+ Take down the walls and try to find the pink bowels of your house.
Squeeze your pupils like you need to, as if you are trying to squeeze
a blackhole out of it.  Swim in the mirrors like you're in love, or on fire.
Pedal faster.

+ Tell your melon coffee sweater to screw off.  Tell your mother
I said hi.  Tell the particles you inhale to slow down.

+ Turn on the radio and listen to the politicians polish and wax.
Tell Alaska she is not good enough.  Fire a handgun and
look surprised when you do.  Inhale the smoke like it's  your mother's
purple ashes.  Talk about straitjackets in public and drink too much
beer and fall on tables.  Look at the bruises on your thighs
like you would at the sunset.

+ Look a deer in the eyes and try to guess who got scared first.
Take a ginger nap in a white bed and circle your hips in the closet,
eat soy beans.

+ Write about the first time you had sex.  The first argyle sweater
you bought.  All the ice-cream cones you have refused to eat.
Marry the first one you see, if there is dust in his hair.

+ Wear glitter splashed across your eyelids like gum-paper galaxies.  Dance like
you are the dust in the sunlight.  Take your pills, but only if
the sun is shining.  Engage in things you would never tell
your mother about.

+ Throw away your collection of half-broken diamonds, and never
think of rectangles or men in suits again.

+ Let the silver peach trees drip into your mouth as you say
words that are more like shapes than anything else.  Let the jewels fall
from your mouth like words you would only say if you were smothered by
peacocks with lots of blue feathers.  Let love not bring you down. Let the shapes
of the moon hang there, like you don't even like them, like you don't even
care.

+ And no I am not going to coax you to open up to me.  
Just because you left your hands in the bathroom again
doesn't mean I will reach between your ribs like windows
and feel up your heart.  

+ For too long, my pen has not been a sword.  It has not been
a sword that cuts me open and shows off my fat like dancers
to the world.  It has not been a sword that cuts open
the arteries in my thighs so I can be covered in blood
in a mess like a thing that has just borne a child.  It has not been
that.

+ Take down all the pots and pans you glued to your ceiling,
touch the walls of your home, vacuum the dust and glitter
out of the carpet
like stars.  

+ You could take a minute to drown yourself in bleach
rags and wipe the turkey knives of your sad intellectual wristblood.
You could take a minute to climb a pine tree naked
under a bed of stars.  You could take a minute,
and never give it back.