Hope you are doing well.
It's time for me again to share you some wonderful works I found around DA.
I hope you like them.
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Little Ghost with Blooming ShadowsShe lays by the window
stuck inside, indisposed.
Nothing to do but watch the flowers bloom,
unravel the odd piece of thread,
and keep an eye on the clock’s shadows,
waiting for a ghost.
Silently, as if a ghost,
her brother appears in front of the window.
She is drawn to his eyes, burdened by shadows.
She chides him; “I don’t want you to become indisposed.”
He snorts; “What are you gonna do? Tie me up with thread?”
“I’d rather watch the flowers bloom.”
They continue their banter until a bloom
of peach appears in the sky, followed by a ghost
pulled along by a dancing leaf thread
that disturbs the flowers from their grassy beds and rattles the window.
The brother, appearance a little worse for the wear, looked rather indisposed.
Eventually the peach-colored clouds were replaced by moonlit shadows.
As the shadows
settled in, candlelight was made to bloom,
leaving the darkness indisposed.
Without so much as a g
Oil versus FireI might or might not
have been the cause-
I may or may not
have witnessed it all.
And I do have to admit
about the fire that took place
fueled by passion and
in the flames you saw my face-
I know you did, you know I do
like the fact of us two
being as solid, as solid as could be
But fire and water,
is what we're doomed to be.
Carrion Tallow I
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
tie them to the ends of my hair
to remind myself of all the innocent days
that lie suspended in cardboard boxes
because mothers can't bear to throw them away.
I pluck feathers from a felled sky,
deftly thread the wings of an angel fallen
to tie my awareness to a bird -
recalling 'bunny ear'd loops
held by my father's impossibly large hands
for his son to watch and learn -
pulled through the eye of golden hair laces.
A Door That Knocks From WithinI met her on accident.
I never got out much. I had an okay job in an okay building in the middle of an okay city. I kept it up because I couldn't live on nothing, but I also couldn't live off of nothing. I put on the same grey suit every day (dry cleaned on Saturday and picked up Sunday) and spent nine hours at a desk typing words into boxes.
I'd been there for four years and my supervisor didn't even know my name. I had good conscience that the only ones who did were Pierce, who I shared a cubicle with, and Bernice, who I shared a cubicle wall with.
No, this isn't all about Bernice. She was old, thick and leathery, and wheezed just standing up to peer over the divider and ask me if I wanted a cup of coffee. She reminded me of my aunt, my mom's older sister, who said she smoked to keep off the weight but was still fat.
This is all about Este.
The dry cleaner that I brought my suit to on Saturday was a man named Ti who spoke very little English
Twenty Ten FourWe never notice.
Our alarm doesn't ring, it sings
Pharell beating our mornings
'til we remove from our snooze. We
forgot the tink-tinker or
and emerge the same.
The same commute to work:
Heads sunk, tired eyes drunk by
thumb movements. Our ears dumb
locked into a Will-I-Am trance. Not
a glance of the changing scenes;
the only birds we see are angry.
The same office echoes with
of emails blaming others and smack-talking.
instead of actual talking. We fall for
the hype of Skype and only Siri’s
voice drones narrow answers
we accept as truth.
The same playground, huddled corners;
Children pick a blackberry instead of
picking blackberries, for their late-night
Facebook fights. Words will always hurt see:
no kids to hit with sticks and stones. Unless
there’s an app for it.
What do we do when stop?
Orwell you're too late
took thirty years to demonstrate your
doublethink and we all cling to
Servant's Log May 18-2418th May
Busy all day: cleaned windows, washed curtains, beef stew with leek and onion. On the master's request, dusted the foyer with special care today and prepared a vase with a bouquet of roses for the small bedroom. He expects a visitor tomorrow.
Spent the morning with standard duties; waited to greet the master's visitor, but the master requested that I busy myself elsewhere, as his visitor is uncomfortable with artificial servants. Cleaned the library extensively. Steak and potatoes with parsley for the master and his visitor. Hedges want trimming.
Brought the master his breakfast, then apparently took an unscheduled nap in the bathroom. Internal clock two hours out of sync with the master's atomic pendulum. Unsure how this happened; apparent systems failure. Will bring to the master's attention tomorrow.
