Post MortemI am a walking, talking universe of dead poets
who tattoo their stanzas into my flesh
with ghostly, typewriter fingers.
I live and breathe their worldly disasters
like a nicotine addiction I've never had.
Drowning in their scribbles
I kiss their shoreline romances,
envy their Annabel Lee's,
& carry their hearts in my heart.
I am 7am coffee on Sunday mornings:
a half drunk, hungover limerick
waiting to happen.
I am jealousy:
nothing more than weak words,
& a tongue-tied cliche-
but death becomes me.
Her Musethese words are not poetryHer Muse in Free Verse More Like This
swimming liquid fire through ashes
of dead phoenix veins.
no, they are rough and callused
with over use, their own faithless artists
spewing black tar from their lungs
in the hopes to one day breathe again.
nothing moves her.
she would rather scribble her heart out
on physical manifestations of her own reality-
on skin and bones she worships like a temple.
"Write of me," he says, "right here."-
planting sun-stricken kisses
along the hollow of her burning throat.
"I want to be where your heart sleeps."
RepossessionYour words tore into my abdomen like vultures feeding onRepossession in Free Verse More Like This
the raw emotion their filthy wings stirred up from the dust.
My ribs cracked from the blow.
But, I think sometimes
of how these were the ribs
that should have chased you away from me,
quietly wondering how you managed to
slither past this cage of bone and flesh
to engrave your fingerprints into my marrow.
You were sweat & spice & scars-
a thunderstorm of black and blue sex
jarring and devouring my insides,
shaped a faithless religion
through the cracks & broken shards
of my hollowed out womb.
(I want my insides back.)
A Gods DebtSutured together by artists,A Gods Debt in Free Verse More Like This
hallowed out, & spit back up,
( you are afraid. )
Hooks longing for her ribcage embrace;
god-hands that can't seem to keep to themselves
grapple the gargoyle exterior of her deflowered frame.
( spread your legs. )
Red-inked and trembling,
prosetry masked as screams
knots into her anatomy.
Stephanie -Collab(I wrote us in free verse over every inchStephanie -Collab in Free Verse More Like This
of your tattered surface ).
you were the beatific grin
of a kindergartener high off oxygen,
mouth stretched wide as the entrance to hell,
black tongue bleeding virtuous sin like ichor.
(You taught me praying was for the weak
as I fell for your gypsum nails,
white teeth scrabbling over my chalkboard frame).
scribbled flesh tells no love story
but three layers of skin
worn thin along the length of our feverish bones.
(Garden flowers tucked away worms and dirt,
my ribs hoarded misspellings of my mother's name).
dipping your origami limbs into my ink,
you lost yourself within the dark tangles
of my labyrinth roo
fly.this is hard for the world around us to grasp:fly. in Free Verse More Like This
these wildfires raging in our retinas
& the sins we wear like demonic similes
on our tongues- they are not enough.
& i am so fucking sorry of saying i'm sorry.
but, tell me,
what is a young poet(ess) to do
with veins made of kite strings?
FeverI like pretending I mean something to the ghostsFever in Free Verse More Like This
who wreak havoc on my bones-
impaling these masochistic butterfly wings
on railroad spikes
between heartbeats and bedsheets,
I got a heart in New Orleans,
palms engraving names like
Juliet, Alexandria, & Christine
on the seats of greyhound buses.
& I'm offering up 102 degrees of skin to a godless moon
as I breathe in her night scent.
astrological.i. On some nights,astrological. in Free Verse More Like This
street lights guide
this lonely heart
to her lonely bed.
ii. In this universe of twilight skin
& mismatched bones,
I wonder just how many poems sleep
beneath the inkwell of her eyes.
iii. My body is a house of stars,
and her palms are black holes
sucking ( me ) into their vortex of
iv. She says, "Please—my moon,
please—give these bones a reason
& I am whispering lovelies
into the sanctuary of her heartbeats.
v. "Goddess temple,
sunset eyes, &
my windowpane love-
Let us eat the stars
Sometimes, you enjoyed being blind.Over 1,000 letters have found their waySometimes, you enjoyed being blind. in Free Verse More Like This
to the pulsating heart of my wastebasket.
You carried them away saying, "I'll use these
to fill the empty spaces of my universe."
You proceeded to tape them to your eyelids,
wear them like Augusts leaves along your limbs.
"I will be your voice and I will sing your words to the trees."
Slender spider fingers prancing across my misspelled scrawl.
N o v ai.N o v a in Free Verse More Like This
This distance between us
is devouring my lungs.
I'm left here gasping,
trying to suture back together
all the broken nights-
the cigarette burns in my bedsheets.
I'm tracing maps on my limbs,
and I'm painting black holes on my palms,
pressing them into letters
left on my nightstand
untouched and unread.
I keep telling myself
none of this is about you.
But I'm reaching for empty galaxies
as I try to remember what it felt like
to be one of a binary star.
Light-years away, and I'm here-
just another nova on your ceiling,
searching this vast universe for you.
Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles.i.Never trust ladies with scythes for smiles. in Free Verse More Like This
these god-hands are barbwire's,
snagging & scarring everything
black tongue bleeding sweet ichor
along the guarded walls
of skeletal frames.
'i want to taste heaven.
it rests there,
just beneath your bones.'
he is a
made of scythes & scalpels,
sewn together with weak thread.
and she is a borrowed tree.
lips that beg, & limbs that snare
will carry him to his grave.
'shh, my sweet-
close your eyes, &
i'll sacrifice you to the heavens.'<i>
scar-crossed(my fingers are colder than the solemn bluescar-crossed in Free Verse More Like This
buried in her eyes. so much dead beauty,
like an ocean without waves).
she is fading and i cling to her,
and in this tiny little moment
we barely even exist.
we should celebratei.we should celebrate in Free Verse More Like This
i tried to think of pain as a flower,
first it blossoms
it wilts away.
but i won't let myself disappear
along with it,
give you that.
(it's not the agony that makes
me scream, it's the flavor).
and you whispered softly
"i'll rip your heart out and replace it
with a song,
it's christmas soon, and
we should celebrate".
you've always used my scars
as a calendar,
as a way to remind yourself
"today is tuesday
and i still exist".
(it's morning now because
i can see
through my eyelids
a bright summer day,
the flowers are
everything's imaginary, even the truthi picked my words casually,everything's imaginary, even the truth in Free Verse More Like This
like a bored child
on a picnic,
pulling weeds from the ground.
