cheap bubblegum dreams

pinch me
twist the skin into a spiral of wrinkled layers of longing.
incomplete:
a feeling that dances its fingers through my wings
and out of my chest.
my flesh is desperate to return to the stars.

ribbons softly wrap around my spine
and rest around my neck
tightening when I pull away from plugs that charge sparks
as valuable as pearls but as common as water.

stardust vomits out of my eyes,
bitten nails tug at silken contemporary roots
they can fray but will not tear away
existing constantly
infinite rings around planets
constantly moving
twirling through my conscience
that threads through putty
and hardens to clay.

no matter how much clay we posses it will always be clay.

they hold buttercups to my chin
like a spotlight of honey fire;
a milk bottle
with the small bubble
of air that floats
from the bottom to the top.

i am the bubble.
suffocated
by the sweet pure
nectar of life,
tossing me
around in journeys
of careless yet contained
bliss.

once the bottle
smashes
we can be free.
but freedom shoves
a slice of the moon down my throat.

freedom burns like vanilla extract.