Resumed duties as usual. Found sufficient breakfast dishes for two; cannot explain this. Checked for intruders, found none. If systems fa
spring in winchester.where does apple boy go when the sun dies? over the hill—
two years away, in the crook of the arm of a stubborn river
that keeps running away from her problems—he sits and eats
and doesn’t get fat, and tosses his trash into the water,
hoping the seeds will stick in the mud and grow into trees
that will grandfather trees, that will grandmother tires and
ropes—i watch him from my hole in the ground, ripping
blades of grass apart with my nervous fingers, and wonder
if his hair is really as soft as cotton clothing, or more like the
straw that makes up the broom i sweep the floor with at
the restaurant—he mistakes my eyes for two large, white
insects that blink and burrow into the dirt whenever he
looks my way—as morning comes, he grabs his blue bag and
walks for seventeen thousand hours to school—i bury myself
in earth and silence and sleep and dream of apple blossoms
sailing down a river, looking for home, finding love along the way
The Fermi Pair o' Socks“Captain, I’m getting a reading from the device with the blinky lights.”
“The one that goes ‘Voort-voort BING’?”
“Voort-voort BING!” pinged the device.
“The very same.”
“Great Scott...” The Captain stared around at the alien landscape. It seemed the least likely planetoid in the universe to be capable of sustaining life, but the device with the blinky lights was never wrong. “What are we dealing with here?” he demanded. “Is it carbon-based? Silicon-based?”
“Cotton-based,” said Science Officer Bunsen, waving the device over a nearby crocheted conifer. “And further, the flashing device that goes ‘beep beep’ indicates that there is movement just behind that knitted knoll.”
The Captain whipped his weapon from its
CurtainThe rich old man was going to die. Somehow, he knew. It was as if the silk curtains floating in from the summer breeze had whispered this secret into his ear, a billowing angel. Sunlight streamed into the room, lighting the dusty interior with golden rays, but the old man's vision was failing, and he could only see the blurriest of shapes.
“Please,...” he whispered. “Please, someone...”
A figure slipped into the room.
“Oh, good. Good. Please, come sit with me.”
The figure came and sat, guiding a chair to the bedside with precise movements.
“Listen to me, please. I think I'm going to die very soon. I just wanted someone to talk to. I haven't had anyone to talk to for months.” The old man tried to gesture with a sallow, bony arm. “When you're as old as I am, you'll want someone to talk to, too. I've had my to tell for years, but no-one to talk to.”
The figure gazed down at the old man with cold eyes.
“I remember when I was
BirdsThe birds are watching me. They stared at me when I left my house, so I went back inside. They watched me through the windows, so I bolted the curtains shut. Now they are listening to how my lungs expand and deflate through the cracks and peepholes in the walls and the foundation. They're trying to tell me something. I think they want to kill me.
They sing now. The sparrows, the blue jays, the finches, and the cardinals. They sing me a quiet lullaby as I lie in my bed at night. Or maybe they're mocking me. Calling me a coward. A failure. My mother always liked birds. As a child I always thought she spoke to them in a way they understood.
The mail came today. Normally I would let it sit outside my door and erode and rot in the weather, but something felt different. The birds were silent. No nursery rhymes or a-Capella jazz was bleeding through the walls. No mocking. No spies.
The Guardian Wraith of Starlit SmokeOur sitting here by lantern-light together
In the thick of a teeming snowfall;
The final golden glow,
Against the ancient sovereignty of night,
Like the last petal off a flower.
It is turning three hundred years
He never let the lantern drop.
The illimitable dark and cold and storm,
Whose work is to find out God;
And when they came it seemed with a will
To carry me with them to death.
What comes over a man, is it soul or mind-
(The Devil enters like a sapphire wasp)
Twixt what to love and what to hate
To find out how to get away from God?
No one has seen him stumble looking back
From having died
Inaudibly in thought;
The sorrow of having been left behind.
The land was ours before we were the land's
And having it all made over new
From force to matter and back to force,
Intelligent DiscussionThere was only one seat left in the bar. Richard slid into it without a second thought, without even glancing at either of his neighbors…until he heard the one on his right call for the bartender at the same time as him. Then they both looked.
The patrons immediately around them hushed. Over by the door, the bouncer looked quietly attentive.
“Is there a problem, gentlemen?” the bartender asked, a clear warning in her tone. Richard gave his neighbor another side-long glance, saw his own narrow-eyed, wary expression reflected back at him, and offered the first tentative flag-wave of a truce.
“No. I’m here for a vacation.”
