wishing on dead stars.

stumbling along,
bits of porcelain skin
all interjoined by
bones of slaughtered pine trees.

still hanging on with
fingers and hands like
messed up palm frond covered in
la sangre de ayer and mistakes.

begging for mercy in
gerunds and metaphors nowadays,
promising things to
seagulls and already forgotten stars.

living breathing,
with scraggly joints and
limbs like a child's
fucked-up game of connect-the-dots.

(won't you connect my dots?)

pressing on with
a face like cracked porcelain
and a heart like limestone,
rivers down freckle-less banks.

stumbling along,
solace in stroganoff and
other stupid shit:
would you hate me if i killed those pine trees?