Dr. Mark, Dr. Chris, Dr. Luis

There's a small pocket of pain inside of my torso that cripples me from time to time.
It rests near my floating rib on the left side of my body.
It has been the only thing to remind me that I am human and cannot act as if otherwise.
Not even the shattering of a few bones slowed me down.
But a collection of x-rays pile up next to my bed and I am uneasy about it all.
I hold them up to the light to see the damage I've done but bones make me squeamish enough to faint.
I've passed out just 3 times, twice in the last year and I can't stand knowing doctors by their first name.
Whatever happened to the doctor-patient relationship where the white coat doesn't look me in the eye?
That's the kind of relationship I want with my doctor.
The type where he doesn't remember my name or the last time I saw him.

Specific Temperatures

I want you in my room. Really I do. And I know how that sounds. But it's not how it sounds.
I want you in my room but only because I'm tired of being cold. You've always been so warm to me.
A sheet, then a blanket, topped with a comforter does nothing but give me cold sweats.
Maybe I'm sick. Or maybe I'm just getting sick of shivering and sick of goosebumps all over my damn body.
Things get heavier than they really are when it's cold, especially when all the other birds already flew south.
I want to sweat to a new warmth. Or an old warmth. But a specific temperature.
And I want to seep in it with you. Let it find it's way through the layers of our skin.
Listen, I just don't want to enjoy too much without you. I want to tell stories with you and not to you.
I don't want to have one of those moments where we have to look at each other and say, "Where have you been? I've been waiting."
Just hurry up and get here. We're wasting our own damn time. And I know of a lot of good parties coming up.
We shouldn't show up alone. What will everyone think? And besides, there's food that will go to waste.

My Pretty

When I try to think while I write I tend to copy something I've already said before. Instead I just write and ignore the rules I've set for myself outside of this realm. This realm being a strange one but I am even stranger. Outside of my window smoke is constantly rising and with grace it breaks in and dances around my room. I've been told once or twice or never that I'm a good dancer, so I join in - but only I really know how awkward I feel the entire time. I always hope someone pretty is watching. Someone I only think is pretty, because I know what pretty is. And my pretty is not your pretty. And I'll always be grateful for that. My pretty erases my memory, she is generous but dangerous, and my pretty gives me purpose. Maybe in between the giants that roam around here, I'll clumsily bump into someone who never cared much for the dance either. 

Cavalier Gallant

Tiny and in charge, admirable guts
You shaped me, when I was clay
Pale skin, covered in marks of beauty
I was your paramour, you used me as you could
Delighted to be of help, I missed you though
Most of the time, after I snuck out
Wear all darks there, wear almost nothing here
Where was he even, where was I
Sorry about a lot, you were a favorite of mine
Don't mix pain with pleasure
But make sure you mix pleasure with pain
Snuck is not a word, you'll correct me eventually