67 Sisson Street

The jaundice yellow tiles on my bathroom wall remind me of dried up cheese. If I owned this house I would paint some of the tiles to look like they had holes in them. That ay they’d look like dried up Swiss cheese. On the other tiles I’d paint smiley faces.

The ceiling is made up of white tiles that are slightly dirty. How dirt got up there is beyond me.

The light has been burned out for almost two months now. We have to use the mirror light because no one feels like changing the bulb. Maybe one day I’ll get around to it.

Melanoma Child

The bug spray on my legs is only making them fry in the sun's fire.
My feet are burning.

Melanoma doesn't frighten me, as it does the pasty mothers of the west. I am of the west too,
though I am different.
My skin is toasted to a light brown, protected from the sun. Pasties say this won't protect me from
UV rays.
Bob Marley even died from melanoma.
But I know the chemicals in sunscreen will give me cancer of some sort. So you know what?

I'm not gonna risk it.

Besides...
I enjoy frying in the good old sun's fire. Makes me feel whole,
like everything inside is warm and comfy. Makes me feel like I'll be alright.

So I'll let the pasties scare themselves into some miserable disease. Me...
I'm gonna be just fine.

the one girl i would ever call my wife is in a relationship faraway. 
my mother is scared that i am a lesbian. 
but the other girls are merely fuckable. and i would like to marry a man.
unless that one girl told me she loved me. and really meant it. in a way that was realer than the rain. 
i'd let her have me forever. 

TypeCast

I sit on the ottoman in my living room.
It is pushed very close to the television.
I stare at my reflection in the black screen, not bothering to turn it on this time.
The television owns me. 
I spend too much time in this room. 
My reflection is bleak.
I say to myself, "You're allowed to be happy."
But my reflection doesn't seem to believe me.