It doesn't matter what your wings are made ofDon’t
girls, and like the
Estonia or the
Titanic, I’ll sink
in your survivalist's
but since when
have you cared
for what fears or loves
your eyes are
But I fall asleep
all naked and chaotic
but a Pity-gatherer
in the way
that I die, and let
me just give in
to your white desire
(because what else
am I good for?);
quickly: ice pools
in my lungs
like glacial deposits
of Baltic salt.
So capsize my
alibies, and me
in a tadpole tide
of one monarch-
with a fear to burn.
Globe"Home" is where you're strangled,
points of refuge, vermillion-tipped and
pierced through the heart of every daydream,
whose spinal chords would hang down Africa
like amputated umbilical chords - one part
libertarian and two parts decaying sustenance
(because let's be honest: we're stuck down
where our roots were strangled, and we all
fear too well to know of anything else).
the apple treeapple hair hung from your fingers
and waiting for the harvest,
just because you thought drought
and bruises would do me in
but my tears are not wetter,
and the guilt whistles through
me as if I were music,
but I am still rid with dignity.
Death has chivalryHe comes when I’m neck-deep in porcelain. He stands below my porch, and waits for me with a smile.
He knows it’ll be 20 minutes at best until I muster the courage to step outside the door, and another 10 until I’ll even look at him, but he never seems to mind.
“Aren’t you tired of rejection yet?” I sigh, when I finally acknowledge him, wrinkling my temples into ripples and headaches. He’s a statue in the corner of my vision.
“Finally.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. There's that smirk. “You’ll come to me eventually.” He always sounds so sure.
“Why do you always insist on coming out like that?” He surveys my bare legs and feet as they bury toes in snow, but he stops suddenly. He doesn't look at me as he throws me up his scarf. “Frostbite isn’t a very good method for pain. Want to tell me what happened?”
I shake, but we both know it’s not the cold. I seek out his eyes like a
Black Dog SinI am an old house,
paint chipping and the
bed more scared
than hard, joints popping
with every wayward wind,
and I thought we were fine.
I thought you were
happy in the shell of
my Amygdala, worshipping
my Hippocampus like a
but that was one bone you
quite swallow, love... though
you swallowed the moon
(against all judgement) and
in the damnable poison
of my happy, go-
I opened my mouth, too.
I choked on the dust
resting in the
rafters of memories,
the collision of
universes too loud to
ignore, and I burnt
out with comets before the
star of Emmanuel, the irony
being the alter I plagued,
the smell of smiling apple
trees violent enough to
scare the lambs away.
So the wolves
came out to join your song,
and I trembled and tried
to scream in a pitch that
wouldn't shatter my lungs,
three broken dreams too
far, but I ended
up breaking, anyway.
No one picked me up,
and I grew to
think I was okay
in the daily cut
PruningThe year is silent in the cul-de-sac
you called my heart, but I am empty
with an appetite
for smoke or charring bites of lightning.
They think it's beautiful;
this hollow - they wish upon it,
tie splints of charity because it's hope,
but they are marooned starlings
all red as the Midwest sun
and nomads in her sand.
I am tired
of being liked for the clarity of my broken
(though maybe if you stopped looking at me
like I was wounded, I could start closing up),
for the helpfulness of my tongue,
or the perspective of death-bound eyes.
But there is no pride in holding the Self
together, in blowing moonward kisses
to gods, "please take me away,"
and truly wishing to fall asunder.
They don't know. They don't know,
they don't know...
like barbs in a sea-weathered throat,
eyes too dry to grasp the fault
but the mouth... a sinner through and through.
They don't know what it's like to wilt -
then be worshiped for the way your flower fell.
Ashes! Ashes! We All Fall Down.You wake me; I’m all scarlets and steady streams of autumn.
They fall into the porcelain far easier than you’d think,
and just sit there, a one-by-one subtraction.
(god, I was never good with math.)
There’re monsters beneath your feet, and their frustration
huffs and puffs from the wood like chimneys,
rib walls trembling with the urge to worship either.
Sometimes, when the night is harsh in velvet,
I watch you set them on your alters, and violence
becomes a color dark enough it covers dreams:
skin the shape of an apple-pie crust, mind the canyon of a meteor;
you had enough to water impact zones, but I never grew
deep enough to weather away ‘rotten.’
I smile at you, like I know what I’m doing,
and slowly pull myself undone.