(i don't remember what we spoke of, but
afterwards we walked home
with our eyes locked to the pavement).
and i just don't understand,
why you hold onto me
like a precious secret.
i am always disoriented by daydream landscapes,
reality passes me by in an instant,
a departing train.
and you have to pull me back, to grey cities
and pedestrian crossings.
(i'd be lost without you,
would be happier, wouldn't you?)
if you meet a wolfwe swore an oathif you meet a wolf in Free Verse More Like This
not to acknowledge it,
and i should have asked for more just to be certain,
but i will never ask for your blood
just to mix it with mine.
she read between the lines of each word and crafted her own story,
just as i had crafted mine. neither was
as simple as the honest truth.
if you meet a wolf, pretend it is not there.
pick your blueberries and do not
think about the wolf.
it will not harm you.
do not, under any circumstances, look the wolf
in the eye.
(i stood in line at the florist's and realized the lilies i chose had withered.)
she returned home from a funeral, and it
did not feel like death to see
so many flowers,
lowered into what they dub heaven.
(she thanked the man who dug the hole, and had to stop herself
from asking if she could join him for the next one.
i stood silently beside her,
there are no cars in the streetsi seek distance and i find itthere are no cars in the streets in Free Verse More Like This
in the cold air
as i walk
with no direction, gasoline
lingering in the streets like bad perfume.
she swears i smell like death
when i come back inside,
for a minute i believe her.
i exhale oily shadows and when i catch my reflection
in the mirror i have no face, screaming
i try to scrape off the emptiness
with broken fingernails.
and when she tells me to calm down
her lips aren't moving.
i could be nothingsome days you look at me as if i ami could be nothing in Free Verse More Like This
glances studying my face like a road map.
but mostly, i find your eyes stuck in the static
of the pavement, or lost
in the clouds
gathering before lightning.
and we never promise anything, just share the air like strangers
when we don't know what to say.
(it always ends with a silence more desolate
than broken trust.)
you said this is the calm before the storm
but what if
it never slows down
enough for me to notice
that there are days when we can exist
without doubting every second. you have a tendency to whisper
too quietly, leaving room for me to imagine
callousand this is where i fall apart, bleedingcallous in Free Verse More Like This
but not as we know it.
you emptied me of sunsets, of the sweet scent
worn by summer air,
of the silence found in longing, the wish
for something far away.
you scraped off a layer of my skin,
there were dancers and drifters, bound by
rhythm but not by time.
(i was a child, wandering, sipping the atmosphere
like tap water.)
you demanded truth in layers of secret pathways,
but lost yourself in tangled ribbons,
choking us both like frightened snakes.
what keeps us aliveshe hollowed out the fear in you, that once rested in your rib-cagewhat keeps us alive in Free Verse More Like This
like a safe haven, somewhere to lose yourself
when falling. (she stole it with less than a whisper).
you stood cold and resilient, the void tugging at your sleeves
with fierce determination.
you stood empty and brave.
she never gave you a destination, wordlessly she carved your route
out of denied tears, an unfinished map with no coastlines.
you left and the abyss followed your trail like a bloodhound,
promised to devour you whole.
you left to find the sea.
snapshotsshe said her tears were just a rough sketchsnapshots in Free Verse More Like This
of her insignificance, "but you
wouldn't want the details."
(i can see them reflected in her fragile smile, how her eyes
wander from place to place, unsettled).
she is a forgotten board game from
1984, trivia covered in dust.
the broken light bulb in your living room, screaming
for a replacement.
demoni.demon in Free Verse More Like This
i came to him in a dream last night, but he woke
up too soon.
as a muted silhouette, i remained in his mind,
a small piece
was all i needed.
(he thought he saw a familiar face
at the train station, but realized he was alone,
a ghost commuting at 4 am.
he walked back home disgraced, and though
there were no witnesses
he could feel
eyes piercing through his throat
i came to him in a dream last night and he woke up
with bruised knuckles,
blood stuck under his fingernails.
he bit them off to taste
the same sweetness that lingers
on his war medals.
(it didn't belong to him.)
i leave him to make the loneliness fester
until it burns a hole in him
that only i can fill.
Autumn AutopsyAs lovers,Autumn Autopsy in Free Verse More Like This
we were reckless;
in a field of mines.
We traded kisses
and carefree caresses
and blackened skin.
at the cost
of darker afternoons,
of the dying season;
We didn't ask,
we never questioned
of our expenditures.
I shed my skin
in the Autumn of youth,
the viscera and
bared the bone --
a scarecrow of worms
and raw meat,
amongst the stalks
of reddened corn.
to dusty artifacts,
laden with memories
of decaying potency;
rising from the cooling wick
will never be
as sweet as
when the flame
RichterI was still breathing static fog,Richter in Free Verse More Like This
coursing through wire cage lungs.
Copper coated tongue
sparks in shades of orange and gold,
I feel the surge
and my body comes alive,
pins and needles
shivering in the flux
of the obsolete circuitry
burning in my chest.
burn white lights into my eyes,
move the green earth
in cosmic undulations,
a mirage of the dancing atmosphere
I cannot deny,
nor confirm the existence of.
tectonic thumps in the fault
of my ribs,
the rattling of rebar and bone,
my Embarcadero spine
into the rift
of unexplored daylight.
Rebirth in the tomb
of this familiar darkness
that is I,
a trembling ridge
of white noise,
an analog pulse
when all the world
BonesLoveBones in Free Verse More Like This
is less about flowers
than it is
about Monday mornings,
when all the world
dreads the commute,
to share a space with you.
of serenades and starlight,
I often find myself
inside of mundane fantasies,
of your shower wet hair,
so snugly together
in dashboard light
like lips and hips
in the blue glow
satellite stereo screens,
long to take you
So many men
seek the perfection
that have no basis
want to dive head first
tangled up in every complication
that is us.
My love --
you are the everything
flaws and highlights,
and all of your bad,
of a lifetime spent longing
which only you possess,
am not -ever-
going to give up on
Undressing PoetryShe clothes herself in poetry,Undressing Poetry in Free Verse More Like This
seals her skin within the verse.
Each line becomes another garment
that conceals her fixed form's curvature,
but peels away when read.
Last night I dissected a stanza,
clamped it tight between my teeth
and tugged it down her legs.
Her body breathes warm and sweet,
speckled red like a summer strawberry field.
