CarpeSav

Light spills like milk from the window. It drips bright upon his face. He is naked, he is the milk spilt from the window to the floor. He is sleeping now. Sun whistles her breeze in the trees this late August and the birds are drunk with birdsong. He sleeps on through the sound. A quiet, dreaming boy. She kneels and kisses his fingers, soft. Sun dances, warm and alight, across the sky until she is weary, disappearing with sleep herself. Calling, ‘Moon! Moon! I’m so tired my love, I will fall a moment and sleep’ And he will become her in the sky, following after her until sleep becomes of he, too. And the chase will continue i

--- part I. In another time, I may have been your late night confessionary, a Parisian whore to your gentle hands and overwhelming needs. I could see us touching, desperately touching –                    loving each other without knowing names. We are at times both romantic enough, and tragic enough, for that. And if I was not full of sin enough to beckon your fingers to my skin, perhaps I was only a girl you met for un café au lait. You laid your hand over mine beneath autumnal arbres, and we made small talk about the world. Perhaps; we are masters at making love with strangers. And you and I –        

I want to write my life away. Write down every word so I never lose a memory. Letting nothing escape the ink filled page. Going on and on until I feel less empty. Until the words are a part of me. I want nothing less than to be able to express myself with ordinary words turned into something deadly. To feel full of something besides this regret so heavily linked to you. I want to write you away.

In the beginning it was enough. I’d be wide-eyed, quietly watching her through the windows. Limbs and torso like a slender tree; bowing in wind and always shooting up toward the sun. She’d wear summer skin in the middle of winter with freckles spoiling her shoulders and cheekbones. Her birthmark was a dull red stain at her collarbone and she had a mole beneath her left breast. She was thirteen and I thirty, but my, oh my, did I ache to see her insides. The house next door they called the sea house because it was two stories of cerulean blue. Through my bedroom window I could see naught but an empty bedroom. But late September the P

Putting myself down Pushing my issues down further still Where will this get me? Why hasn't anyone intervened? Incorporating memories of loved ones after seeing simple objects But they won't love me in return Why can't I forget? These faces I'm force feeding myself are making me implode I'm disgusting I have nothing to offer this world The pain I offer myself now will cancel out the peaceful death I have envisioned Scattering my pain amongst the world that placed them upon me in the first place This is all my fault Nothing can be done; all attempts are aimed at self-loathing My frail body can't take this disdain I don't know wh

sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice. my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does. ‘why do you love me?’ ‘you make me happy.’ I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back wi