I could chew the skin off of my thumb,
Or force my teeth to bite my tongue.
I could eat my lip til it goes numb,
Or press the air out of my lungs.

I could scratch my arms until they bleed,
Or dig my nails into my cheeks.
I could swallow copper I don’t need,
Or hold my throat til I can’t speak.

I could break my bones to set me free,
Or feel my crimson tingly seethe.
I could rub my eyes til I can’t see,
Or exhale deep so I can’t breathe.

The violence fills my mouth with cherries,
Ever sweeter than before.
A taste unlike all the other berries,
And I salivate for more.

The poetry isn’t in all these words —
It’s in knowing I survived them.

There stood an imaginary, invisible houri fairy
As a bride under a maple tree
Dressed in prism-hued layers
of chiffon in ethereal shimmers
and delicate silken gossamers
She having her weeny wedding in the fall
And fairy folk bustled about all round her
as flimsy and flighty as they could be
while saffron leaves fell down upon her
in ceremonial nuptial
An autumn's ritual
and as nature's pretty confetti!

Branches denuded
Yet autumn's august
for the wilting's
ravishing!
The willowy fairy
almost drowned
in henna fallen maple leaves
Playing hide 'n'seek with a browny brownie groom
camouflaged in the heap
© Copyright

Hope--despaired.
Constance--cheated.
Faith--no longer believes.
Charity--is stingy.
Prudence--is reckless.
Patience--isn't.

And Genevieve--
Has no business being in this poem.