I sucked the juice from her lines and
spit the punctuation like seeds.
My lips mouthed the shape of her words
as my skin grew more sticky with
every splash of imagery dripping down my chin.
I peeled apart her soft pages
with sticky, pink fingertips that left them
clinging to my skin.
A single flawless line remained
between the cloak of poetry, her and me,
so we spoke the words in unison,
revealing everything and setting her verse free.
ListenHow am I supposed to sleepListen in Free Verse More Like This
with all of these dreams
keeping me awake...
So many words
falling through my mind like raindrops,
so many thoughts
transforming into the shape of you,
into the shape of us.
It's an electric shock,
a high voltage surge that rushes
through my chest
and rides my ribs like rails,
getting the engine of my heart
until the light bursts
through my eyes
and the tunnel always leads
I like to imagine Sunday afternoons,
you know that time of day
when the light turns gold
and everything looks like it's in a movie,
the breeze is gentle
and there is music murmuring in the distance.
I like to imagine you,
tucking it back behind your ear,
soft skin painted in the birth of evening.
It's that space
where the sun refuses to set,
but the stars can't hold out any longer
and we get this glorious sky
where everything is visible,
from the constellations of the twilight
to the connect the dot patterns,
like a field of poppies,
red leaves and Robert Frost.When I was young, my virginity was sacred. Entire religions pray over it and my father bought a gun so long as it meant protecting it.red leaves and Robert Frost. in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
We throw away half of our refrigerator each week meanwhile, 24,000 people die of starvation every day.
Hardest part is, sometimes wasting things can't be helped.
At the bus stop, before I could drive, boys would ask for my phone number while I tugged up the neck of my shirt. Asked me how old I was while I crossed my legs under my skirt.
I told them I had a boyfriend even when it wasn't true, because they'll always respect another man more than my disinterest.
Hearing "I love you" for the first time is like getting hit by a train and only feeling the angel as they pull you up to Heaven.
People who are manic can jump off roofs or sell their house to buyers who don't exist.
For me, it was fucking six guys in four days and spending $150 in three.
That wasn't good enough, though, so instead of help all I got was a smiley-face sticker and long, quiet c
eight things about growing up.eighteight things about growing up. in Emotional More Like This
I told my brother I was going to be a fairy when I grew up. Or a bird, or sprite something with wings so I could touch the clouds.
I learned that fairies weren't real when I was six, after I tried to jump off a parking structure to see if I could fly.
That day I also broke my leg in three places and saw an angel's face in the clouds. (And don't tell anybody, but sometimes I spend all day looking for him.)
My neighbors back in Denver had a son who was a schizophrenic. After he went off his meds for the third time, he painted the windows red and told his wife she had to abort their baby because it wasn't human.
A year later, I heard that he was arrested after pointing a hunting rifle on his family. It was loaded, but he didn't pull the trigger because his mother said she trusted him.
I guess love is kind of like that, too.
Seattle didn't come until I was fifteen, in October.
My family and I took a boat ride on Friday. We listened to the captain
tocophobia.the world of pregnancy and childbirthtocophobia. in Free Verse More Like This
has been boiled down to the white,
neurologically healthy babies
in pink and blue knit caps.
“that one,” says the tearful father.
“she’s beautiful,” says the nurse
while the mother rests.
but why is it
that the default image of motherhood
is a white middle-class couple with a picket fence
and a golden retriever?
let’s postpone that cruise to the caribbean
and make a baby.”
what about the prostitutes
who get pregnant?
what about the girls in africa
who carry their rapist’s babies?
what about the babies left on the firehouse steps?
what about the welfare mothers
because they can’t pay the hospital fees?
who have heroin tracks on their arms
(like stitches that can’t hold them together)
where the patient bracelet is snapped on?
what about the 500,000 american children
waiting to get adopted?
what about miscarriages and women
who can never have kids?
we preach for the
short-term memory.and you'll never forget:short-term memory. in Emotional More Like This
When you realized that everybody dies alone.
When you didn't take your eyeliner off one night, so in the morning
your eyes would look as hollow as you felt.
When you spent a year blacking out the sad endings in your books.
(When you wished that life could also work like that.)
When you learnt that "We need a break" means "I am going to break your heart."
When you fell in love with the stars, and the way he says "us."
When he told you, "More than just a long time."
The first time you hung up to the sound of your father laughing.
When you walked home from a party in January, and couldn't remember
if you were still breathing.
When you begged him to let you be sad, and he smiled and said, "No."
When you saw the irony of drawing trees on paper – and how alive you've felt
after being sure you were dead.
zero.5. I think I'm afraid of sex.zero. in Emotional More Like This
It's terrifying that two people can fit together perfectly, without even really liking each other at all.
4. I'm afraid of the day I start replacing myself with somebody else in all of our pictures; of the day I'll see my reflection and wish I didn't have to.
3. I'm afraid of doctors, and medicine.
The first time I took lithium, I couldn't hold it down. So I locked the bathroom door and flushed the entire bottle.
The second time, I couldn't walk more than ten steps without falling.
Honestly, I'm just wondering why they use poison to purify me.
2. I'm afraid of the ocean.
I'm afraid of looking down one day, and not seeing the edges. Of there being nothing there.
I'm afraid of falling and having nothing to catch me.
There's already nobody. The ground is really all I have.
1. I'm afraid of breaking things.
Like, once, I broke my dad's trust in me.
Once I broke somebody's heart.
Once I broke my kindergarten teacher's favorite
things i want you to know.0.things i want you to know. in Free Verse More Like This
there is a picture in my living room
of my parents in their twenties, in sunhats,
there is a picture of my father holding me
when i was two years old.
there is a picture of my parents
on their wedding day.
there is a picture of me when i was
ten, eleven, twelve.
i’m seventeen now and
i won’t let my mother
take any of the pictures
i need to believe that, at one point,
this house was more than just
i was born on the second-to-last day
i weighed seven pounds, two ounces,
and it was ninety-nine degrees out.
four years before that, in 1992,
the officers who beat rodney king
within an inch of his life
five years before that, in 1991,
a cyclone in Bangladesh killed
138,000 people and made 10 million
ten years before that, in 1986,
a fire in a Los Angeles library
damaged more than 400,000
and on that day, april 29, 1996, i was born
and i’d like to pretend
that it was a go
boys that want you, boys that love you.1.boys that want you, boys that love you. in Free Verse More Like This
there are four kinds of love.