“…me, too,” said the other, and since there were still no other empty seats to be had, they settled back into their adjacent stools and did their best to ignore each other as the rest of the bar relaxed around them.
Unfortunately, ignoring your arch-nemesis, an arch-nemesis apparently on vacation i
Plattery Will Get You NowhereMr. and Mrs. Bartle had enjoyed their day out at the Great Exhibition.
They had admired the phonograph that could store an incredible twelve wax cylinders and play them in any order; they had seen the amazing hydraulic hand (which had a slightly unfortunate range of gestures); and they had even made a purchase—a vessel that was kettle, pot and cup combined, and sold already filled to the brim with steaming tea.
And now to finish the day off, they were watching a charming gentleman in one of the booths demonstrating a serving platter.
“...so you see, you wind it up here—” The gentleman placed the platter flat on a table and rotated a handle. “—and then put this lever to ‘on’…”
The platter vibrated into life.
“Now you just have to enter your instructions.” The gentleman indicated the keyboard on the side of the platter. “For example…” His fingers clattered over the keys and there was a ping. The gen
MarigoldA woman sat against the garden wall, and in her hands was a bag of hair. The wall, built from decaying bricks and old field stones, extended fifty feet to the woman's right, where it tapered to a small pile of rubble. There had once been a farmhouse where the garden now was, but the woman never saw it. Bits and pieces of it sometimes turned up in the soil: broken nails and chips of cement. Apart from that, only the wall remained, weather-bleached, woven with vines, sitting at the bottom of a grassy slope. The house that was there now–– the woman's house–– stood at the top of the slope, a yellowish ranch-style hidden from the road by thick pines. The woman had planted the trees herself, when she first moved in fifteen years earlier.
The woman, Carolyn, looked down at the parcel in her hands. The hair in the bag belonged to her son, Mark, and there was a lot of it. He had always worn his hair long, even into adulthood, despite Carolyn's occasional pro
War's EndEliza stood at the window, plaid wrapped over her head and shoulders. The only thing to be seen through the pane was a flickering greyness. Not even a shade of rooftops. “Damnable country. I won’t miss it.”
William looked up from the latest papers that had plodded their way through the snowy roads from headquarters. His stare was colder than Loch Ness water this time of the year. “You say that like there’s no chance of another campaign.”
“I’ll wad a guinea.”
He opened that mouth of his, that turned so gabby with soldier’s talk. Before he could speak, a bout of coughing racked him. It was the canister shot shards lodged in his chest, not disease. So Eliza stayed where she was, and let the cough tire out.
“You’re boss-hearted, you know?” William’s voice was low and gravelly. He rose and handed a dispatch to her over the desk. “Here’s your guinea.”
Today the general’s secretary had
set fire to the person i wasthis name falls out of lips like a goddamned prison
sentence; forces me back from whence i came and
that was not a very good place at all.
i heard you spit out the word "it" at the television
when a news story about a transwoman was run;
i heard you say that these people were sick and that
they were still a man because god knows what's
in their pants and i saw the notification that you
liked my status clearly without reading it
because it's been well over two years and you still
call me this awful fucking name;
i cried to her about it and it took all of three tries
to get it right and no matter what she calls me
she never says it. she never lets the letters come out
with that soft voice and she never lets me think
for a moment that i am worth anything less, that i am
not worth the effort-
"michael," she would say, smiling-
"frankie", "strawberry", "frances"-
if that name was a prison these are either my release
or my death sentence.
Persephone RevisionedWe are wrapped in each other as dawn breaks, the last snow of the season slowly melting into the soaked grass. You say that you think the flower buds will be out in a week or two, the winter wiped away from memory as if it had never happened. I rub my leg up yours, joke about how you haven’t shaved in a few days, but I haven’t shaved either. I curl my hands across your stomach, lean into your neck and breathe deep. The scent of you is springtime, the incoming rainstorms, freshly cut grass. I have a feeling you’re happiest in spring and summer, out in the sun where your hair will turn from dishwater blonde to radiant gold. You sizzle with the approach of winter’s end, a tingle on the tips of your fingers and toes that warms you from the outside in. You are anticipation personified, your movements beginning to quicken as if you were a cold-blooded creature returning from the land of the dead.
