Category: Poetry

I can't remember anything after I kissed you. I don't remember you. But, I remember you in me. You see, I save everything. I'm a collector. i know the human race. i have rubbed them all over my body and yelled at them when they didn't agree with me. Of course they knew I knew you before I was born. In a meadow. By a hemlock. And then, the years were torn away like pages in a calendar that was carved by ghosts on my tomb. i was hidden under the floorboards and creaked over for years, until you mentioned my name and I turned and fell and cried. That's what I remember of love.  
  I've made love seven times today; To the door, To the past, With all of my ghosts and their cousins. Satin children all lines up to see me fail. I drank a cup of tea in a room labeled loneliness, And then cracked my vein open And fed it with drugs from the graveyard, Ones I had collected that morning, Distilled from frost And suffering from empathy. It was then that I caught myself in the mirror, Propped up at the tomb of myself in the future. I was playing at the cinema. My head was the projector. And my eyes saw what you will never see, Your contempt for me, Which you kept hidden in a little canvas satchel, Under the bones That used to be our bed.