the first is honest.
the first is messy.
it’s smeared makeup.
it’s tears over a martini.
it’s people dancing alone.
it’s off-key singing, at the top
of your lungs.
it’s unmade beds.
it’s the hickey on your neck.
it’s the gasp he gave
when he first saw you,
how he missed your lips
when he tried to kiss you.
after he made you cry.
the second kind is what you feel
for the boy lying next to you.
there’s cigarettes in the ashtray,
panties on the floor,
a lump in your throat,
and he does not love you back.
the third kind is when you'll meet
and that little moment will stretch
into something huge and permanent,
into a month/six months/a year
of a million glances that you'd thought
it’s when you'll say nothing
and neither will he
because there will be no need
because he'll very nearly smile
and you'll know.
painkiller.you show me a bottle of advil. you say to me, “if i swallow all these pain pills at once, do you think i’ll finally stop hurting?”painkiller. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
“you shouldn’t joke about that,” i say.
in retrospect, i should have been grateful.
it was the only joke you’d ever told where i wasn’t the punchline.
i’d like to write your name in a bathroom stall. i’d like to come back every day, checking for tears in sharpie’d letters. for a “he’s such a scumbag.” for a “you’re not alone.”
i guess i want to think that you’re a criminal mastermind. i want to think that you’re a serial heartbreaker. i want to think out there, somewhere, is somebody else like me, who you’ve hurt.
(i know you’re none of those things. i know that you’re just a boy – and, really.
that's the saddest part of all.)
i taught you how to stargaze, and how to uncross your arms and let people in
dichotomy.i.dichotomy. in Stories & Vignettes More Like This
there’s a monster inside of my head.
it moved in four years ago, but they say it’s always been there. my daddy has one. so does his mom.
they say that’s where i got it. dad says grammy’s monster made her beat him until he was seven. dad says his monster made him drink until he blacked out, for twenty years.
they all say, “don’t let it in.” they all say, “it’ll control you, because you are weak.”
(actually, they say “vulnerable.”)
they tell me its name, so i can paint it on my wrists, on my forehead, along the curves of my ears. keep out. no BIPOLAR DISORDER allowed. they say it notices loud things. capital letters, for one. or crying children. or hatred. or fear.
they do not tell me what it’s like to see it. they do not tell me what’s it like, to feel it burrowing under your skin.
when it came to me, i pleaded with it. i said, “please go away,” and it didn’t listen.
queen of nothing.what I've learned:queen of nothing. in Emotional More Like This
I still remember singing in my room when I was six, and having my mother come down the hall and slam the door so hard that the windows shook.
Her nails hurt when she scraped the tears off my face. "It doesn't matter what you want," she'd always tell me.
Like, when that drunk driver swerved and hit her car I didn't want her to leave me, and it didn't matter.
Once on vacation I bought a pair of fuzzy leather heels for two hundred dollars, and when I wore them to dinner, I found out that
1. "Suede" is a fancy word for "fuzzy leather."
And 2. Good things don't last: That night my cousin told me that she thought 135 pounds was a little too big for five foot eight. So I tore my tights up to the thigh and threw those new suede heels in the garbage.
It felt good later, to know that they couldn't hate me more than I hate myself.
My six-word story from ninth grade reads, "If I don't laugh, I'll cry."
When I read that treating people like trash to gets them to nee
why we pity angelsto him;why we pity angels in Free Verse More Like This
you are afraid of phonecalls. you
are afraid of your own voice, and
opening your ribcage to let
your heart come live on your sleeve.
you are afraid of living without caffeine
or alcohol, whatever the day calls for;
you are afraid of being real
without laughing afterwards, becoming
everything you worked so hard to get
away from, acknowledging all
that you still are. know this:
I am afraid of loud noises.
I am afraid of honesty and drowning,
people I don’t know and words
I won’t say. I am afraid
of growing old and living alone and
you not accepting me. I am afraid
of myself. In that, we are the same.
I have the compulsion to grab you
and cup you to me like you are some
half-alive bird, like that sound
as the lazy sun paints you a portrait is
your hummingbird heart and not my own
shallow breaths. in the beginning,
you were my peace of mind. you traced
the contours of my being with a scalpel
and held me up, a shadow puppet,
as the darkest, blackest figures I gav
catch a falling star, put it in your pocketthere's something about those little brokencatch a falling star, put it in your pocket in Free Verse More Like This
dreamer girls with misproportionate promises
and lingering whispers,
who walk like angels, lost, and trying
to find a way back home;
whose hearts bleed abnormally loud
and resonant- those girls with
shadows like ghosts [dead and haunting],
that make them a flavor
to taint your tongue.
if you listen close, you can hear the
unraveling words that once knit the hollow space
between their bones,
you can hear their shallow sighs like
sun sets for a final time.
you can hear their ticking time bomb lungs
and you can touch their secrets, because they
wear them on their skin. not like wounds,
more like sun kisses or wispy tattoos
ingrained into who they are; you won't know
what they mean until you connect the dots
and find answers in their questioning stares.
they'd like to remain something unknown, because
they've identified the world as a disease- vile and
insidious, with the capability of sinking
underneath your flesh and changing who you are.
Poets Always Lieambrosial fabrications arePoets Always Lie in Free Verse More Like This
easier to swallow down when
incandescence is a blessing bestowed
only upon those with silky tongues.
deceptions are beautiful
in the right words
because they are salvation, like a
rapture, they save the sickly,
self-indulgent souls from those
tragedies they used to write on the insides
of childhood notebooks about who
they could never be [themselves]
they rescue them from tremulous
corners and closets, hideaways
where they've grown too akin to
the demons they nurse; and drag
them into a land beautiful enough
to wear light as a second skin
(where lies are never discussed
but always shared)
are so much more comforting
than the absoluteness of reality
because self-resentment is as
natural as a heartbeat to those
who were born breathing and
abhorring and denying all from one
steady gasp of what the existent world
had to offer to them
back then their eyes opened, and
their fingers fumbled, born, they realized
the world wasn't as pretty as promi
unfilterediunfiltered in Free Verse More Like This
i’d tell you I hated you
if you had a voice or a face,
or any sense of tangibility aside
from the spider fingers you use
to crawl through my brain
you are not beautiful, like
all the other poets protest. you
are the red in my eye, like
a pen bled; the ragged to
my fingernails, the hitch of my breath
when it catches in my throat.
before i go, i’ll write a million letters (a million
pennies for my thoughts, bitter, embedded
under my tongue) and send them to people
i’ve never met, telling them how my eyes were blue
when i was little but now are the same gray
i’m choking on, how i am maddie and how that’s short
for a name i was never graceful enough for, how
i tell myself stories of lives i’ll never live so i
can go to sleep
because when i’m really gone, that’s all that’ll be left
(it’s funny what people
try to justify with words)
you never loved me,
you selfish thing, i wonder why
i wasted so many nights relivin
things I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleepithings I learned at 11 am while I was half-asleep in Free Verse More Like This
I’m spending most of my time
not crying, and I’m sorry,
but I don’t think I’ll ever love anyone
as much as aspirin, or lullabies,
or the cheap wine sold for two dollars a bottle,
or overly-apologetic letters bending over backwards
to make a point of themselves, or the pink petals
blooming on my wrists like flesh and blood miracles,
or the songs named after women
things may not change,
but you will have to.