I don’t say that I wish winter would continue on, that we could go
I am dog!I leap up onto the couch, watching the dust jump and dance in the sunlight leaking through the blinds. I circle three times on my favorite cushion (nah, four times, just to be safe) before curling up in a little ball, haunches nearly grazing my muzzle. My eyelids are heavy as I sigh deeply, completely bathed in warmth and comfort and...sl...ee...p…
Intruder! Intruder! Oh my goodness, my shining moment has arrived! Loud barks erupt from my throat as I stand suddenly, the fur on my back rising tall along my spine. I growl and snap my jaw ferociously, snarling loudly. I am...intimidation! I am pure predator! I am dog!
I scratch and claw at the blinds with a fervor unprecedented. Show yourself, intruder! I hear a loud crash and everything goes dark. I back up and fall off of the couch in a panic, whimpering and trembling. The blinds slide off of my back, mangled and defeated. Master’s not gonna be hap
He was born the eldest of five sturdy boys and his parents were missionaries. He was born a torchbearer, the firstborn destined to bring his family to life. But looking at the past all these many years later, he couldn’t decide when he first felt truly and utterly indifferent.
Sure, he laughed and he ran without a care like any other nine year old. He caught butterflies and studied them with genuine awe and watched the fireflies dance in the forest behind his home as his family gathered for a night around the bonfire. He left home at six in the morning and returned at six in the evening all covered in a day’s worth of visions and stories he would later tell his little brothers. And when a breeze would hit his warm and welcoming face, he would close his eyes and think that this moment right here, this will never end.
He shakes his head because he knows that was all a haze, a childish haze, a brief moment of fabricated ecstasy to hide the truth that was alw
even mountainseven mountains have peaks and valleys
periphrasiswhen he asked me how i wanted him to build the house,
i answered him truthfully.
i said i wanted the pillars to be made
of pages from every book ever written,
curled in on themselves until
they could hold a roman arch.
pour words, strong and weak, into
the earth instead of cement-
let it be flexible to adapt
build the walls from the ground up
through prose supporting the bricks
layered by memories forged
along the path we took
to arrive at eden.
tilt poems into pyramids above
our heads, ceilings just high enough
to be within earshot of every
laugh we'll ever make.
empty emotions into a template
of a window and slide it into
place without a way to get it
after i was done, we stood on that
vacant lot, ambiguous thoughts
flitting across his face and down
into my fingertips.
he told me i was crazy.
he told me i was beautiful.
he told me he would build it.
Last Call for Tanner LeeTanner left the hospital feeling strangely empty. He had expected agony. From the moment he had heard the Code Blue declared over the intercom and been forced out of Leah’s room (Room 318; he would never forget that number, or the feel of the sheets beneath his hands), he had known his life was coming to an end. They did not give up, and he gave them credit for that, but there is only so much time and effort a doctor can put into saving someone who is determined to die, and twelve hours later, Tanner and the bag of Leah’s effects sat in the back of a cab, on their way home. He would have to plan a funeral. Of course she had no life insurance; she had only been eighteen, a grinning college freshman home for her first Christmas break.
He sat at home that night and called her cell phone, letting it ring out at the foot of her bed for the sake of hearing her voice in the recording.
Hey, it’s Leah. I can’t come to the phone right now, probably because I’m h
beautiful.i hate my stretchmarks
the vertical the horizontal the ones running miles down my arms
stripes on a circus tent
my body is a freak show
75 cents a ticket
they are the bars on a cage
trapping me inside this prison cell of flesh
(not letting me run away
from all i once was)
reminding me that i am
still that little girl who
was told that she had too
much weight in her stomach
and in her thighs
to be called beautiful
my stretchmarks are the debris from when i tried to collapse upon myself
tried taking up less space
because beautiful is small beautiful is skinny
diets upon diets
because i've been told that
i am only worth the sharpness of my collarbone
LessonsIn forty-seven minutes I will be twenty-one years old and my throat is tight with this notion
that every passing moment is a boat taking me further from the boy on the side of the road.
I am terrified of the swelling tide of time, the ripples I will create,
the creases that will be etched into my face
without the laughter lines I know he would have left and
one day someone will ask me how many siblings I have and I will hesitate
because he will be so distant and I can feel it coming.
I never intended to swim without him, but
I am drowning under the weight of pocket-stone-people,
the ones I love who he has never met and won't ever meet
and its forty-four minutes until I turn twenty-one when I realize the relentlessness of this;
how I will age away from him and I am disgusted with myself, with his ashes on the bookshelf,
with this world that keeps making mistakes that can't be fixed.
