the bowtie was messing with his chin hair. one part was murky with beige fluff and and the other was a preteen boyhood. i was holding my breath before saying a resounding no on my part. i’ve never attended a wedding and i wasn’t going to start now. my muscles were aching and my jaw was carrying a million bees, terrorizing the sides of my ears and throat. he was still waiting for me to speak even after the no. the side part covering his receding hairline was off putting. i remember kaitlyn saying how i’m superficial when it comes to dating. what’s wrong with that? i don’t give a shit about your opinion kaitlyn. i like the people i date to look a certain way, i mean whatever. that doesn’t mean i’ll date a complete douchebag of any gender if they look good. maybe. though if they turn out to be douchebags after i’ve started dating than yeah, it has happened more than once but yeah, whatever. i’m not going to lower my superficial standards just to make you feel better kaitlyn. just ‘cause you treated me to my first even poutine doesn’t give you the right to point out my superficiality. kaitlyn, fuck off. i’m having a spasm in the parking lot of stop and shop. clutching my knees, jerking my body back and forth, watch me as i become the best part of your day america. red roses and thorn bitches horning in my natural hair up top. wooden skull, stretching with a perennial fascination with time. i’m losing it and gaining clapbacks without any appropriate response. kidney beans, lima beans are making a mass grave of raw apprehension. a sea of expelled fetuses, blue judging my impending torture with glee. my sense of color is off. gather your spawns and fuck off, the parents are the worst. my skull is splitting in half in the middle, bushes of plain gardenias are flowering, lining the dark theoretical roots. i’m a coffee addict’s long running joke. flowers and hearts. flowers and hearts. hearths on
my unborn talent. my reflection is enough to remind me of the atrocities of an exchanged childhood. is the weather worse or are we? two lovers caught in a cotton bed, winter sun glowing on their backs as they say husband. one puts his boxers on to go search for the lost sister while the other says another one gone. the bride is taking her sister as dowry for the high ceiling castle. horses in shiny gear and a trail of glitter from joann fabric. the hearth is borrowed, leased and rented. it doesn’t belong in this place, it’s purpose is a one night stand where no one touches its glow or burn. she’s looking around the upstairs for a chance to run into his brother but no siblings are left, most are sold to the groom’s side and some taken in in spite of the garlands of dollar bills in necks and death frames. your parents are proud of you. when you have no mothers and some fathers, does the cliff seem raked with eden? her feet carries paradise under foot/ feet. but she’s dead or that you pretend that she is but isn’t. is paradise lost on a saviour who only saves themselves? bring a poetry book for our date at potato valley cafe. i’ll order ramen and sour cream to increase belly fats and vilify the media for ugliness in the streets oozing into our homes. i like some boys and some girls enough to want to taste them on an equal exchange basis. i’m looking inside this room and it is full of graciousness. the persons of angel blood are securing their lineage with amulets, blood running in grapes in kylix, the interiors are savagely bc. fold my danger robe and carry my body in a himation, ladies are beautiful in women and public saunas. i approve the tradition of third eye lunchboxes and red taped secrecy. my belly is stripped of innards and focusing on more plant based omega 3s. i like pretty pretty. i want better and i aim better than the last time i gave up on something. stitch almonds into my knuckles so i can crack ancient codes and run in priestess circles with tom hanks in the vatican. don’t let my color scare you. it’s only meant for me. it hides my pain a bit longer in the open sun than yours.
we’re not alike but still have shared breathing in the atmosphere. sheepskin looks best on a sheep. my agenda is what ultimately will save us. the seamstress is sewing the best mockery of my creative skill in her own words. beauty is in my eye and what i choose is still beautiful when it leaves me. the aunt of your mother’s cousin is old and will think we’re together-together. i can’t meet her because i’m uncommitted and bracing myself for a larger future than xfinity by comcast. the rooms are closing in in the open of this parking lot. i’ll miss the cold pressed rosehip oil from the vitamin shoppe across from petco. they never have any good chewables for cats. fuck you and fuck your cousin’s wedding. i’ll iron out my own creases if i want. a watercolor marker has two ends, a flat tip and a brush. both are useful for drawing an evil eye for protection against the masses. a yellow outline is traditionally correct. even a dying specie can say fuck and it’s an expressive literary work. i’ll sing my own goodbye, i never belonged anyway till i saw me.