This golden coin
in the hollow of my hand
is round like his eyes
and heavy like my heart
and small like our love
and smeared like our pasts
and warm like his smile
and quiet like me
and of little value
to anyone but us,
like what we have
or almost have
or will never have . . .
but I have this:
a golden coin
that will grow
tarnished and slippery
from the sweat between
my desperate fingers
because I will never
let it go.
It’s the small things.
The little ones almost missed,
But some strand of soul
Reels them in,
Adds them to the heap
Of silver and bronze plated memories
Stashed in the heart of hearts.
Locked away by ingratitude,
Who bars the door with steeled force.
But even a slip of thanks,
Could push him aside.
And flood the world with light.
Your heart is porcelain
You cradle it in the darkness
In the dust you run your fingers
Against the edges searching desperately
For cracks that appear
Chastising yourself when one is found
Filling the spaces with glue
Hoping nothing will escape it
Did you hear me knocking?
Did you hear me walking up the stairs?
Your bedroom door swings open
You lie on the bed made up perfectly
Running your fingers along
The chambers and honeycomb connecting
The room dim lit and dust
Ten million nerve endings connect and discharge on your skin where we touch
Rushing armies of red blood cells swim to satiate the need in your brain
You recoil at my touch at first
So I pull the brittle dust covered rocking chair
From the corner
I pull up the blind to let the yellow afternoon sun pour in
Pupils adjusting from shadow
You detest the warmth and brightness for a moment.
Your eyes wide with fear as
I sit in the old chair
A strange statue I feel I have become
I read to you
From a dusty tome
Full of English poetry
"Would you come outside
And play with me?"
darkness at the very edge
and far from silent
it has a vast sound at the verge of hearing
soft and insistent
clinging to you like a frightened child
you chase the source of light
seeking comfort in its warm familiarity
through the supermarket
where housewives steal trinkets of food
where men loose spare change
through the well traveled rail station
where men in long coats await the rain
where women of dire straights await rescue
clean the razors determinations
and know that the fine line reached
is the one between her mocking you
and the reality of your cold naked bleeding in the rain
no sweeping music can change the mistakes
no well placed words can undo the changes
and everyone may pretend not to see
but they all know
and they all lied
she awakens before dawn
standing at the kitchen table
holding a paper doll
inside she screams and screams
inside the tears are an ocean of death
but to the mute world
her stone gaze fixed out the window
that in her mind is forever as shattered as her
to a world that to her is forever winterbound as her cold heart
she walks into the depths of her home
neatly pressed in her grey dress
line perfect down to makeup
but there is a steady whisper of terror leaking out of her lips
darkness has many faces
hides in plain sight
in full on sunlight
has too many names to be recalled
its lusted for and held up in praise
but it is no hero to me
she is just one average face
just one average set of fingers
looking for a trigger
looking for a thing to bury herself and blade in
and regardless of what they say
she is my only hope
i cannot be the one to bear this burden anymore
i cannot carry this awful memory any further
i want to be rid of her and her kind once and for all
she stands in her silent dark bedroom
razor in her cold fingers
thin smile on her thin lips
but im never coming back
i will never open that door
never free her of this hell she created
if it was anybody else i might feel
anyone else it might matter
let her rot
- Let’s pour a little salt,
flavor the Earth,
so She’s the only one to remember
that we were ever here.
2. I painted Care and Sympathy’s portraits,
and (falsely) titled it Love.
And you hung it on your wall to remind yourself
you weren’t entirely alone.
But I’m sure you’ve taken it down by now
and it’s sitting in a corner, under the white sheet of time.
3. And if I faced death today,
I would like to think
I could face him without flinching.
As long as he would strike quickly, in the head or the heart.
I shouldn’t mind at all.
4. He called me tiny dancer
even though I couldn’t dance.
At least not very well.
He still insisted on waltzing
in my parent’s kitchen
despite my stepping on his toes.
I missed you before we ever met
And dread the parting words
You were the pawn shop for my trinkets and baggage
Assigning palpable worth to the unimportant history
One man’s trash and tragedy
Is another man’s happiness attained
I traded my pain for gold
You’re the best story I ever told