Flitting Eyes

Leading up to
the unwrapping:
an advent of courting,
kisses courteous,
not so ravenous,
flirtatious giggles
and flitting eyes meeting
a switch flicking.

All the magic
of first times...
We may be wounded,
we may be ready.
We maybe kinda shouldn't be
pushing back covers
or shirts over shoulders,
the clothes over bones
in drunk alleys or homes.

my problem

me

an extremely relevant repost from before, you think I would have learned: "Jesus Christ"

Every guy I fall for becomes Jesus Christ within the first 24 hours of our relationship.

I know that this happens, I see it happening, I even feel myself, sometimes, standing at some temporal crossroad, some distinct moment at which I can walk away and keep this all from happening, but I never do.

I always imagine the end, the despair I will suffer when it comes, and it makes any happiness I have in the present seem not merely ephemeral, but doomed. Because the happier I allow myself to be, the more undone I will become later. And it always comes.

I'm so fragile. Sometimes I wish I could walk around with a HANDLE WITH CARE sign on my forehead. Sometimes I wish there was a way to let people know that just because we live in a world without rules, and in a life that is lawless, doesn't mean that it doesn't hurt. Sometimes I think that I was forced to withdraw into depression because it was the only rightful protest I could throw in the face of a world that said it was alright for people to come and go as they please, that there were simply no real obligations left.

I grab at everything, I end up with nothing, and then I feel bereft. I mourn over the loss of something I never even had. I am a sick, sick girl.

Yet Again

I've got a handful of feelings
that have no meaning;
in context, they make no sense,
and are commonly much too extreme
for the situations at hand.

I've got a pocketful of star-crossed lovers
that have long since died out;
my mind keeps them alive,
an army of zombies resurrected
despite my fervent protests.

I've got a heart full of love
that I've been told is misplaced;
I do not have the capacity to hate,
even though I've been slighted
so many times.

Despite these heavy burdens I carry,
despite my breaking back
and buckling knees,
though they say I care too deeply,
I can never ever stop.

masterpiece

He paints pictures
with his mouth
impressionistic fragments of beauty
and landscapes richly textured
layer upon layer
as he strokes his tongue
across the pale canvass
of my thighs.
I am his work-in-progress,
the word made flesh
from the palette
of desire.

So what if his arms curled
as Picasso wilted? I watched
his back with my eyes closed,
counted the moles, there, until
my teeth fell out, jangling like
a bag of quarters that could
no longer pay for the calls
I tried to make.

He would not have picked up anyway.

hahahah, Krista

"...dude are you a pussy? NO! You were written up for battery. You're not a fucking pussy!!!!!!!!"