The faces are all blurry now, in retrospect, and my tongue feels increasingly too large as I look into my mom's eyes, large and overflowing like jugs of milk- thought I might drown when Matthew looked at me like that. Hands under the pillow every time we made love, he licked the tips of my eyelids as if they were candy wrappers- forbidden secret- naughty to unveil in bed, keeping going cause I don't ever need to stop that pounding voice in my head, gonna kill me one of these days and I'd rather it be here, maybe, perfect kiss me immortal- Help me swim- these kingdoms of blood, channels of want, coming till the morning sun gives and gives in into arms and Mom is holding me tight, kissing my forehead. So pretty darling, if I could die right now, crying on her sleeve, head back on her womb, fucked up my own too many years before, and don't really wanna talk about it, Simon, even when you asked so nicely, don't want to revisit those- no pictures even to show for it- maybe I- it never existed- maybe its just here and now and baby- I just gotta cling to someone- and stop because I cant keep missing while I was letting go of what might be if I let it be something to keep- honest and too good to be poetry- lives thrown away like footprints that will wash away eventually ending- not decaying in, and if we drown we will also merge- either to collect or cast that which is not or tries to be another imitation of earth, what wont cant be merely sculpting, shaping, carving, taking, owning it these fingertips won't stop till we pretend its time to breathe and stop replacing color with sentiment. And don't worry. I won't. Another sweeping hand gesture, look of bewilderment and honesty contrived is what we forgive. What we won't. I bit Simon when I was four. He still has the scar. If we ever get into an argument he raises his left arm trembling, "don't give me that shit". I have none such obvious reflections on my past. They've been buried. Simon, in contrast, enjoys, has always enjoyed evidence. Won't leave a single ticket stub behind. Now that he is sick, he spends most of his time remembering what he wants to remember, shuffling photos, sketches, matchbooks, as time trickles away from him. Decay sweetheart, Simon says, facedown into the couch. Our shared destiny.

Here is my final scream into the night, my love, and I will claim it as my own and nothing else- I will litter your back and arms and hands with kisses and leave no trace, no evidence, only soul, and tell me how to conjure that without abstraction.

In conclusion, here are my lungs, my heart, my liver, my spleen. You can examine their remnants after I am done.

The interactive text.

*****

Midnight sucking apathy, and when the T.V. hum grows too loud there is always silence. Amen. Simon and I sit on the couch cross-legged, hands folded like at church, because there is always something more sensual in the unspoken, interwoven folds of quiet, like there was something inclusive about forgetting. The day after the rape in June when Violet and I in some overripe pagan ritual burned every photograph we accumulated, moments like those when I can remember being really happy, when I discarded, depleted and then renewed. Abraxas. Nothing evolved. The year it rained. The parallel and drifting, coagulating blood and milk and panic attacks. Things don't die and they can't be saved. Sometimes. Every breath is a small miracle. Simon said that my blind optimism was going to get me killed one of these days. I said it's keeping me alive.

Something broke inside. The day.

*****

It rained. Dignity is gray. Won't give itself up to color. Resilient.

That kind of morning.

Submerged in blankets and acknowledging my soft demise. Short quarter turns away from Jared, who still sleeps with one eye twitch, elegant nonetheless.

Chronology: What he said: Evolve without a little smile. And I said: I will meet you in California where I will bear your children and you will call me beautiful between caffeine pills and white russians- coax these skilled illusions into something meaningful. What we create.

Landscapes.

I'll try again.

Chronology: Day 1: I am driving- doesn't matter where- dear reader- I've burned the photos- but I will paint this sunset. Matthew would never draw me because he said he was afraid of not capturing beauty's true essence. Dissolve. God is not perfect. Only man strives for completion. Plans for circles.

Day 1: My heart collapsed. Dear reader, forgive me. I am condemned to repeat metaphor. Suck those same flowers, never breathe a little life into them. Sans pretense.

Forgive me.