I am most alone
surrounded by people
and the buzzing in my head of words
that should have lost their meaning
back when I discovered
they never meant anything
Dedications are only relevant
to people who appreciate shitty poetry,
or you. Insanity is writing the same thing
over and over and expecting it not
to sound clichéd.
and as much as anyone will swear otherwise,
I am a statistic. A number, an example,
a case study in the manipulation of
narcissism and moving on
diluted evanescencebreezes are fickle things, you saiddiluted evanescence in Free Verse More Like This
when your eyes were somewhere far away
the wind danced in the narrow expanse
of all our waning hopes and desires,
and something about the way the air grew static
made me remember a time when
inexperience was still a virtue.
sparks go out, you said
as the discord dimmed
(glossy eyes weren't always
made of glass, but they became
along the line of desperation)
I truly believed the world pulsed somewhere
in the cadence of your voice,
because in your breath- earthquakes would
break and oceans would crash and I always
came up short.
we're living a borrowed life, you said
but no one ever taught us how
to save up time
don't try to tell me
pain is pertinent to
everyday living I couldn't
hear my own words, either
forget me, you said
I am only evanescent
I am beautiful, forget me
you didn't earn those wings
from saving any souls,
you just wanted a better way
ColorblindI gave away my name todayColorblind in Free Verse More Like This
and it might be a metaphor, but I think
we only remember the quietest suicides
the walls are thin enough to listen
as the angels try to scratch free;
bloodied fingernails and God says everyone
screws up, sometimes
I'm waiting for a silent night.
I only ever believed in solid ground
and depressions' tides, and sometimes,
those little wounds I nursed deep
within my vocal chords (because
my voice is dying, too)
I can see the beautiful people, now
overdosing on their own opiums of
self-acquittal and dissolution
they ran out of ways to ask for help.
I'm fragile, but my glass ribs
aren't holding much
and I'm through trying to find something
different, because it's scary to know
what exactly's the same
yesterday I was someone else and
tomorrow I'm further into inevitabilities of
who I promised I'd never be--
I'm waiting for a happy ending,
but if you love something
you let it go.
on becoming alivethank god for sleeping pillson becoming alive in Free Verse More Like This
and the man who gave me a bag
to quiet my mind.
thank god for boys with open hands
and curious minds and naïve hearts
who make me young because
god, you birthed me old
you birthed me old,
so I could be the one to
measure the livelihood of stars
while the others made
their childhood wishes
thank god I have a mind
that runs a million miles faster
than I ever could, because
I believe my heart is an hourglass
of honey and grime, and
I’m slowly running out of
time, and I fear
these days are numbered.
thank god for people
who write the words bleeding in my heart
without knowing I exist, thank god
for beauty and my understanding
that I only exist in relation to it
and in appreciation of what
I can’t become.
thank god for my rebirth
because I spent all those
eye-opening years of my life
sleeping behind the wheel, thank god
someone was there to wake
me up. (thank god that I can
weep for happiness and depression
in the same day,
everything I'm becomingtwo weeks until the end of the world,everything I'm becoming in Free Verse More Like This
and i’m busy stockpiling all my regrets,
writing letters to flaws i don’t care
to fix, and trying to learn to draw
infinity. it’s time for two truths and a lie:
1. i was drunk for an hour on
good vibes and loneliness and
that quote “from the moment we
are born we begin to die”
2. and god, Bianca, you still show up
in my dreams; glaze-eyed and
more vocal than you ever were
when you were half-alive
1. (how close i came to arctic happiness
when you froze in my mind,
snowflake breath lingering like
the soundtrack of my breakdown)
now, she tells me she is sick
of the clothes stretched tight like
a second skin, and the gaping silences
between her ribs, and the singsong
unimportance glazing over her
hollywood-hangover eyes. she blossoms
like an earthquake, finally
growing into the goosebumps
and hollow bones her father
gave her-- i want to cure the world,
use a freeze ray to halt time
and kiss every empty wound;
admittance is defeatthey called you beautifuladmittance is defeat in Free Verse More Like This
with porcelain eyes about to crack
and cigarette skin crumbling
away, a knotted spine and
you were never gracious.
you're slipping underneath, this
virulent smog masks a paper sky that
never allowed a dream and
you're afraid because it's soaking in
your pores again, unattainable and unoriginal;
the meaning of life never meant enough-
you were never hopeful.
there's a getaway map on the underside
of your pillow, and a lifetime of secrets
on the underside of your bones
you're a walking travesty:
your chest ticks, dull
your wrist beats, dying
time is keeping you but
you were never patient.
you lie large enough to make us believe you
don't entertain nightmares, but what if
no one could hear you scream?
remarkable, it seems
caged birds really know how
to sing out
(you were always beautiful)
pretty little poet fingersfabricated gods rest between thepretty little poet fingers in Free Verse More Like This
languid crevices of
her fingertips, scribbling profanities
all over her skin.
she's just mismatched bones
& blue bruises, telling of forbidden
love through archaic letters.
a tongue made for
wanderlust, & eyes made
for the stars,
even the devil fears her.
Howling For TreacheryI wish I could liveHowling For Treachery in Free Verse More Like This
on nothing but air;
killing the hunger
to consume every
(Maybe all along,
I've been the wolf in
Why is it that when
I exercise my own
these fangs just
continue to hone
(It's too painful
to continue howling
at this contorted reflection.)
Yet every time
I take an ax to
its claws just leave
another patch of
scars on the inside
of my skin to remind
me just what I am.
