Tuesday 6/13/2006 11:01:00 PM

Pale ensemble. Soft heroines in hard dresses. Ambivalent. Wanting nothing and everything. Don't take me there. Invite me and I will come when I'm ready.

The pillow never tells our secrets. While our thoughts flood over it. Spilling out gracelessly as we tear off each other's skins.

Wearing one another. Plastic masks with stapled on rubber bands. Barely clinging to our faces. Frozen lips. Words coming out all deformed. Vinyl hands emulating skin. As we reach for our latex weapons.

There's no funeral. If it never lived. Just empty wombs wheezing for the breath that was taken from them.

Dancing like a flag on a pole. Shouting at the wind. As it pushes us closer.

Or pretends to do so.

The grave won't whisper. It will always scream. As my ear touches the threads that once held the cap in place. The grave isn't for the dead. It's for the living. Something to love when nothing's left.

I scramble for the perfect words, but you took them away with you.

You wear your nervous eyes when you talk to me, but I am calmed by them. I don't want to intimidate you, but it's flattering that I do.

We're still spinning. Always spinning though the needle hiccups at the label's edge. There is the title. And the artist.

And that hum. The static of sound eager to happen.

Like the ghosts of ourselves trying to warn us. We're not young enough anymore. To be hurting each other like this.

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