You’re Not Dead, But You’re Not Alive,

Revision Means Throwing Out The Boring Crap And Making What’s Left Sound Natural.

My Face Becomes A Picasso Sketch, My Body Slicing Into Pieces.

We Tilt Our Heads Back And Open Wide. The Snow Drifts Into Our Zombie Mouths Crawling With Grease And Curses And Tobacco Flakes And Cavities And Boyfriend/girlfriend Juice, The Stain Of Lies. For One Moment We Are Not Failed Tests And Broken Condoms And Cheating On Essays; We Are Crayons And Lunch Boxes And Swinging So High Our Sneakers Punch Holes In The Clouds. For One Breath Everything Feels Better. Then It Melts. The Bus Drivers Rev Their Engines And The Ice Cloud Shatters. Everyone Shuffles Forward. They Don't Know What Just Happened. They Can't Remember.

If I Run Or Breathe Too Deep, The Cheap Stitches Holding Me Together Will Snap, And All The Stickiness Inside Will Pour Out And Burn Through The Concrete.

There's No Point In Asking Why, Even Though Everybody Will. I Know Why. The Harder Question Is "why Not?" I Can't Believe She Ran Out Of Answers Before I Did.