I chew gum. I gnaw on my tongue ring. I smoke cigarettes. I lick my lips. I bite my lips. I usually have a bag of sucking candy next to my computer. I always need to have a drink to sip on.

ORAL FIXATION. I HAVE.

again the pills have a vicious smell and elbows jabbed roughly into soft stomachs will whimper.

pound said: "i have sung women in 3 cities [[CINO]] but it is all one, I will sing of the sun." of the Son? upon the apple of eve's cheek God laid His hand and whispered, 'dear I am sorry but because I love you, you must suffer' and when she cried a river a ricochet gender was bourne and flourished ever since.

"...eh?...they mostly had grey eyes,"

beautiful pouty lips and big breasts. who needed the world when one had big breasts and floral shaped eyes and delicate waist, to reduce, to submit, to submerge. nora I mean it is the chunk of your thigh and the roundness of your nose...please, don't cry, I didn't mean it that way.

again two cigarettes noir will glow ominously from the steps of the Catholic Church where our 2 girls sat 2 girls so side by side, not to stray, not to hold hands clenchingly or bite away the raw tissue of lips until frayed vessels would tear and drip heinously onto their shoes.

nora would masturbate to heterosexual pornography in her room with the blinds drawn and moan. they are all one, they're immutable, incorrigible. her phone cradled, making little calls, echolocation across the volleying hills that separated her from colleen and so:

"they that with a God have striven not hearing much of what we say take what that God has given" by edwin arlington robinson, yes. superseding all reason or religion on the blooming violent shards of orgasm,

nora found the pills foul smelling and they retarded her motion and she lost time she lost time. burned herself on the toaster oven. colleen cradled nora's head in her lap and whimpered. she kissed the damp smooth skin beneath the bangs and the dent in nora's skull from a bicycle accident once. she repeated "though like waves breaking it may be or like a changed familiar tree or like a stairway to the sea where down the blind are driven."

and edwin arlington robinson, a man, has the last word.

WHEN YOU WAKE FROM A DREAM YOU MUST SUFFER THE INTOLERABLE SILENCE.

I don't believe that anyone dreams in black and white. Or without sound - in my dreams the sound is never tangible; that is, I know it is coming from a space within a void like behind the complicated circuit board in the television set. If the dream is awful you wake up and your head is thrashing thickly. If the dream is awful and you wake up, you are breathing regularly and with heartbeating in little pink pumps you come to realise that you are safe (safely inside in) and the circumstance fades beneath coldly fades away. Like black water - you would not grasp at that, and why?

But when the dream is good you think sadly. I am sorry it couldn't have been like that. I am sorry that him/her I could not be clenched between, feeling their tiny bursts of breath, under a bizarre midafternoon sun in the north east. In the best dreams, I am always with other people. Which is something to suck on I suppose. Oh, God, I am afraid that I have lost that place in my head where I've so many times hidden I'm so afraid it can never be found.

Everyone I see now smells like copper and looks like red nail polish smeared on a vodka bottle.

My brain gets full, and I spill. Also, in my head, everyone smells the same things and sees the same colors that I do.

( look for me another day )

(why I am happy not to be writing creatively as a major any longer)

- I think I am most excited about orange slices, candied yams, The Thursday, the morning after, the sunset before, Oregon, the smell of the forest in the west v. east, I think, I am most excited to be less alone.

( this is me free-writing on your shoulder blade )