Twenty one years old and I am a semi-colon, a shuddering pause on the floor,
remembering the time I broke
On Seeing without SightPATIENT 1 - a young boy of ten-twelve years; was discharged from hospital one week after operation. He is in his bedroom, surrounded by wooden objects and shapes on paper.
BOY: Depth? What is depth?
DOCTOR: Depth is the third dimension, other than length and width. (motions with hands)
BOY (bemused): Dimension?
DOCTOR (holds drawing of square and a wooden cube): This drawing has two dimensions: length and width. This wooden cube has three, including height.
BOY (struggles to reach wooden sphere): This is depth? (holds sphere with both hands, ogling)
DOCTOR: No, that is roundness. The sphere has depth, though.
BOY: I don't understand.
PATIENT 2 - a young male slightly older than Patient 1. He is in a hospital bed, preoperative.
DOCTOR (presses wooden cube and sphere into patient's hands): Can you tell what these shapes are?
ExhaleI love the marks that a woman’s clothes leave on her body. I love the red indents and the proof of a long day before she even opens her mouth.
Tight socks circumventing ankle bones. A watch cutting a bit too tightly around a pulse. The alluringly simple bra straps; wire pressing up into the impossibly soft undersides of breasts; the cryptic clasp nestled between shoulder blades. The imprint of lace and elastic on the taut tender tendon of the inner thigh. The geography of jeans around the hips and trailing along the legs like railroad tracks. The line on her cheek from when she fell asleep on the bus home.
I love the luxurious sigh when it all puddles to the floor, shedding this artificial skin. Remnants of weariness leave whispers on the body.
And after all she has been through, she still comes to me and allows me to trace these whispers with my fingertips, eyes, lips. She doesn't cover herself and doesn't hide and lets me in.
We leave the lights on.
Some Violence Required Light glinting off metal was Johanna Spenser’s first glimpse of the cage. It sat in the middle of what used to be a library beneath a broken skylight. Dust motes floated in the air as the afternoon sun washed the room with heat and hazy light.
Johanna stepped closer, out of the glare. When her eyes had adjusted she saw him. Rushing forward she dropped to her knees. “Kai! Kai, can you hear me?”
Kai lay unmoving on the floor of the cage, his skin an alarming shade of gray, veins showing stark beneath. He’d been shot multiple times and his shirt was soaked with blood. Some of the ragged wounds were still oozing blood.
Johanna’s skin turned to ice. The world grayed at the edges for a moment or two. How long had he been like this? Was she in time? She had to get him out of the sun.
Opening her backpack, she took out her tools and got to work on th
The Great FrancusSee, now, a house. Its a typical house, two storeys, one-car garage. A small front lawn stretches out to the curb, with a ditch at the end, and a mid-sized maple tree in the middle. Its spring, so the leaves are coming back, the lawns looking fairly green.
Take a closer look at the house, past the red bricks and Leave It To Beaver near-perfection of the design. Go further. A living room with a 32-inch television and a couple of gaming systems; no blu-ray player yet, but give them time, its in the budget. Theres a kitchen, with a rarely used breakfast bar, an impeccably clean white tiled floor, and a small table with that mornings paper opened to the comics, an empty coffee cup beside it. A dining room with a nice chandelier thats there mainly for show, and candelabras on the long dining room table for a bit of class. Theres a drawing room, too, with ni
grief on an answering machinechemistry tells us
matter cannot be destroyed
from one form to another.
i heard you today
on old voicemails;
the voice that kisses
the boundaries of being,
screaming the conservation of the soul,
tells me you are here
even when you are not
it is only a sound.
i have remembered a plethora of them; searching
for the moments i can remember your nervous humming, your raucous prayers.
but i only know the staccato breaths of a starting engine
i have spoken sotto voce into the mouths of unripe girls
i hear lawnmowers screaming in yards they burned down to build a shopping mall
i fuck a boy to the sound of passing trains.
these are sounds to throw away, sounds i do not need
but your voice is not one of them
mourning you is a second language
and i am stumbling through sentences.
i don’t know the word for ‘goodbye’
so teach m
november is callingI trace your ink-infused skin
with my wanting fingertips
and I remember the better
days. You were younger
once and I was sweeter
once, and we shared a
prison cell called love.
You are no longer baby-
faced and I have hair down
to my waist, and you smoke
cigarettes and you drink
whiskey because you want to
be a man’s man. You kiss me
sweetly for the fifth year
in a row, even though I
haven’t known what it’s like
to call you mine in four.
