tossing and turning

awake later

than intended

and earlier

than desired

like you,

my thoughts push me

back and forth

until the dough

of my brain folds thin

and all that stems from the within

is flowing through the back of my neck

and down the arch of my back;

my mind is toying with your fiction

and my loins stir at the thought

of you,

flowing through me,

collapsing onto you

like waves pulled by the tide,

the breeze that circles my thighs

and the warm hands that grip me

towards reality;

i’m hooked to the idea

of one night

outside this realm,

can i sell you this piece of fiction,

would you buy my ride?

another untitled daydream

there’s an image inside my head;

i wake up somewhere calm and bright

and the edge of a pink petal is grazing the inside of my arm

treading across the green of my veins

there’s another image where i

am the one grazing it;

where my fingertips

are whispering to its vein.

something about edges is calm

until i am on the other side

seeing them as verges.

 

drunken selves

why do they call them mood swings

when they feel like torrents

they are

360 degrees

of sinking in my pillow

and wallowing.

they are days I convince myself

my body is just

another bag

to pull alongside

my second doubts

and fictional

dialogues

i had with you.

you see

the problem with being me

is that there’s little else to do

but imagine someone else i could be

because i cannot hold onto this soul

it keeps

shifting underneath my skin

changing color

changing sin

for other

sins.

it seems inexplicably

boring

and intriguing all the same.

what will i call

myself

today?