The Autumn Tree

The thinned seams of my consciousness rot way,
One fabric at a time,
Leaking your images against my will...

There flew a smiling face-
You look happy and flushed here, contended with a momentary meeting.
Your infatuation for me was so pure.

Then there's a heated image of yours, frozen, concentrating hard on that deep kiss i extracted from your perennial source of selfless elixir-
tucked safely within the folds of my cerebrum, this one comes up to haunt me during many a lonely nights.

There's this one again, I personally find irritating-
An image of you with that ear splitting grin, laughing light heartedly at my expense. I still hate this.

And out of the many, last one reflects sadness. Staring right through me with mixed emotions. Conveying indecipherable messages. This one lingers a tad longer in front of my eyes, making sleep difficult. You know I hated to see you unhappy.

And so my defective consciousness keeps shedding images like a seasonal tree I mistook to be evergreen.

How long will this Autumn last?

Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden

Elizabeth and God exist in a sunflower grave. Her mother and father slit her stomach open and watched the blood pour out like neon confetti.

Hilary and Brendan were thirty-five and thirty-six years-old. They stabbed their daughter thirty-seven times. They don't know why they did it, they just couldn't think of a reason not to do it.

She begged for her life. The yellow petals of the sunflowers caught blood-drops and, after enough struggle, floated down to kiss and lay on Elizabeth's slow-twitch body. Hilary looked at Brendan and said, "What does this mean?" Brendan shrugged and said, "This is new to me."

The garden was an oven, and digging her grave was like pulling back on a cheap, plastic latch. Elizabeth had pale, pre-cooked pie crust skin. The slits in her stomach looked like peeks into a cherry stuffed filling. Crinkled lips looked indented by a stainless steel fork, back and forth, side to side. And the soil rained upon her like the reversal of hot vapor, returning home.

Elizabeth and the Sunflower Garden.

Dear Boy

Dear boy, do you believe in midnight confessions?

'Cause I don't.
When its three am in the morn and our hands are numb from reckless texting and I say I love you so much, please don't fall for that shit.
I tell you, just don't.
That's just me running high on emotions because sleep wont come.
And the three am me is not the one who will be going to entertain your nuisance in broad daylight.
There's going to be a tad more bitchier, whinier & an insensitive version of me who will be going to visit you on dates.

Can you deal with me?

Don't go thinking about how many words of mine make you go running to the dictionary and how I'm wrapped in mystery.

Dear boy, it's temporary.

Are you weaving future fabrics here? And dreaming about twins who will have my eyes and your hair?
Hell no.
But dear boy, there will be a day, when I'll be too exhausted to stay up till three to tell you I love you.
I will get a job, and lead a monotonous life, get frustrated.
I will have maybe seventy two scripts to check. And I'll be suffering from back pain, start wearing glasses and will not be sporting winged eyeliner anymore.

Then, dear boy, I will be sitting on a chair, and it will be around one in the afternoon, and I'll stop scribbling with my pen to pick up my phone to text you in my perfecly sane mind and say I love you so much.

And I tell you, dear boy, you must believe me then...