Some bodies are made of worms,
soft, malleable, wet to the touch
with tears and a thin layer of grime,
built up over years of creaky limbs
oiled with their own disuse.

Some bodies are made of wasps,
and they are violent. The buzz
rings in the ears and they are the type
to throw drunken punches. Every
second is all that is.

Some bodies are made of earth,
in that they sustain others
and drain themselves. Global
warming will **** them off, but
for now, they shine.

Some bodies are made of other bodies,
like Frankenstein, like corpses
that aren’t quite done yet
with the worms and the wasps
and the ground that they clawed out of.

You looked at me, absent-minded. Comparing with eyes made for judgment. It's your right.

It's too bad you don't see the hurt, the words carved into me. The ones that go "she's skinnier" or "she's prettier, you know". I try and consult, whispering "mirror mirror on the wall" but it just won't look at me.

You did it without thinking. Took the liberty to stare me up and down, and when I asked you why you were surprised. You weren't doing it on purpose. I was just a visual obstacle you could look over and judge.

Maybe you lacked malice, but I still saw the wish for better in your eyes. You didn't need to put it into words. I heard it all. Felt the need for better, as I covered up, so you no longer had to be disappointed.

You checked them out and looked at me after as if surprised you'd accepted this version of a body for so long.

Inside our bodies we are Kings and queens
On lofty thrones
Steering life into submission like faithful subjects
Inside our bodies we are the world
Our words are currency
And our actions glory that comes with it
We fly, we drive, we swim—exploring eternity
We crawl, we walk, we flow—becoming forever.
Inside our bodies we are more than clay!

Gossamer draperies swell
with heat, eastern winds
push daylight
over tangled bodies.

Fingers travel up
and down your naked torso,
my hand caught suddenly
in yours as you stir,
a sleepy god awakened
by the warmth of morning.

Your body, a sundial,
keeps perfect time with mine;
two lovers cached in silken strands,
our sacred place now fully lit
with the hunger of summer.

The solstice lingers past its prime,
drifting over equator
and into southern skies
as autumn patiently waits
outside the bedroom door.

Blood stains on the carpet
You are too young to be on this floor

Clothing without a body
Shoved into boxes and garbage bags

Pictures taken off of walls
Forgotten being

Vacancy on the left side of the bed

No body
A vase of ashes

Is the coffin empty?

It could be just a dream