Forced pains of unfamiliar lusting after lost lover number two because the first was unrealistic, but the second too. I’ve lost what everyone’s lost but mine is one that sits in the pit of peaches in the stomach of a celiac watching the casual flames of eating. Cover my eyes; force my head down because that’s the way your body teaches you. I am forced, because chemistry is rare and you are
not,
Another.
limp dick just dead weight. a woman is to tease and mind fucks are decent maybe fantasy better. Touch touch, a call is coming more for someone like you, prepubescent abdomens in a hand of 5 fingers one pinky,
with the nail cut off.

Caderas.

A woman's hips in the end of day
When the sun peaks tip over stretches of Egyptian construction.

Man creates the body, or would you say it’s God?

Man creates the destruido, a people of humble breath.
This time of day, seeing
Clothe and dirt,
Energy in its first infection.

Grasping the space in between,
Infectious laugh,
(no wait, I’ve said that)
Pouches of cancer sift in pink tissue
But a man seems clean.

Dangerously animalistic,
It causes no stir in the sterility of an innocent.

Fat sits around pockets of pre-birth,
Preparing for the opening.
Is it true touch breeds obsession?
Held at the waist,
It’s a powerful grip on ownership or claims.

Tall with thickness, of the hair on arms or
Puberty.
Minds don’t have to think alike to set records
With limbs
And
False contact.

Collisions are rare,
Metal on metal,
There’s the scientific equation for everything.

so I have no muse.

Pockets filled with the residue of buildings, fallen into an ex-lovers arms. Dreaming of rotten bone and the first time we were removed without boundaries of communication. The idea of growing used to something and then tiring of it is circular and confusing. Again, it ends in pocket ash, staining the jeans with over flow. Put your nose between his shoulder blades, keep his back opposite direction with fabric to intervene with smell. Is there really any difference of half knowing and then feeling, into nothing. Pass by each other, do eyes lift or stay straight like awkward strangers? Do you put your hand on her back, or did you ever? Anger is too common. A battle of wits and overexertion turned to pretension.

I am tired of being an angry woman. A woman who looks and likes conflict. A woman who likes to twist words only to string together a weakened attack. This is the birth of my surroundings and the natural self that was given to me isn't quite as clear. To be dramatic and angry, these are bad people's traits. Even if you see in yourself a good person...

"Krishna stresses to Arjuna that performing his duties for the greater good, but without attachment to results is the appropriate course of action. "

I remember when I was a little girl in that big house. I'd look out my window and watch the still pond through empty trees and watch for movement when there was none. I remember when I was a little girl, and I'd run through the back forest to pick out dandelions which my mother always reminded me were weeds. I'd pick a nice handful and wouldn't feel badly since I knew they weren't real flowers anyway and I thought they were pretty even so. This went on for a week or so, picking them up from the dirt and putting them each day in a small vase, by my mirror. Then, the next week came and the flowers had shriveled up to a brown mush. I haven't picked flowers since.

Ah! So I got in. And the best part is I am going :) I feel like a dick though to be honest. I feel like a real penis for going to a 35000 dollar school when the economy is in the shitter and people are getting fired from their jobs on the regular. So to sum it up, I feel like dick but I'm still going to go. It's unreal that I'll be living somewhere besides Bmore and that I won't have all the same experiences that I've grown so used to here. Like, the bus. The bus here is an adventure where everyone knows one another and someone is always high as fuck singing some innapropriate song out loud or flitting their eyes to try and keep them open. I think in Boulder, people will be white and wear snow boots and flannel. I'm upset about that and mostly I'm scared it will effect my writing. The thing I hope to do is find a different kind of inspiration and it's not as if I will not come back to Baltimore or will forget where home is. So I'll go there and live in a pretend world 9 months out of the year (9 months right?) and then for the rest I can come back to reality, where people are cracked out and throw their dirty condoms on the street.

I got in. And, I'm going.