I can’t detach myself from
your wanting gaze, the way
you look at me when I shed
my skin. I can’t let go of your
laugh and your blue-green-grey
eyes, the way you smirk and pull
me close to your heat.
There is a tomahawk on your
arm and I trace its black lines
and the softness of your skin,
and I pray that it will not always
be this way.
Padre del TiempoYesterday,
Shrinking tree bark and the smell of absence
God— or something—
She's been here, telling the snow to fall
and the bloom that I will bring another day.
i'm sorry for only writing sad things,but saturday night i wanted to offend god
into listening to just one line- needed to drag someone
into hearing the roar between my ears with me.
i'd like to write something you can put music to-
lyrical and pretty. funny. maybe irreverent.
but today what is most real to me
is not laughter. it is feeling short of breath.
empty of poetic language. unfunny. too long
for a limerick. unsuited to sonnets. musical only
in the slamming of my heart. an erratic beat
at best. endings. comparing crises of the mind
to someone throwing up in the bathroom
after too much beer pong and hard rock-
both are shameful to repeat in therapy
and i feel like i cannot stop ruining parties.
needing steady hands for these atlas shoulders
that will not relax. staircases white like
imagined hospitals. thinking i should say
call me an ambulance. crying. not calling
an ambulance. not calling a taxi, i can't call
a taxi, i don't have money for a taxi, holding
my breath. 4, 7, 4. 4, 7, 4. in.
Before GretelI'm alone and hungry.
The ground is coated in dead leaves, sodden from last night's rainfall and cutting at my bare heels as I stumble on. All I can think of is food. Hot cocoa and warm pies, roast duck-
A mirage appears. It must be a mirage and not a house made of food. The walls are gingerbread, the window frames are laced with icing sugar and the path beneath my feet is made of sugar cane.
In a daze I break off a piece of the door. It opens.
“Come inside dearie, I’ve been meaning to make dinner.”
CrepuscularTo the girl teaching herself to fly,
a hospital bird with soot in her lungs
and patchwork wings,
you only fly for a little while.
If you want to stop hurting,
learn to drift in the silence of the dark
between night and day.
We're all made from broken parts:
bird seed, letters addressed to no one,
things found in old coats,
brittle things like love.
Glass bottomed birds,
we used to make butterfly hands,
until moths swarmed into our throats,
like dancing butterflies; still
we choked on dusty wings.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs,
the same smoke that you'll inhale.
Let go, little bird --
You were made for moonlight,
never for hummingbird lullabies --
Hummingbirds only fly in the sun,
and the sun was never a child.
We were not meant to be angels.
The nestlings, children of the stars,
we glide together on clipped wings
through the dark.
san gabrielSometimes you dream about a burning grocery store and it means nothing.
This is me standing in a hallway realizing that the people who left
aren't showing up for dinner, that's why it's only a theory.
Look at these streetlights, look at you wearing that wreckage on your face,
soaked in radio. To white windmills flickering across the coast, to
your dogs barking like shootouts behind these gates. An old forest flashes
against the bridge and starts breathing; headlights bleach our hills and you say
What kind of ending is this, I'm never here anymore.
And Hell yeah, I think, how insane that the species blooms in catastrophe,
how improbable to survive this lottery, to conquer the probability
of having never blinked toward the blinding white shipwreck,
to find an abandoned planet and fill it with chairs. Back in the day
I'd probably moan for the other side, but now I'd argue that our people's poetry
is best understood as a consequence; not a shotgun but the stained carpet
being dragged from
In Which I Tell Myself To (1) Survive2. Do not choke yourself with
the name of a murderer
around your neck.
Instead, let it in.
Give it the chance to testify,
because more than likely:
it will understand.
It will tell you we all must
kill something which we love.
But do not let it give you its name:
you, white rabbit girl, grow
too attached (too fast),
and you do not yet know
the angle at which to break
snowcapped knuckles into
3. Open your chest like
dislocated jaws swallowing
down the ends of
hands together when i kneeli may not be much
but swear to christ i'll level you.
cut your teeth on me
and drink devil tongue
when we kiss.
unsettle your desperate itch
and lace your ligaments;
i will swallow you
within an inch
and own it.
i'll be bearing mary
up until the twist,
then rectify my wandering eye
locked, you exist
to please me.