Senseless

What a tragic revelation
to know of nothing
that can make you feel.
I'd rather, as I tend to do,
feel everything as individual
snowflakes on my shoulders
after hours in the sun:
precise, crisp. Sometimes
burning, sometimes soothing;
always felt.

The Sickness

You feed upon my curves-
your hands devouring them fluidly.
Last night’s chocolate lava cake
has nothing on me.
Yet still my eyes feast upon
her bones-the epitome
of my desire:
to have no curves at all.

I eat up leftovers.
She has nothing left over.
Her skin draws lines that mimic
the seams of skinny jeans.
Would I fulfill your hunger,
were I to fit those seams?
Or is my empty stomach
the opposite of your dessert?

Still Life

They gather around her like
ants on a dropped piece of sucker or
flies on hamburgers left on a picnic table.
Her eyes red and bloated,
from tears forcing their way out.
Tears that pushed like people in line for autographs.

She sucked in air in quick chunks,
careful to tilt her face just so
that snot didn’t hit her upper lip
and she looked up into their faces
and they frowned like they cared.

But really,
they just wanted
a story to tell later,
about a girl
sobbing into her magazine while
sitting in the park,
like a side show or zoo exhibit.