wonderland grown;

I.
statuesque bicycles flatten his body into a shapeless blossom and her bleeding vocal cords bubble over with laughter.

innocent smiles blush and bathe themselves in rebirth while the trains run away from winter.

their engines grumble and tug at his spiny gray branches, driving him mad with their quietly hummed sonatas.

that tray of notes will never be delivered to her door because they killed each other in a terrible war of tongues.

but we’ll play doctor and stitch them up with our sinew, giggling like infants and growling in secret languages when we’re done.

she won’t tell on us – i told you to trust that yellow sailors’ knot that holds our spines together in blinding unison.

learn the secrets in my collarbones, please, and i’ll pour my soul into yours.

II.
pretty fingertips hug the indentations in your spine, and delirious summertime eyes yawn through the long morning.

her tangy teal lips will whisper singsong secrets about late summer nights for you and you alone.

i'm sick, twitching in agonizing joy as you recite the horribly perfect combinations of words that you scrawled across my clean white pages.

tired teacups shout wild whispers - "riddle me this, riddle me that!" - but the mirrors on the soles of your feet won't show them what they want to see.

even though i'm helpless myself, i'll keep looking through the ripped-up fairytales until i can get them some help.

those long-lashed yellow eyes don't lie, love, even if you only see them in your fever dreams.
so study these lips, my dear, or i'll erase your ears.

III.
three million paper insects fell across his forehead and it still makes her cry, spitting cyanide tears across our floor as the sunlight finally hisses in.

she screams out the infinite list of messages and our eyes stretch together across the infinite inches of her throne.

even if it’s not allowed, we still run through the hallways once the winking animals shudder
asleep in slippery slow-motion.

day-glo bodies scrub the palace walls, their bright white toes pointing the way back to summer.

i run with them but he doesn’t follow – his orange teeth are sunk into purple necks that need to feel pain.

darkness is pouring down heavily and your lungs tear at your ribs, insisting that they can’t go any longer.

so we stop, and our technicolor muscles explode with effort.

IV.
he scowls now as he wraps us up in the winter sunset, but once you caress his veins, he willingly trudges over every bridge and shatters the ice to make sure the water is deep enough to drown.

your appendages will all fall off in the next storm, and they’ll tell me in rabid growls about candied peppers and snowy fishbones.

we don’t have much time anymore, but the orange horses will always gallop under our blankets and shut out the wind with flaming, intoxicated exuberance.

i stand for hours waiting, tapping my shoulderblades together whilst the basses scream.
she keeps telling you to be patient, but i don’t think patience is healthy for your tumbling soul.

even when the threads pull our necks together tomorrow night, i’ll keep pleading for more time.

i refuse to freeze without you in this wonderland grown.