Hope Is Merely Another Face Of Desire.

She Hugged Me And I Could Feel The Heat Rise In My Face, Either From Shame Or Love, Like There Was A Difference.

She Knew It Should Bother Her More, Being Evil And All, But After She Put On A Little Mascara And Some Lipstick And Poured Herself Another Cup Of Blood-laced Coffee, She Found That She Was Okay With It.

And An Inky-colored Despair Of Rejection Enveloped Me Like The Black Tortilla Of Depression Around A Pain Burrito.

Like God's Own Chocolate, I'd Lick Her Shadow Off A Hot Sidewalk

People Always Stay The Age That They Died At. My Big Brother Died Of Leukemia When I Was Six. He Was Eight. Now When I Think Of Him, He's Always Eight, And He's Still My Big Brother. He Never Changes, And The Part Of Me That Remembers Him Never Changes.