.Moving Day.

www.sayanotherlexi.wordpress.com

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. Black Cats and Oranges.

Twisting through the midnight streets, we meander,
Touching any hope floating by.
The shadow of a tree makes me
pause. My eyes lean in and when they wrap themselves
around the little sunset globes, I cry.
I hate oranges.
Look, there are plastic stars resting on all the fences;
I wrestle them.
I lose and I sigh.

Black cats yowl, the yellow, hollow
O's of their eyes pulling me into the darkness.
I take a step back.

I'm on the outside now. I can taste it.
I'm walking alone, a single solider,
leading but not the leader,
but it's alright.

.Anonymous Numbers.

You loved me once and maybe I loved you too. I don't know. I love a lot of people. We
Used to sit on rooftops smoking for the stars, for the dawn, for each other. I think we
Misplaced a whole month of sleep. That's for how long I loved you. I don't know if you
Loved me longer. Maybe. I don't know. I've been loved by a lot of people. Perhaps you
Thought you loved me. That happens a lot. Sometimes, not often, but sometimes, I
Think of the numerical buildings you used to draw. I think I understand them better now. I
Think I understand more better now. I think that maybe now I am just a number to you.
That's alright with me, you know. I just wanted to say that it made me sad to see you
And feel distant enough to avoid a hello. You've been inside me, I thought. Once, when we
were two numbers in the same building. What made me sadder still was not that we
are strangers now. In fact, it had nothing to do with you at all. I was floating, rapt up in my own world. I
Thought I was a stranger. I saw you see me and then I was more than just I.

Someone saw me and suddenly I wasn't anonymous.

.History.

Throw down that bottle but the paper tiger will still grin. Stamp on it
To shatter your simmering secrets. Don't forget to use protection:
I have scars on my souls that will make your toes curl like lace. Make
Sure you put that bitch down! Scrape off every label with every burning word.
Use his limbs like toothpicks, casual as a cowboy; peel him like a mandarin;
Toss his skin, Suck his flesh, Spit it out; throw a fistful of leaves into his folding face.
When you're through, crawl off into the sunset. And for god's sakes,
Try not to throw up this time.

.Mirrors In My Hair.

When I was
born
they wanted me
to remember
who I was
Always
so
they put
mirrors in my hair
so
now
every time I think
I am looking
up
I am actually
looking
down.

.It Was Just A Poke.

Lovers folding, heartbeats fluttering like a flock of a thousand sparrows.
Toes twitch as static lips finger the fine lines between staccato kisses.
I make you try, diamond hard, for me, a meek kitten, as I roar from one too many
Licks. Come, run your change of hips by me, swinging from cold to hot so easily,
you stupid ape. Draw me like a magnetic ace, the winning card you
Pretend you don’t want. Fill me, yet another hole, as if I wasn’t gaping
enough. I have my own spade, thank you.

A simple pout pulls the upper hand but
I’m laden, and you are no gentleman, and there is no concierge for this.
Lord I would love to club that silly smirk off your dick.

.Overthought.

Delicate and drunk I wander a
garden of dreams, bitter flowers twisting,
petals ripping at the seams, and I
yawn, silent indignance at the
sweet flickering shadow sneaking around
the edges. This garden is not round, it does not
roll, but it is dough in the hands of the weak.
Helpless and raw, I smile still, my tongue
beating in the cave of my words,
manipulated, like the tune of the
thousandth fiddle. One lazy lick and I blow over like
gossip, all the while winter whispering in its milky rasp,
‘You are awake.’

.5am.

Faces, words, donkey laughter and I,
Someone's daughter, fail, frown at
the still dancing, and then
Moving, like a top, towards bed
But not sleep. I tap thoughts into
You but I don't know if you can hear
Me. One finger constantly strumming
Doubts that I cannot dream away, though
I try.

.If This Was A Book.

I could pause and put you down;
It would make a change to be the one that's
Up. Up, I could make coffee, mull it
Over.
When I get stuck on
Something you say, I could
Keep you like a bookmark, keep
You there until I think of a
Comeback. I could come back
When I'm stronger and read
Exactly
What you said
So I could throw every word in your face.

Then I could rewrite you, so you would say
Everything I want to hear.

But this isn't a book, and you are
Nothing but a chapter so I climb
Down and put you
On the shelf. I turn my
Back and reach for
Someone else.

.Who Am I Aroma.

Even now, as I hole up in the middle of my bed,
Reeking of pride at the duplicity of my lips, it
Oozes in and makes my eyes pop. Here it comes,
Hurtling between my breasts, a three-leaf scent;
Why don't I know which one is mine?

.Sunset Pedicure.

The sun flickered in,
pinked up my room as if
the world outside
was on fire.
Though the world
was burning,
I did not move.
I lay,
still as a stone,
staring at my toes
which had been
pedicured
just that morning.

I felt my eyes glaze,
as they rolled in my skull,
and my lips lay limp
against my teeth.
I think my mind was empty,
just cobwebs,
maybe dust, swirling instead.

There were books on the shelf
whose titles I could not read,
and photos of strangers
hung up on my wall.
One of them was crooked,
looked like it might fall,
but it didn’t bother me
at all.

There was no reflection in the mirror
(though it might have been the angle)
and I don’t remember blinking.
If I breathed I made no sound.

I can’t be sure but
all the pink I saw was
from the same
sunset,
even though it is Spring now

And I pedicured my toes in Autumn.

.Counting Lovers Like Stars.

Counting lovers like stars. Candles
Burning in empty wine bottles.
Hair is pulled back, singing the blues
Once more, no longer amused and
The sun rises, blooms like a lily
In a rainbow sky. Still, it's silly,
This desire to be loved the way
I want to be loved. So each day
I play lovers like piano keys,
Leaving like a butterfly on a careless breeze.

One day, pulled back my eyelashes will rise.
The piano will burn, disappear with a sigh.
The darkness, like me, will be silent and still.
In the sun I will rise, rise until

There is a word in the dark.
And it is ugly and stark.

.Stuck In Traffic.

I am a traffic light
Red like heat
Orange heaves
Beaneath
Me
Like a world
Under
The sunset
Green lies at
The end
timid and pure
It almost makes me smile
Tooth by tooth
Like piano keys
but before the
whole song is
played
the mouth
f
a
l
l
s
shut
like
velvet theatre curtains
I'd like to
spring
these flashing traffic
lights but
it seems that
I can
never
quite make up
my
mind.

Word doodles are addictive. Peter, I blame you. In a good way.

.Waiting.

Lying
in the middle
of this bed
when I should be
doing
much less
like sleeping
and then I look up
thinking
that maybe
I saw
the door
sway
just a little
so I sit
staring
just for a moment
It's still, like
one of those
freaks who stand
on corners
dressed as statues
God they freak me out

It upsets me
to think my mind
is
lying
What other untruths has it unleashed on me
Rolling like snowballs
until
I am trapped
under an avalanche
of my own bullshit.

Then I realise that
the door is
always
moving
just a little
and I am
always
lying
just a little
sitting
in the middle
of the bed
pretending
that I'm not
always
waiting
for the door to
swing
open
and for
you
to walk in
whoever
you
are.

I am so impressed with myself for omitting any punctuation. Sheer will power, people.

.Hope.

Like a thousand little hands
Waving
As a dream flutters by
I see
Pinpricks
Of Hope
Piercing
The velvet vacuum
of
The End.

My first word-doodle ever! Actually, I lied. This is not my first word-doodle ever. Not really. It was a poem until I stopped myself half-way.