You fastened my wings to your web
It's a sticky situation, sure
Holding hands, hanging by a thread
But I want all your eyes on me
Sep 6, 2018
Sep 6, 2018 at 5:01 PM UTC
Put your head on me
Lay it on my shoulder.
Murmur kindly at me
Accept my gerberas
Be the world to me.
Let me know that you're breathing, at least.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
The tree by my bedroom window claws at the door and dances
Encouraged by the oncoming storm
That's why I keep the blinds shut
To keep the outside out
But moonlight seeps into my bed anyway
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:37 PM UTC
The myth of the house
Is that it's tasteful.
But your mother exalted its beauty.
Cover your eyes,
Sit still in blindness,
Let her take the wheel,
Wait in line.
The light shrieks in chorus.
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 8:35 PM UTC
It peeks through my armor and sprouts out my back
Taken from me and I gladly let it go
Millipedes are kind animals, centipedes are not
Araneae is what's possessing me
(maybe it's what I am)
but I can't help but think of other bugs, of independence
Dec 21, 2017
Dec 21, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
A warm breeze blows a warm greeting
Inhale, exhaust
Choke the way you did looking at your father's shoes
After the game
Magma runs over your feet but you think about those days
And say, "I'm not miserable"
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 5:07 PM UTC
**** them, they don’t
have to pay for parking.
My feet have tread there
a thousand times,
but only now do I see
the weight of
my million pictures.
I borrowed your eyes
for a moment,
to think through you
in a drunken view.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:52 PM UTC
My pinkies don’t bend right.
They get locked in place
attempting to navigate space
so they turn introspective,
going inward.
My aunt is a palm reader.
She looked at my lines,
at the small age of nine,
and wisely determined
my destiny.
My right hand is clumsy.
To be a good surgeon
I needed to burgeon
despite my weak faith
and faults.
Apr 19, 2017
Apr 19, 2017 at 8:49 PM UTC
We want dead children!
Empty faces, no smiles.
Tired of a shoeless life
where the promised future
is torn from my hands.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 8:06 PM UTC
She’s a rotten apple,
shiny and waxed,
full of appeal.
Peel her up,
and you’ll find
a girl past her prime.
Apr 18, 2017
Apr 18, 2017 at 8:05 PM UTC