oh but it's so much more than that.
It's how you end up with mascara covering your skin. Coating you with deep streaks of winter winds; my rugged and bitter winter winds; con-caved into your deep, deep olive skin. Keeping you warm and apprehensive. Creating nesting homes for me; where I sit cross legged and paint myself with stereotypes & beauty. Building up my durable brick garden; where we sit cross legged and blow that tar into that sky.
Bury: bury: bury us down. Bury me down; carry me down and count the atoms in my eyes.
Baby. Bury me so deep; so dark, that I can count the atoms in my own eyes. Where I can play my dark, silly games; where I can paint beautiful stories from memory.
Baby: it's how my clothes hang off my body and my skin has sunk. How my fingers are stiff with thoughts; how I limp and scream for attention. This is how my cry has turned into poetry where you write down every vowel of sound; double checking for accuracy. For reasons the public are kept from, because you have a cruel knowledge of me & and the language I speak when I cry. Your knowledge has power over my common figure. How I must present for your benefit, your profit. Oh how I loath you & your delicate and deliberate way of advancement. Oh how I hate you:
but babe; why do I keep crawling back to the nesting home I've made? Why do I lodge with you? I'll pick a flower, from my brick garden, which will be prettier than I am; I promise. And I won't progress, just for you. But it's time I do business alone.
Thank you and goodnight.
promise promise.
i will.
