Pieces / Scraps

here's to the dirty-winged

angels

out on corners

praying for cigarettes 

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every muffled
“are you home yet?”

whispered to myself

begs a new set of limbs

to be my first and final confessional booth

---------------------

Sunsets always look so

violent, bleeding into

dark like a

crucifixion, like the cuts you sometimes still

flaunt

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I caught the fear making you thinner,

exposing your deepest bones, but I

was discovering how to fall in mad love with the

sky, and that's where we

parted ways

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I arrive, and you're standing there

like an ostrich in a crowd of imaginary friends

brutally upright, hesitant, filled to the brim with

small talk

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(I never like anything fully, so here are the good bits, chopped out for you, plus a few things on their own that I couldn't quite find the thread to complete)   

random thought:  The thing about men is that I really don't know what I'm doing and I don't want to be excessive.  So I rarely get in touch first, and I know this makes me seem detached. I don't know what to do about it though, or whether I should change it.  Ah better not.  An obsessive Amy is not a pretty sight.  You'll know if I'm into you, I can give you that much, while I may not be excessive I am definitely obvious.  and then you will be left with an unspoken "let me know" because once I make myself clear, I make myself gone, and it's up to you whether to cut or uh. um... glue. cut or glue.  

I am in Mott and essentially this post is only because I haven't posted in a while.  So it was not born out of some need to throw myself into a wild fit of electronical expression.  anyways all the poetry was written at some point in December.  Goodnight.

also.  I like someone.  and I think I'm at the point where I can admit that.  Goodnight again.