Lather, Rinse, Repeat.

These hands smell like rotten eggs
The residue
Makes my palms
Have yellow hues
A self induced
Measuring the heat of my madness
Which has less to do with sadness
And more to do with loneliness
And boredom

Cyclical digestion rounds
Made like washing the hair
The most important thing is you don’t repeat
But unless you do
You don’t feel clean
Not sufficient to cover the self’s esteem

The repetition ignites my feeling alive
But if I keep this up
I may die.


I didn’t know that “x” was more than a letter
Until you wrote it at the end of the message you sent.
I didn’t know it didn’t mean rejection.
It was the beginning of the close,
Rather than termination that you click at the edges of windows.

I didn’t know that “x” could mean kisses on your neck
Which held an ambiguous pretence between love and friendship
How many “x”s meant a more passionate affair?
A kiss on the cheeks?
Or a kiss on the lips?

I thought that “x” was an indication of sufficiency.
A clear answer of yes or “no”
Your “x” was a scream
It was a scream of “yes, yes”
“I want you here”
“Come here”
And suddenly, I was more than enough for myself too.

Yet I did know that “x” was the key element in excitement and expectations
Expressions of love,
Expositions of mental dimensions
Yet it had a crossing point
That we could never quite reach
Extinguishing any previous passion that was already discrete.

Our paths were aligned
But we did not really ever meet each other half way exactly.

I waited on an axis,
Waiting for you,
And suddenly
“X” was negation once more.
“X” meant the past

I awaited on that axis,
Growing increasingly bored
Starting to predict realistically what was in store,

So I jumped back into what all those “x”s used to mean
Before you typed a simple gesture.
Before you showed me an entrance
That was also
An exit door.