I

Sitting alone in my underwear

in the middle of a highway

in the rain, I pray

for a pair of merciful headlights

to bless me with their strength.

There is only darkness staring back at me.

Placid and passive,

it has no interest in the pathetic theatrics

of this scene I have chosen

to play.  It just waits

in growling silence

for my dance to die.

It waits for me to die.

So do I.

But it seems I failed at that scene too.

And now I can only swallow

drop after drop of serial sky tears.

In repentance (?)

for my sins that stay

too pure to punish.

Or replay.

II

On my knees in a solarium

filled with broken glass,

I search, blindly, for any trace

of a sun that isn’t there.  For me,

it has no interest in the needs

of my skin or my consummate desire

to burn myself in its faith.

Instead, it hides.  Laughing

and pointing nothing at my ignorance

just to watch me jump

to attention at the first hiss

of its echo.  Bouncing

and bruising what’s left of my brain

in a ring of wringing sin.

III

I tie myself, in heat,

to the radiator and wait

to see which of us will overheat

first in the eye of the moon . . .

Lonely and naked, I rattle

more on the inside

than any abandoned piece of metal

could ever hope to.  But the tired

machine answers more melodic.

And it is right.  I am too beaten

to remember the tune of tomorrow.

So I cross my legs

and my eyes in defeat.

Still waiting for morning’s mock

to come.

IV

I recite the spells of forever

from the cell of a broken window’s frame.

It holds me –  free –

to fly through the sky.

Yet I cannot move.

I can only cry out to no one.

Always watching; always waiting;

always ready to pounce

on the first vein I leave

exposed to the moon.

V

I opened my eyes and I screamed

so loud I turned my skin

inside out.  Forcing

the blood I had left to the surface.

And once I was painted, I was silent.

There was nothing else to say.

You could not ignore me any longer.

I was a spot, a sore, a scab.

You had to pick me.

You had to make me

your own.

VI

I commanded the walls to bleed.

And they did. 

For weeks, until I grew too week

to contain them.  But I was not finished.

I held my breath

and dove

                           deep

into the pool I had created.

A backstroke – all for your amusement.

But you refused to save me.

You liked the sound of my death –

of my breath – breaking

as I gave in and let myself drown.

VII

I buried myself up to my chin

in the hollow flesh of men

who were all too happy to sacrifice

for the cause.  Then I colored my hair

with their eyes.  And my lips,

well, I believe they speak for themselves.

Still I lacked the heat to hold

your attention.  So I left

my scars.  But I never realized the formed

a map.  Too late, I followed

you instead.

Deeper.

                     Deeper.

                                                   Until I could not breathe

for anything but the pulse

of your blood.

VIII

I carved the name:  Death

in my skin with the edge

of a broken knife.  Then I fed

myself – inch by inch –

through the mirror’s teeth.

Still I came out whole

with scars too tough for you to eat.

And I tried to pick them,

but gone was not a word they cared for.

Instead they doubled – tripled –

until they covered all of me

like lead.  Leaving me

drowning in screams . . .

. . . I’m still not sure

they are mine.

IX

I paint myself in symbols

raised from the skin of an angel

that fell through

the glass of this world.

Now its shatter fills my voice.

Calling the shadows to guide me.

And they are the better wings.

More controlled than controlling,

they dip and swirl.  They are teasing

me.  Dropping lower.

                                                             Lower.

Always stopping just short of the point

where my skin can burn.

X

I stretched the wire across my breast,

branding myself:  Dissected

to make it easier for your hands

to know me.

But they preferred to stay blind.

And it was contagious, as I too

pulled my eyes out and swallowed

them so I could fly with you

through the darker pains

of our beaten pair.

XI

I press myself into a corner,

and you stand against me

in punishment

for the sins we long to commit.

But your scars do not fit

together with my own.

They rip

                          tear

                                        shred

the image. 

The motion is torture.

We both deserve to serve

this time in silence.

Don’t worry, the sky will scream

for us tomorrow.

As long as we time our ending . . .

. . . Right?

XII

I sewed my skin to the floor –

not the ceiling – as you requested.

I chose to draw my own battle line

even though I already conceded

to your victory. 

And I will let you tear me apart.

But I will not fall

from the touch.  If you want me,

you must come for me.

Crawling.  Like an animal

on your knees.

XIII

I want to set me on fire.  So I can watch

you burn.  From the inside,

these flames seem so unreal.

Maybe because I can see the pain

I am supposed to feel

shining in your eyes. 

You seem so angry.

Anxious and disappointed,

you honestly believed that once my skin melted

I could be re-lit.

Again.

                        And again.

                                                            And again.

XIV

I smile with my mouth closed

so you will not see the blood

on my teeth.  But there is

too much.  It seeps

                                                   through the cracks

in my lips.

It spots the floor with secret codes.

Of death?

You try to wipe it away.

Not understanding its beauty.

Its gift.  It smears your skin

in protest.  Staining your hands

and everything they touch.

You don’t believe me?

Look at my chest; my neck; my wrists.

I look like a still-breathing suicide.

And you are glad

because finally your skin has made

its match.

XV

I opened like a butterfly.

A little bloody,

but that was to be expected

in this much light.

My skin refused to acknowledge

the head of such a silent battle.

So it burst

into screaming fits of its own. 

Desire –  I have been told – will do this to a soul.

Tortured and twisted,

only the violence will fly

in the dark.  I try to follow,

but my ankles are weak

and they cannot resist

the rawer kiss

of your chains.

XVI

I slide my hands down a pole

of glass.  Broken,

I am sacrificing

my touch for the full pleasure

of your sight. 

I understand the desire

hiding in your mind.  I want

to set it free.  Listen,

your eyes are already cracking. 

Let them.  Shatter

can only compliment my skin –

furthering its naked grace.

But all of that is over now.

There is only this blinding blanket

of red.

And it is a scent;

a stain; a pain.

Too dark to open

anywhere else but tonight.

XVII

I shove chairs in my mouth

for your comfort

and my convenience.

My knees are not meant to support

us both.

Relax,

let me welcome you in my own way.

My tongue

is made to conform

to your specific dimensions.

What’s the point?

It is white darling.

Quick and sharp

and closing in on you . . .

No.  Do not look up.

We are too many.

And too deeply set to our own

hunger to be swayed

by your pitiful pleas tonight.

XVIII

I slit my wrists on both sides

carefully missing the veins.

To tease you as you have

tortured me:  slowly.

You are disappointed.

You expected so much more.

Do not worry.  Just wait.

You will get the ending you desire.

Don’t you see?

This way I can die

for your honor.  Again

and again and again.