your aura and my libido.

with all of our mistakes dangling in the tree branches
it's a wonder, isn't it, that we are still here. i'll listen
as you describe to me the rough sex you had with
whoknows but don't let that make you think i'll
remember. i hope you listen when i tell you i am
showing up at your house tomorrow wearing blood
on my lips and an obscene little red riding hood outfit.

did i ever tell you? in the modern version of the tale,
little red riding hood is brought to womanhood abusively
fast, so fast that it makes her fingertips bleed from
scratching at the sides of the doorjamb. she is broken,
dear, just broken.

eat all of your haikus, dear, or you will never grow as
tall as daddy, you will never grow so cruelly. never
tell me i'm wrong.

the good sir on the old london streets has happened
away with a part of me, the clean part of me, i am
afraid. i can't remember if the street was made from
stones or mud or if it was raining or simply dreary and
overcast, but i can remember the length of his ring finger
compared to his thumb and that he said, may i hold that?
and that, fuck, this is all just one big horrible metaphor;
are you enjoying this? i hope you are, it's all i have left of
me and i hope it makes you laugh so hard you forget that
you are actually crying.

these pants were not red before i wore them, they were
not red before i wore them.