AntifreezeKisses

I can feel the butterflies prancing their drunken dance and swurvy walk in the pit of my stomach whenever I sleep. I haven't seen you in nights; my eyes sewn open with denial-thread, while the love-needle pierces X's and O's through my lie-chapped lips. It's better this way, though, 'cause I might say something awkward, or mention my boyfriend like I usually do before you go. We're so used to cheaters never winning, but I've already won despite the fact I've cheated on him with you time, and time again. My plasmal hands would touch your wispy thighs when my lids peel closed, but you're gone like the puff of smoke you were

I've always imagined an eye-makeup pencil pressed to your cheek. Each connection make a giggle and a heart. You weren't kidding when you said, "I have 'love' written all over my face." But these screwy hearts don't do you justice.

We were here first, us drag-ass queens. Clicking heels on cracked pavement, patchy-shaven legs, overdone hot pink lipstick and rouge to rule the road. So, maybe we chipped or even lost a few nails. So, maybe we smoke too many cigarettes. So, maybe we've worn out our holes so much that -- big or small -- we take it without notice. So, maybe, being anomical is the new chic. After all, we were here first, dragging ass-queens.

My mind's eye has been blind for months on end. It's just been blinking (and rolling) round, round. It's searching for something like my Samson, and I'll be his Delilah with too much facial hair. I've patched it up now, and opened my eyes for the first time in months. And there you were

'Dis purple sun be pullin' up me ah'lids. Ev'ry'ting be a little dif'rent when joo's learnin' ta see again. Dese flowahs be a new shade'a grey. De shade Ah be likin' bes'. I be pluckin' de 'eads off'a dem ev'ry mornin', right before de purple sun be touchin' de mount'ins, and mixin' it in good wit de toadstool and frog mucus. Dis be one nass'y potion, but Ah be bettin' when joo finish, jah nevah be lookin' at me de same a'gin. Mah skin may be cracked an' muddy, an' mah teef be black as de dirt, but me love fa ya be passin' dis rag me wearin' an' dis nass'y troll jah be seein' be stars ta'ya eyes when jah wake up. If jah wake

I was waving them down on fifty-fourth, hoping to catch a ride before they noticed the circled eyes and pallor I wore like a neon sign. My hand was trembling, all jagged-nailed and dirty palmed. Fifty-fourth is the street where sweat pours out cold. She stopped, not even wearing a plastic smile, but rather a look of remorse or pity. "Where to?" The front seat was littered with receipts and coffee cups, while the back seat was tattered, black stained and welcoming, which suited me just fine. "Home," raspy-voiced and suspicious, I was sliding on the torn pleather seats, ducking in the shadow of her nappy hair, cook

I. The Good-bye He was barred from going outside; the sun might have charred or our parents threaten a beating, but I was his lookout who wasn't truly looking. He did go outside that night, while I played with my favorite toy - it was late. Growing bored when he found he couldn't char, he came to me for entertainment. I was busy, locking eyes with lustful figures. "You love it more than me, don't you?" Our parents came home, and eager for the surprise, I ran to our room to ready the screams for our parents. He was placid, tousled loosely over a blue belt tied to our blue bunk bed - eyes mostly closed

I may have been free of shoes, but my toes held that sentimental sock-lint between their creases. My feet were reddened and carrying the imprints of those socks on the top. The breeze felt good against them - that's what made me open my eyes. The skyline took my breath away, like outer space will do to the ill-equipped astronaut. My forehead was burning beneath the salt of each rolling pearl. Work was hard and tiring and I felt like road-kill trapped under it. Dressed in my Sunday best for the last interview. Those toes turned me around to face the brick and plaster of the fifth story, and propelled me backwards

I was tipsy-tipping, letting the beach mud creep between my toes. My elbows coated with bits of shell and coral. The water beating my hips like that call last night - domestic violence. I was praying for you to be as gentle as the sea foam, bursting at my ankles. Maybe you found it funny, when I got home, air conditioner blazing, and I still felt warm to the touch. The salt was clinging to me like a child to his mom's apron strings, and I confused the salt's work for yours. But after the cold shower (not nearly as nice as the waves), I knew I was your masterpiece: all flush-cheeked and lobster-shouldered. Damn yo

We've been playing Spite and Malice for far too long. The Queens started nagging and the Kings have open range to Jack. I hope he doesn't mind the wandering hands as he proclaims: straight! But every six and seven know this full house has turned to Royal Flush.