…about this life, Love, this tender
jungle, this bundle of confusion—as cursed with breath, while blessed with
animations, where plagues explore our continent: this face seething, our caves
screaming, such by cygnets to explore brains: our crystal eggs, this prism by
deaths, our potatoes with onions: if but those heart-prints, or miracle knells,
to phantom as cleaving this orange moonlight.
We die, Love, shopping for groceries, this metal to boxes our souls in
chains—where swans imbue lights, this prison advertising its blessings, where
coyotes become tamed infants—to love with vengeance, those years to practicum,
those months to internship. I casual
life, as actual delusions, while stressed by fairness applying to Harvard: our
broken glass, those shards to brains, this graph outlining this terrier
perception; to dwell as dead, while living as breath, to adventure come
nightingales: this Versace outlook, our googling,
Rihanna, our deaths to eyes wiggling through emotions: those anxious, Beyoncè(s);
this illness as cursed by blessings; our years at terrors pleading our
mechanics—this medical storm, those halls by justice, as opposite a brain
cleaving to insanity—that vestibule of doctors, that table of clients, this
agitated page-length report: our empires
by truths; this Lauren agony; our cadence from Africa to France: as borne
bleeding, this mucus flipping, our horrors explored through emails. I activate Rome, this pleasant excursion,
while flippant a scar concerning abrasions—our L’Oreal passions, to paint our
Tao, while raiding for fleeing this internal desert: those markings forever,
that Aveeno radiance, this loop in scars as reversing our inversions; whereat, are rings, this symbol by exclusivity, to come
to lights pleading our sierras. We could
to sin, while convicted, aching in multiple directions—this face beaming, as
screaming indemnity, where contrast behaviors swarm our castle: this vex
teeming, our ex-factor mentalities, this bully in brains as chained to
guillotines: if but to swim, laughing with swans, our seconds to courage imbued
with tyrannies: that age perfect bronzer, that inner Wonder Woman, this vex as haunting craving for Naomi: as but
inflictions, this radical ornament, gracious with agony garnering our rosy
glow—that torrid barrier, as if it could live, where four share this eternal
closure; therewith, such matrimony, to taste for dying, this well by Rebekah’s jar…if but to beauty,
this gross affair, to come to life’s bridge-work—that feral attraction, as
limited a session, to lose with honor explored as ransoms; while, nevertheless,
this chasing by Maybelline(s), as mirrors conflict breaking peace…those tale
trees, that Indian model, where Helen acts this part a bit deconstructed;
indeed, to terrors, utilizing Miracle Gels, at clearance glossing upon life
such European wax;—that ache weaving, our inner H2O, our Hydra Genius—where
Love was vacant, as to terms within, such
by error to become an inner terrorist…our seasoned alibis, as if death was
avoided, where love would die a mutual exchange—that river grieving, as never
this behavior, embarking by rites our Chance Chanel…those welkin allures, to have by deaths, this
fleeting but lived paradigm…where love was feral, as wild an embrace, while
encased in cocaine. I’m told for
silence, adrift a dozen faces, if but to imagine, Tyra’s pains: I’m held to
consequences, at love but seconds, to have with panic this fair explosion:
those picturesque cries, those statuesque eyes, those Grecian mannerisms—as
sung to melodies, our time to perish, while at love melting into dementia: our true match, but a blemish with grime, or
more this impossible dead-light oases…whereto, our self-defenses, as ruined
with love, to come to aches nibbling ambrosia—this fair creature, our Opera
Magazines, our inner Garnier—where passion explodes, as breaking into bones,
our marrow repeating our alphabets—those vowel extensions, that mahogany queen,
or more a curse seething through affairs.
I was told life, slapped for screaming, or familiar this return fleeing
through Revelation: that cure bleeding; our Burberry cloths; this intelligence
suggesting this one night sentence—where love was gentle, as called to battle,
our warriors as women.