(The girl who cried wolf
will never be able to
butcher her own heart.)
They say beauty is only skin deep,so hand over that defected scalpel in your bloodless handsThey say beauty is only skin deep, in Free Verse More Like This
and watch carefully as I peel away this tainted skin
to make way for my blackened and corrupted
And everyone can finally see
the grotesque monster that lies deep within
this soiled excuse they seem to enjoy calling
If beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
then why is it that I can't stand
gazing upon my reflection
every time I pass by a mirror?
Unheard of and undefinedSometimes,Unheard of and undefined in Free Verse More Like This
I have this sudden impulse to
bite off my tongue.
It wasn't made for
pretty words and kept promises
in the first place.
Back to back and
straight on til daybreak,
our soliloquy seems never ending.
When was the last time
you remembered to cry for all the broken hearts
that were not your own?
IcarusSun girl,Icarus in Free Verse More Like This
the whispering stars
& feathered clouds dance
for you tonight.
Do not let anyone
clip your wings;
you were made for the skies.
AstrologicalI have lost myself toAstrological in Free Verse More Like This
Venus & Mars,
tangled in their mismatched limbs.
Just dream dust & shattered prayers
begging for a new set of skin
(she can't remember where she orbits).
Pluck these fractured wings;
the Sun & Moon no longer ache
to see me fly in their luster.
AquariusShe is the winter's heartAquarius in Free Verse More Like This
and a January zephyr—
amethyst ankles frozen in time.
(eleven stars circulate her glacial ribs)
Forever shin-deep in the seas of
a conformed humanity,
she shall always sanctify the stains.
You WillIYou Will in Free Verse More Like This
Catholic school can really fuck you up.
“you have ugly hair”
Breasts at the age of nine.
Bullying makes you someone you don’t want to become;
hide all that blackness in your heart
with overly cheerful hyperactive personalities
(that make others think you’re a little strange),
Friends can’t tell when you just want to
and be alone
because of how deep you’ve dug yourself in.
Afraid of yourself, you think and think, and THINK,
until you are terrified you’re going to give in
to those dark thoughts -
(and if you do, then you’re just numb afterwards.
Staring at hands blankly).
Faith in everything, the world, God,
people around you,
all you can see is horror.
You hide it, fake it, pretend to be okay.
Why would anyone care to listen?
Just one person of billions
with worse problems than you th
Last night,I broke every bone in my bodyLast night, in Free Verse More Like This
so I could have a reason to drown
in the isolated ocean inside me.
when my dilapidated lungs finally caved in,
I swam ashore and crawled across the polluted sand.
Only glass-edged skin
and salt-licked eyelashes
can help me now.
Storybook EndingHer ink-stained lips have kissed too many a forgotten page,Storybook Ending in Free Verse More Like This
and phoenix down]
And her Prince Charming has yet to come,
shattering like stars]
So all she can do is gaze out her tower window,
concealing poisoned apples]
Clutch that corroded and timeworn blade,
tearing down castle walls]
Toss her childhood fables to the waltzing of the moon,
[even broken wings
wish for happily ever afters]
[once upon a time
there was a girl who became her own hero.]
the psychology of a high school fuck-upwhen i was a little girl my parents would tell methe psychology of a high school fuck-up in Free Verse More Like This
the world is like a weight to your shoulders, and you shouldn't
grow up too quick, because it might break you tall
into the stone of the sidewalk, a ghost into your clothes,
a being with sordid backbones and shattered kneecaps-
but numbers are only derivatives to all the broken anapests:
like high school led pencils and spots all the cool kids
would sink into the soil like pot and get high under the smog
of broken shoulders.
i, too, am physically broken
by the glamour of all those little girls
who grew up to be all the pretty princesses they wanted,
complete with those pink ruffled dresses, heels that
prop their ankles from the ground and dolls
they would keep on their lap,
my shoulders, too, are broken
like every other little kid
under the weight of tiny cranes and buzzing bees,
the organs between my legs-
like every other kid
who was five when she climbed under her father's shed
to find the broken talisman
she now finds under h
foghe is like the arrival of birds:fog in Free Verse More Like This
slow, beautiful at first
but spreads gray like cancer
spilled milki am a girl with without feelingsspilled milk in Free Verse More Like This
the type with ccrossed legs and closed eyelids
the type with i don't knows written across
her lips and spines and collars crooked with
the weight of love across her back
i don't know
i am a repetitivve being who can't speak
without stutters or write withhout petty kkinks.
but i have shudders in my pupils and cringing
in the back of my throat when i close my eyes
to you, you-
the ugliest thing who can't let me write a word
without acid. without tickling in the back of my stomach
without the cramps in my chest, the slaps to my heart
people tend to call butterflies
though i beg to differ because butterflies aren't
supposed to fucking hurt.
so i'll just call them hammers and nails.
not the types of hammers with a metal crook,
but the type with flesh covering it, skin-
not the types of nails with rusted silver-
but the type with dirty, disgusting contorts
that don't penetrate but scrape my own skin.
i'd say i want mr. perfect
but not even god dates that wel
cancer handshoney, you should have knowncancer hands in Free Verse More Like This
i'm one of those tasteful girls
with all those tongues hidden
in her bones
and not one of those watered down ones
wasting their time with fake, ersatz tastes,
but the pilled, the ones that can be
and can't kill
with cancer hands
springwhen i woke to the melting winterspring in Free Verse More Like This
but then i remembered
he died with autumn.
stonei know hearts break easy,stone in Free Verse More Like This
but i've still got a couple
the eleventh hourif i could steal people's touchesthe eleventh hour in Free Verse More Like This
and hide them in my pockets
i would steal yours-
i would take the kind of burning
that comes only with
the time right before you
officially touch, the friction
of your hands nothing compared
to the ensnarement of your eyes-
that time before you just feel
the breath of his resting upon your shoulder
in a clatter of emotion you know
no one else can understand-
that time where
his lips first open to speak
and you already know what
he is going to say, just
like smolder after rain-
that time between
night and day
and the sun bleeds into the sky
i would be prometheus;
i would steal the inferno
from even the most burning gods.
