The only reson

that im sticking around

is that my body still has a 

functioning taste of blunt hope.

That maybe one day

on a frosty october mornin,

somebody will catch my eye 

and they'll sit there puzzled.

Maybe they'll wonder how many words my throat has echoed

through my vocal halls

in this bewildering life.

They'll imagine how I might look without 

hills of branded make up. 

They'll picture how every blemish on my cratered face

would fuel their desire for me further.

As if the flaws were never

even there in the first place.

What they don't see is the 

struggle of a Gemini.

On the outside she was steel, 

unthinking, uncaring, untelling

scratchproof and strong.

But if you happened to be there 

when things became furnace-like

and you saw her melt.

She was an ocean storm.

She whirled, writhed, cried and crashed-

one hundred and fifty miles per hour

until things cooled, 

when she went back

into her steel former-

What you saw.