and failed to-do lists, the childhood toys covered in dust that we used to play with, cellphone parts, legos, double a batteries, arteries, veins, and blood, attacking corporate skyscrapers of steel, glass, black ink, and ashes, located in the epicenter of the borough of the frontal lobe in a city called, "my mind."

burn.

the definition: chaos returns to order, and order is chaos. out of the destruction: growth.

"it'll get better. i'll all work out.....except it won't."

cj + mv

cj: when i stare into your eyes and you stare back into mine, i don't just see the surface, i see the galaxies they hide. and for those fleeting moments, i know not of gruesome thoughts, but rather of the cosmos-- the stars your eyes have caught. it's as if you swallowed the night just to take my breath away. the universe is endless and my feelings are the same. striking depths of space i see and its your eyes that provide this view. what do you think while you search mine? all i think is "i love you."

+

mv: when i look into your eyes, i see a dream that i have had since i was a child, but never remembered until now. before i met you, the dream was a nightmare, because it was what i always wanted, someone to hold, kiss, and understand me. someone to talk to. the face was blurred. and every morning when i woke up i would be alone in a bed, on a couch, or on the floor. by myself. the feeling. and memory would dissipate. i would go through the motions of the day, smiling, and laughing masks hiding thoughts of lead bouncing around my cranium. medicine got me through, but never cured the problem, or satisfied. this was my daily routine for over twenty years. there were false dawns, but in reality it was still night; just fires burning on the horizon. when i looked into your eyes i remember that dream. the dream became reality. the reality was love. but those twenty some years have had side affects, and i need to recover cause i'm sick and losing my grip due to moisture that has built up on my hand holds. but when i look into your eyes i want to recover. i feel the strength rush back into my arms and fingers, which helps me climb to the summit so i can be with you. to hold you and love you. to give you the world embedded in a gold ring. and ask you to spend the rest of your life with me. when i look into your eyes, my dream is fully realized.

an idea for a new action sport

driving home from work, crossing the nanticoke bridge, i imagine bungee jumping off the bridge with the cord wrapped around my neck.

the orange sunlight warms my cheeks, as i close my eyes.

i could be possessed,
or
i could be a person with a number of neurological disorders,
but
maybe i'm neither.
maybe i just am who i am.
bullshit.
hot then cold.
always restless.
my problems have no shape.
no outline.
no definition.
unable to explain
i stare up at the night sky
with my mouth open
to get a taste of the wind.
thinking about the atoms that bind me
together.
thinking dissolve.
scatter.
transform
or
disappear.
stop making sense.
screaming
stop
just fucking stop.
time is eating all of us alive.
i will control my end.
i will be eaten by birds with sharp beaks,
not by the passing seconds
measured with late night tv.
broken into basic elements.
not alone
not okay.
not happy.
not sad.
not excited.
not moving.
not conscious.
not thinking.
not functioning.
not whole.
not breathing.
not beating.
not anything.

take an eraser,
rub it across the wrinkles of your brain
that contain memories,
avoid the trauma,
and the cost for a casket/tombstone.
call it a funeral.
call it whatever you want.

my fetish

all i can fantasize about recently is choking on celebrity tabloids in an alley, while two stray cats fuck next to an orange dumpster, immersing myself into puddles of stale rain because i haven't showered in days, before emptying out the contents of my brain with a .38 special.


the sirens. wasted tax dollars. missing children. missing teeth. wasted potential. the sound of water dripping into water. infected. a long sleep. and empty pockets. is what gets me off.