zero days clean feels like tying myself to your chest and waiting patiently
to drown.
the bottom of the lake by your home,
we touched there in the minivan last December.
my lungs are asphyxiating in the idea of you and this is ok,
I swear, I just simply want to set your world to flames,
angelflower.
immortal concept, can you feel me trickling blood across my palms from 15 miles
upstream? we should maybe touch the mouth in May, I’ve heard.
zero days clean feels like you have your father’s eyes
my mother’s nose is sharp, but his is bulbous like the cracked globe that lives in the living room.
maybe I just got my sister’s, or the boy who stole my limbs last June.
“If you don’t want to sumble,”
his words are X’s like drugs in the CVS parking lot celebrating nighttime mischief-
they listen to my spine and fill my mouth with dust-
“then don’t run”
I ran through street lights at 3:37
this morning because I heard that fairy tales have a nasty habit of mindless repetition,
this we have in common,
so I guess that boys with bulky arms are second-class controlled substances
but what about the white pearls of 5s, 10s, and 15s mother mixes like a first class cocktail
under the cruel fluorescents of dirty nail beds and tired-hand wrinkles?
they didn’t put sedatives through my muscles when I lived in gown
therefore I am scared to wonder why I fall asleep in the idea of your body so often
I dream of drinking you from the ocean like abandoned mirages of oil
(after all, I am a crash test car and you’re always aware of sane mechanics)
in our symmetrical hallways and whilst being eroded
in the weavings of dull family dialectics so I think I’ve learned to beg out into the forest of a black thumb,
(it’s sad for us to try to grow here, I’ll admit)
what is wrong with me, angelflower? I spell out in the premature flesh I’ve so often stolen

like daddies on playgrounds and uncles on playgrounds and children on play things...

zero days clean feels like so much for us!
silence taunts like a dare;
let’s do something only those ever so madly in
pain would fantasize about
while running:
(never you, right angelflower?)
my lungs give out easy and I feel quite breezy
so I lied on my rolled spine in the thorns and hoped a passerby
would draw up my day dress
the way she anxiously claws at the minivan hood:
you see you’ve got to make sure it won’t explode from the inside out,
even well oiled machines have a tendency to do that,
everyone knows this as well as other cruel conveniences, angelflower...
so I filled something metal with crude fuels
that someone misplaced between a seabird’s feathers
(I found you in the ocean)
and became something metal while I
felt something metal tell me that nothing would be just fine,
that her own stars barely flicker even to dance on her ceiling after midnight
and even so something metal would block any telescope, angelflower-
I forgot how crowded suburban skies get sometimes.
zero days clean means that I haven’t washed since tin cans filled with fire tamed my quiet street,
and a chorus chaos of engines sure did churn.
last night I replaced my pupils
with coffee beans, yet see no different in the daytime-
did you hear from something metal
that that is loving the wrong way, angelflower?
zero days clean feels like when I disappear,
I leave as if I am returning somewhere.
the place between Heaven and Earth is called
hell-
or something cute like that…
maybe it’s here instead of glossy summer camp bunkbeds that
I learned to touch the right way and lost match
box cars in my hair
zero days clean tastes like I think fear of blood is overrated
like sacred wombs and my mother’s cream white wedding dress
zero days clean is life on mars;
a gravity of 8.2
I spill Os and Os of healing poison and operatic
laughter
I stopped knowing the same language as my sister, I don’t remember when...
zero days clean:
I am small and heavy
stuck spinning in place
and if I may disturb the universe I’ll ask,
can I float anywhere from here, lovely angelflowers?