sheepskinYour love smells like snowin the deep of August, suckingme like mosquitoes and you.damn, you always had a talentedtongue, knowing just what to sayto roll me between your teeth andkeep me there; and I was hoping—no, trusting— I’d not be crushed.I should have known whenyou raised your bones against me,when you clattered your molarstogether but never bothered hidingthe truth below your belt.And a part of me says I was in love with you.
it smiledThe dirt smiles but I cannotbring myself to smile back,teeth buried in each other.The grass is working,and working, and I’m left holdingmy head, looking down at marbled names,toes curling rings of fire into my sole.(I cannot help but to thinkof the evils followed on her path.)Knees nest homes inworking soil, and I cando everything but weepand weepmy heart just belowthe worms.
burning bridgesHe planted hope into her spine,in the hope each hunchwould water it.It grew crooked vertebraeand aching knobs that bruisedbeneath his calloused thumb;eventually hunching was allshe could do to maintain herself.Sometimes she’d curl herselfinto a ball so small,that even his voicedare not reach her.but she choked on his rainand she grew his nameuntil her remainswere hunching soil.
Fish SyndromeMy thoughtsare fishbowls,and every turn,I bump into glass –And these bowls ofdesert heat perspirein the collar of my whiteSunday shirt, as Iwalk the road betweenindifference and (God)fear,just a prayer awayfrom going belly-up(You’ll always catch me dreaming –or dreaming of just dreaming –A shotgun to helland goldfish symptomsfrom holding my headjust below the surface).
collapsei.“You’re winter… someone unknown—unfeeling,” I am told by the inferno minds of mothers, poison ivy-handed and strangled by a sorrow far deeper than blue trenches… and perhaps, then, bruises are truly meant as warmth for starving hearts.When you browbeat desolation with the same fist, I drown and sob in nailboards, your absence pinned within my throat.ii.“You’re nothing but deserving,” I am told by stainless steel and death, angry and hidden alongside pillow-roofs and prayers. And maybe I don’t believe in god as I believe in it, directing midnight shadows through the intersections of scar tissue. I am only known by five white walls.weightless and dizzy-faced, they are the only true friends: iron-lipped and stable.iii.“You’re too pretty to be so shy,” I am told by a man with fishing hooks for fingers… so I sing and sigh in song, like sirens ‘neath his boat.I am skinned from the sea three
exitsWe taped cut-out starsto the blue ceilings ofhot-air balloons, and took offin search of climatesideal for dreaming.
teach me to forgetPasts unfurl in rain-puddled irises, and I wish staring into you would not reflect me.It’s a one-way mirror you say, because I’m shut up tighter than conch shells at the bottom of whale-wide trenches, enough salt and death to hide the tears pooling from every twitch of these dream-broke fingers. I just cannot hold onto them, like I can’t hold onto myself, without cracking and breaking into shards of seven-year’s bad luck - that same, stupid “save me” smile plastered into each mask I grow to fear; it doesn’t apply, it seems, to girls who break for conversation (and as easily as ‘broken’), just because pity seems the only greeting worth remembering her for.(Please tell me I’m not her anymore).
EisoptrophobiaSometimes, I avoid the hallway in the morning, because I know I’ll see you across the way (I know the boiling point of blood, but do not wish infernos or fires for these possum-playing veins). I know those dumb eyes, (memories) like reel theatres: everything too outdated for the times.Sometimes, I contemplate painting over you, like every other problem caught with the violence in manicures and windpipes, the absence of either more sorrowing than one. Perhaps like warning dogs draw newspapers, I shall draw these, because they are destined for salt-faring fish, and I am tears. They belong nowhere else, and lord knows I feel for the unwanted: I remember you in rain, and I remember you in beds when I curl in and long to whisper insides out… and perhaps I only speak Clasped-Hands, because they're the only ones who hear.
tea parties in remembranceproper are her lips, which curlwith tea cups and jagged mid-west suns.The knots of city lights akin tothe spider-veins in hearts,mangled to predation under hintsof coffee-colored fear…and though she was selectedby man’s index, she decayedbeneath his thumb;she finally feelswhat it’s like to wilt.