i would be a thief; the thief
of your most burning hearts-
the messenger of
the breath speaking in your lungs-
the harbinger of
the hair standing
on the back of
i will be that time where
the only power you can feel
is the burn of two of the most human things
doing the mos
a confession1. in eleventh grade, our teacher told us disney was fucked up. she showed us some video where all these little girls said they felt bad for belle, but if she had listened to beast, she would be okay. she should let him hit her so they would be okay. so they could get married. but then all i could think of was how i remembered ariel gave up her fins and her voice for some boy. and all i could think of was how fucked up it was i would give my legs up for you, too, like i was used to strapping them to your thighs. that i learned not to speak, but move and wail. and that’s what love was.a confession in Flash Fiction & Vignettes More Like This
2. meeting you was kind of like meeting that part of myself i had forgotten. like i’d dropped you when i was walking to class one day. then i came back to you, through the arbor of the rain, soaking wet and on my knees, begging, my hair and eyes a collection of weakness and water. and you were a new kind of jesus, complete with blue jeans and a crooked smile, nailed to the bed, your halo a pil
if teen dreams were teen novelsthere was once a boy who had all the write words to sayif teen dreams were teen novels in Free Verse More Like This
with all those fancy allegories, metaphors and similes
and antonyms of synonyms, like rails and snares and storms
and organs and trains and drums and hurricanes and
and she was only a girl with plain words, the kinds of things
that are only found in piles of papers and pens, books
she keeps where she sleeps,
that will only break when he leaves in the morning,
but she shares everything, like a boat shares a bard,
like a cigarette shares a lung, like a mouth shares other mouths,
like an artist shares her heart.
but there is a running in her heart:
not that type of beat she got when she was a little girl
and her favorite boy gives her a kiss on the cheek, but like when
he first shared his words with hers,
the kind of thing she gets only with naked skin,
and not like that kind of naked skin, naked, but before that
when she looks up and his eyes shine in that kind of way she thinks
might've happened when shakespeare was a teena
honey, we're a couple wars spenti met a girl oncehoney, we're a couple wars spent in Free Verse More Like This
who told me she had a boy
with a war set in the crooks of his lungs
and vocal cords, the perfect mix between
a hippie and a marxist,
with fire in his eyes the size of hammers
and coal, a manifesto of cold stares and
the distant histories of hiroshimas, nagasakis
words stuck on the thickest
parts of his lips, sealed in the cracks
with democracy and deity, hitlers
and stalins and mussolinis,
the pawn of the highest pedigree.
but he had his own soviets, americans
and europeans, she said:
the calluses, muscles, of his own skin-
the finest of cells of the working class,
the bone and the brittle of worth and vice,
entitlements accompanied by the ache of
the bitten, copper tongues of liberty.
Poets make the best liars. His black eyes were stars, andPoets make the best liars. in Free Verse More Like This
the c o n s t e l l a t i o n s in their depths
told me sad poetic stories of-
past lovers, grey mornings
Old TricksYour lonely collarboneOld Tricks in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
whispers of destruction,
and flowery obituaries.
it sings of has been stories, and
But, only when I
dare open my eyes.
You weren't the pixie goddess
I painted with pretty words.
You were hard life pains,
and those nasty little pleasures
[ we never dared to talk about. ]
But, I'll save you the trouble
of a halfhearted denial&
Rats and RosesI don't like rag doll dreams.Rats and Roses in Free Verse More Like This
The kind where I literally
start falling apart at the seams.
won't you please?
I'm comparing rats to roses.
Because, and this hurts me to admit-
years and years before my bones
are washed clean of your fingerprints-
Sooner or later,
you're going to forget my name.
It will no longer slip through your teeth
to rest at the tip on my tongue.
in the eyes you found your 'other',
We will always be the lovers
who mixed their ashes with gun powder.
Stone AngelsHe had tigers blood.Stone Angels in Free Verse More Like This
that called to me
like a siren's song,
while his demonic tongue
hissed 'S h i p w r e c k e d'.
We covered ourselves in ink,
danced along jailhouse walls
under street lights, the edges
of skylines, darkened alleyways
and the parking lots of churches.
We spoke in riddles gestures;
the quiet sweep of eyelashes;
cigarette smoke that lingered
long enough to shape heavens
within our irises while crows
rested on our shouldersperched
pecking, waiting for one to move.
As we were nothing more than
long-limb statues atop gravestones.
TragedyShe said, "The way you go about your life is pointless.Tragedy in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
You bury yourself so deep into those notebooks
the world passes you by as those 'artist' fingers cause you cramps."
And I stared at her with angry eyes and angry fingers,
saying, "I'm sorry I don't have a life worth writing about, Mother."
AcheI'm chasing shadows.Ache in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
Weaving words together
along the silk threads
between villain ribs
and an ice queen heart.
I feel dizzy from
tornado fingers clawing
my empty eyes,
[ pulsing through
of old flesh wounds. ]
Tiger EyesHidden between a ribcageTiger Eyes in Free Verse More Like This
not fit for company, or
I grasped your heart, tightly.
We were a mess of ugly
metaphors, and tongues
gone limp-from far to many
late night, gunpowder kisses.
The kind that left nostalgic
paper cut hearts that burned
and ached, lonesome for you
after months of itching.
Tired, but deadly, I once found
you resting at my feet, peering
up with hungry tiger eyes and
[ I never wanted you more. ]
NightdanceWe danced like monsters:Nightdance in Free Verse More Like This
lurking shadows atop gravestones,
long-limbed, and hungry.
We were hips and stitched lips.
Clinging widows to a dying mate.
You held my hand, whispering,
S c r e a m
lets wake the dead."
And in the end,
like fallen soldiers.
Lurking between the foldsDear _______,Lurking between the folds in Free Verse More Like This
Words don't mean
as much as they use to.
These letters are pointless.
[ I tried to write
that wasn't centered
Innocent FearShadows dance along the wall,Innocent Fear in Free Verse More Like This
A morbid party for one and all.
A child's fear manifests,
Of the dark, cold, innocent night.
Round, and round, their imagination goes.
Where it stops,
Footsteps creak along the floor,
A monster knocking at their bedroom door.
Mommy's comforting blanket wont work anymore.
Heart beat rising,
And eyes closing...
A silent scream builds up within their very core.
My Poems are ScarsWhat is the point of poetry?My Poems are Scars in Free Verse More Like This
It only creates a record
Of things I would rather forget.
So why do I even write it?
Why do I document despair
To dwell on it later
And relive those memories
That should be old scars?
Is it because I cant remember
Without some trigger
And some masochistic part of me
Cannot let go of my past?
My poems are what I have left
Of that place I once called home.
But why do I read them
When Im so much happier here?
