Three Trees

not writing for weeks makes everything ooze out my pores in the morning, before the birds have even awoken. no bursting or busting or bleeding, just slowly escaping as each butt is burned out in the secret jewelry case ash tray. i wear camels and marlboros on my skin like charm bracelets and diamond rings hidden in perfume. i wonder how they sparkle in the sun when i look away to fake an emotion he'd rather see on the street instead of twirled in pillows and something warm, quietly drifting down curves where rich satins will never touch, but it's okay right because we're artists and all we need is love. and a piece of paper that says i'm good enough to the world. and three trees in our backyard to make it look just right to the neighbors and our family members. and two point five children. and a dog. and a cat. and luxurious fabrics my thighs will never touch.