For scars and potluck princesses

The way I think about you isn't beautiful anymore. I can't think about you like wings think about the wind.
No, I think about you like my words think about weighing down all who hear. They'll slip in your ears like snakes and make themselves at home. They'll wrap themselves around you and constrict themselves like boas. And you'll think of me like feathers, and I'll think of you like chains.




I'm thinking about you like New York cops think about bullets imbedded in cold skin. I'm thinking about you like lost barefooted children think about snow frozen ground.

I'm thinking about you like I think about death.

I'm thinking about you like murderers think about  d_r_a_g_g_i_n_g dead bodies through the forest. Like blood thinks about falling from the body its always know, and staying behind to be a warning sign. Like cold dirt thinks about not moving. Like holes think about staying,             empty.

Like flowers think about growing where the grass hides dead bodies.

I'm thinking about you like kids think about running. Like there tender faces think of not bruising, and there broken eyes think of not crying. Like there limp, helpless bodies think about dying.

I'm thinking about you like innocent bathroom mirrors think about Mary.

Bloody Mary.

Bloody Mary.                     Blood Mary.

I'm thinking about you the way I used to think about dust in that wood house attic.

And windows. And saddles and sailing.
I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you like birds think about screatching.
I'm thinking about you like white knuckles think about stoping.
like bloody scissors think about guilt.
and kitchen sinks think about secrets.