Am I Lying?My roommate thinks I'm straight;Am I Lying? in Free Verse More Like This
I haven't told her differently,
And I wonder...
Am I lying?
I use gender neutral pronouns when speaking of my ex;
She changes them to "he" in her responses,
And I wonder...
Am I lying?
We share close living spaces and talk about girl stuff;
She has no clue that I like girls,
And I wonder...
Am I lying?
Four Hundred miles away, and no one knows;
I haven't told anyone,
And I wonder...
Am I lying?
TrustWhat is trust?Trust in Free Verse More Like This
Is it that moment of stupididy where one lets their guard down,
And opens their vulnerabilities to someone?
Why would anyone want that?
Why did I want that?
Is it possible
To trust again and again after so many stabbings
In the back and the heart and the mind by those I once loved?
Why would anyone want that?
Why did I want that?
Could there possibly be
A person on this planet who can be trusted,
Who won't turn around and break me like all the others?
Why would anyone want that?
Why do I want that?
DepressionWhy must it be so irrational?Depression in Free Verse More Like This
This despair that haunts me.
Circumstances light a spark
That builds despite combatants.
Why must they haunt me?
These nightmares of the day
And the fear in the night.
That steal away my courage.
Why am I so weak?
Unable to shake these
Feelings of hopelessness
I do not understand.
CometYou told me to be a comet -Comet in Free Verse More Like This
to grow new wings
and sit out on the roof
and watch the men gather
like seals upon the rocks,
their voices threadbare
warping the wooden pilings
underneath their feet.
You said I was a magnet -
north facing and truant,
missing my arms and legs;
while out in the street
the rain made the dogs go mad
and all the poets were starving
and swallowing their fathers.
You promised you would
take me back with you,
your charity in my pockets
and let me wash myself clean
in your lily pale whys-
my belly slit like a barbarian,
warm and inviting you in -
Both of us remembering
to lock up heaven's gate
and leave no traces
of our bleeding
or any silent sounds
our mothers could identify
and send to call us home.
MoonlessThe moonless eveningMoonless in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
turns its back against the sky
and leaves it empty.
Perhaps the morning
will come back with its hands full,
holding up the sun.
RedThere is nothing discreet about this love -Red in Free Verse More Like This
it hangs on my chest,
a defiant noise -
the scent of something luscious
stretched between your hips.
Your back arches
in a way only Psyche can feel.
You wear it
in a cheap red dress
that comes apart like midsummer
in my hands
as we flaunt the stars,
the stones under our skin
stretching the bed frame
till we crack.
And I fill you up,
your arms a battle
raging in the waning lies
ProdigalShe made hot chocolate that morning -Prodigal in Free Verse More Like This
the kind that sticks to the mug
and burns -
and baked an apple cobbler,
deep dish warm with butter and fruit,
for the prodigal had returned.
She turned out the sheets
on his bed
and hung his jeans
out to dry -
the bright flag of denim
announcing his return
to everyone on the street.
Slowly the neighbors trickled in
to wonder and gape -
offerings of spiced ham
and ale, brown bread with raisins
and freshly knitted socks and mufflers
in soft merino shades -
all bundled as if in tribute.
They wanted to see
if he could still sing Amazing Grace
in his fine tenor voice
and drink the men under a table,
his fists the only answer
left lingering in the dark.
They hoped to see
the tall buildings
in his cheeks,
and the alley's long shadows
bruising the skin
at his temples;
and maybe he had stories
birthed in wine
and women's hips that would
steam the bite
off their jaws
and make their wives blush.
For a city left its mark,
as if proof was needed
RoadYou said Kansas was too flatRoad in Free Verse More Like This
and dry, nothing but a sullen map
in the dust as the truck lumbered
down the highway.
I watched you slug back
bottle after bottle of malt liquor,
tossing the bodies in the back seat.
Dead cowboys you called them,
your jaw spoiling for a fight.
I kept my hands on the wheel
and watched the heat move sideways
through the wheat,
trying to pretend your chin lived
somewhere else and that the sun
had something more important
to do than watch me drive.
We ate egg salad sandwiches the way
your mother made them - too much salt
and celery and without the crusts
and drank grape soda warm and fizzing
from the cans and I prayed the rain
would soften the landscape and
lull you to sleep.
The radio was a better friend than me
peeling the vinyl off the dashboard.
I listened while Glen fixed another
heart in Wichita and you drowned
your hangover in some dogeared novel
you found in a gas station bathroom.
And we just drove
with the sound of people
EnigmaI am the saintEnigma in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
You are the sinner
I am the loser
You are the winner
I am the storm
You are the calm
I am the chafe
You are the balm
I wear your thoughts
You eat my soul
I'm all in pieces
You are my whole
I long for peace
You adore war
I am your virgin
You are my whore
I steal emotion
You live for reason
I am too loyal
You thrive on treason
I break your heart
You bleed my mind
You say I'm gentle
You're cruel to be kind
RachelI will call you RachelRachel in Free Verse More Like This
was all he said.
It suits your mouth, your dress,
the combs in your hair,
It fits the starlings at your feet,
the crows in a perfect vee
at the end of the sky,
the low voice of locusts -
And it remembers his handprints,
just how you took them off
and pinned them
to the hem of your skirt
and wore each letter
bareback like his thorns.
MoonI will meet youMoon in Free Verse More Like This
where the mad, mongrel moon
sways from course
and crests over the chimney tops,
leaving his shadow between our sheets.
we will make him our ardent lover,
his junkaroo smile
brimming the cusp
of our hips like swans,
the bright wasp
of his longing gaze
like a canopy of sighs
where the morning
cannot find us.
Star CollectorThey said he collected stars -Star Collector in Free Verse More Like This
plucked them one
from the abyss
left dangling off
with his father's best
He could feel the future
in their shiny points
and the sharp prick
of something maddening
glowing under their silver skins;
and when he held them
their embers glowing -
tiny spines curling up
to tell him stories.
But their laugh
was what he loved best -
sea breeze and green glass
and the whistle of a dandelion
shedding its blustery mane
across the pebbles
of the pond.
ShroudShe weaves a dress upon the loom,Shroud in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
her neighbors knowing it's a shroud,
window dressing for a tomb -
she weaves a dress upon the loom.
Forbidden fruit has scarred the womb,
a stranger's face amidst the crowd,
she weaves a dress upon the loom -
her neighbors knowing it's a shroud.