To the point that
I no longer speak
The language of humans
I just howl, howl
Howl
Lick my wounds
Preparing to hunt for you
Tear your chest apart
And feast on your spirit

I think there is something wrong with me
for I cannot love as deliciously
or deeply as I used to.
I cannot be swallowed by the hope of
unconfirmed fictions I once called love.

There is a still an inkling of
fierceness that wants to clench someone
so tightly to my body that we become one
wet with the desire of perpetual ****** motions.

I am broken for the shadow kin still sleeps within,
longing to uncover soft warm pale skin underneath
her ******* lacey dress, and thin white sheets.
I still long to let my fingers swirl,
submerged in a wetness of that beautiful girl
gyrating as our tongues vibrate with
the sweet sexiness of her pink part lips.

I am broken because I would let her
harness me, riding to find whatever she needs,
bending my tongue to taste
sweet strawberry juices from below her waist.

But that will never be.
I am broken because I no longer believe
there is anything less then
masturbatory fantasies
left for me.

You shouldn’t be there
At the back of my mind
You shouldn’t be
My morning and waking hour thoughts
You shouldn’t be
my 11:11 mantra
You shouldn’t be
my wish upon a shooting star
You shouldn’t be there
It’s very unconventional
You should be here, right here
Right beside me, here in my arms

Nine years and still
we cradle our grief
carefully close,
like groceries
in paper bags.

Eventually the milk
will make its way
into the refrigerator;
the canned goods
will find their home
on pantry shelves.

Most things find
their proper place.

Eventually the hummingbirds
will ricochet against scorched air,
their delicate beaks stabbing
like needles into the feeder filled
with red nectar on the back porch.

Eventually our child
will make her way
back to us. Perhaps.

But I’ve heard
that shooting
****** feels
like being
buried under
an avalanche
of cotton *****.

For now it’s another
week, another month,
another trip to Safeway.

We drive home and wonder
why it is always snowing.
Behind a curtain of snow,
brake lights pulse, turning
the color of cotton candy,
dissolving into ghosts.

And with each turn,
the groceries shift
in the seat behind us.
From the spot where
our daughter used to sit,
there is a rustling sound—

a murmur of words
crossed off yet another list,
a language we’ve budgeted
for but cannot afford to hear.

Birds of a feather flock together
Birds who have a lover fulfil each other
Birds with a nest get some rest
Birds who are alone are left to roam

To my friends
who can write
fresh-smelling
bouquets of words
with splendid color,
I offer my envy.
Mine are the blunt, stunted words,
rooted in the cracks
in pavement,
or forcing their way
to light around
overbearing rocks.
Some useful
in their own way,
edible or flavorful,
some with a
pedestrian beauty,
but few that one
would bring home in a bunch
with a box of candy.
More appropriate
in a grimy, young fist
crumpled in love,
destined to be vased
in a water glass
by a doting mother,
or shredded petal by petal
for the sake of soothsaying...
he loves me, he loves me not.

We live in lives full of lies,
Everyone.
A few words that sleep beneath your rough, cold skin, waiting.
Waiting and watching as your world changes colour; obnubilates and conceals the white.
All the while you are oblivious, too caught up in a web contrived of pure mystery.
Woven by predujicious circles of black.
Did you hear that?

What if I were to tell you,
that your soul dances in delight
every time your heart aches

                                Would you think her evil?

                                Would you conspire against her?

And what if I were to tell you
that the soul knows,
the knowledge of experience
          Are the fruits of its labor
That the wisdom
          hidden in pain,
          Are what it's after

And what if I were to tell you,
that without these,
                             You starve her,
                             Deny her,
                             Un-express her

Would you understand her now?
Would you give her the life she craves?
or
Would you continue to deny her existence
                                             ...and ultimately,
                                                              yo­urs?

--PY

my soul is a basement
flooded with un-choreographed movement,
rapid waters of words I never really meant
and empty fish bellied breaths
My heart is no different
just one big blue gilled vessel
aching
wishing for stars within black veins

I want to go to a place,
where everyone is mad.
And no shame comes with that,
Were being a dreamer is not an oddity.

I want to go to a place were there Is,
no 'society', just a community.  
A place that is made up of wallflowers and misfits,
Yet everyone is excepted.

I want to go to a place,
Were people are not fond of
The rules of the status quo.
Were people cant be judged because
Everyone there is similar,
In the way they think,
The way they act,
The way they carry themselves.

I want to go to a place.
Were I am free.
-Kiya Eagen