a weekend vanishes in smoke,
what even happened? I cannot recollect

is sleep cyclic? an hour inducing yet
another, passing days in dreamy hazes

I think I did things — my calendar tells me so.
but the hours pass by in foggy mist.

perhaps I should talk to more people
perhaps I should read a book
perhaps I should write some poetry

but these things require so much effort

I may as well sleep

Crimson dew
falls upon  white
roses, staining petals
blush pink         her cheeks

fiery, cries echoing upon
endless walkways, penetrating
the winter silence of the night sky.

Off with his head. Off with her head.
Off with their heads. Off. Off. Off. Off. Off.

The rhythm of clinging lockets clattering on marble floors,
strangled pleas (a please), heads thumping like metronomes

a wedding march through the chapel in pristine white.

Her heart has flown away — disappearing to
dance with stars through Hyperion foliage

She seeks it out, but her guards’ heartbeats
call to her like a sirens’ song — she
pulls them out, still beating,
blood caressing her fingers

They beat in staccato,
too-fast, too-warm.

Too late

it is gone gone gone.

Give me back my heart.

run your hand
through your hair and
watch the flakes drift silently
to the ground. best done against
a dark background — the contrast
makes it easier to see. if you sit still,
a thin layer of snow will start to cover
your skirt, the carpet, your surroundings.
now, move more quickly. scrape, scrape,
scrape let yourself feel the pain. you won't feel
it now, but it'll be cleaner afterwards. even if
your fingertips come away with red. you see, there's
something beautiful about flakes piling besides you,
covering everything, forming a small mound,
then a hill, then burying you. slough off your outsides,
your beautiful insides will show, bright, bright red. you'll
finally be able to shed your regrets. you are a dandelion,
spreading yourself in the wind,
scattering
everywhere.
dandelions leave seeds to grow, but you
— you leave pieces of yourself everywhere you go.