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You ask me if I love you,
Then you suck the lips off my face
And chew on the delicacy of their maroon creases.
'Body shop' lipstick, no. 12;
The taste of compact slabs of cherry.
This cheap adolescent disguise has guided me through all
my realizations.

I left it on the edge of plastic vodka glasses and blood smeared mirrors,
On the foreskins of Greek men,
And finally, on all your cliched perfume soaked letters.
Now it is in your mouth, your throat, your stomach.
You have swallowed my teens and all those fermented mistakes.

The ones I danced into blind,
Fumbling for an urgent exit
In whitewashed jeans and tobacco coated pockets.
All the words that flew out and assaulted
Steve, Damien, Kieren, Gary, Ben
(and all the others my high tech brain has crashed out and deleted),
Have left open wounds in my voice box,
gauged by their barbed wire font.

But as you savor the many varied tastes of my existence,
I can feel my insides frantically stitching and nursing
my pubescent cuts and bruises. Healing in seconds.
Now I am your fetus and everything is warm.

You feed me with a mother's strength and make me reborn,
Without all these zits and misadventures.
My new born 'Halleaugh' scream, realized from sterilized lungs
will be pristine, no lipstick stains in sight.

The answer to your question is
"Yes, Yes, Yes! "
Yes, I love you.
YOUR PURPLE MECHANICAL PALMS,
THAT AT NIGHT SOFTEN LIKE CHOCOLATE IN THE SUNLIGHT
AND MELT INTO MY THIGHS.
YOUR HEAVY TORTURED EYES, YOUR LAUGHTER
AND THE WAY YOU INHALE YOUR MARLBORO.
Yes, Yes, Yes.

I swirl out of your anesthetic
With a bacon rind for a belly button
And that's my first word,
A singular syllable.

I can turn the lens until my eyes are in focus,
And you, my surgeon, become my mother.
"Your adolescence has been successfully removed.
The operation was beautiful, wonderful,
Just fine. "

My log in word is 'You'.
That is all I remember.
I am a blank canvas, a cut- price jotter pad, an overflowing biro.
Write all over me.

Scrawl your name in my razor sharp armpits,
In my louse- free hair, my eyelashes bulging with years of mascara.
Practice your joined up handwriting on
My Mound of Venus and the folds of my labia;
Magenta pink and bald.

I am your Frankenstein,
but I promise not to fail.
I will get top marks in my oral stage, my a**l stage
And all the others I don't remember,
Because we hit the doodle stage in class.

With you, I will grow old and withered
And our tree roots will be dangerously entwined with time.
We will become soil once again and make love amongst the worms.
'Yes' will be always be my answer, my mantra.
You will always be my host, my vessel;
A place to store my happiness and tears.

by Mimi

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