Proper title: Nails, Back; Breathe

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skin has fallen from grace
erased from the plastic of your mind
collapsed and risen, driven
to a past of bubblebath glows
and late-night shows of cigarettes,
ice cream and muted actresses wearing
too-tight leather, suffocating deliriously
under their sex appeal
the one in the corner
is last on the list

her veins are cradled around his brainwaves
and he waits for the conversations that don\'t come
shaken, broke, tired of jumping out of windows
while on acid trips just to get away from flying
so far from home into his arms to italy, rome
she\'s dying under his salamander rim of clamato juice
and smooth promises that\'ll never see daylight in the right light

he hasn\'t tasted her tears yet he doesn\'t know
how beautiful she can be when she smiles
he\'s obsessed with her. king(con)dom paradise,
what\'s between her lips. he can\'t get over
her need for sensitivity, the way she cries in the dark.
he doesn\'t understand that she\'s living inside a cocoon,
in the attic, waiting, waiting, to break, breaking
free into a butterfly and he\'ll never stick around
to see her fly,

on the television screen
her watches her, salivating
for the next taste of her skin
but she bites harder these days,
and likes to play with candle wax
at two in the morning. she\'ll get home
take her army boots off, remove
her satin shirt, inch up her eyebrows,
wink. delicately.
and go to bed with a book,
all of the lights on,
while he\'s left in the aftermath of her breathing.