Above my right eyebrow

there's a scar

From the day after Four Years of

ignorance or innocence

I discovered the death of my favorite dog.

 

And all around my arms

like everywhere I felt that boy's

 embrace under the stars, there's a burn.

He was warm -like a damn warning- 

but now the dangerous heat is left a cold burn.

And we stared up at the stars, so ugly and out of line they were,

and the worst part is                          he never proved me wrong.

 

'Shit" at the spill of my textbooks

but my stories hit the ground --

   without any sound. ---

   but a frantic scope

    and a darting scuffle.

These pages are the moles and zits and pocmarks that I filter with

  silence.

Every broken tone of my voice confined to the car windows or

 shower pallets.

 

I suffer with myself and of my makeup, using the

song lines of eyeliner

   to make my glamorous appeal.

And when the fleshy words fit together

  with the skelatal metaphor bones

It all just composes the organ like some disease repeating:

Maybe I Was Meant To Be Alone.

 

Because maybe MacKenzie's a bitch!

  but maybe cussing's overrated

And All She Really Is

is a Defragmented Poison,

a Jealous Concept,  But Jealousy is my game.

 

Maybe "bitch" is a filter.

And all who exert power are the most afraid.

Easy Words like, uhm, a bridge above the muddle, or something like that, you know.

 and Song eyeLiner and maroon films of defragmentation, dilution,

are sheilds of a 17 year old boy's snarl

  or clan of girl's gossip.

But my best foundation is silence.