Rubies are dun, or red as blood,
Opals are blue, opaque, or fire
I know they burn through me,
7 opals in my favorite necklace,
14 in my favorite bracelet,
3 in my favorite earrings,
I encase myself in the flames, like they define me,
Like my birthstone is as much me as I am the earth,
And my own tainted pyre.
And I burn, burn, through all of the old photographs,
Sending them up to the goddess as ash-
Burn, burn, through old cigar boxes, through liquor bottles
And dried flowers and my father's shirts,
And my father's old camera,
And my father's old ideals for who I was to be,
Someone I will never become,
I tore through it all, razed the past to the ground,
And I blistered my fingers, I tore the love letters,
I put the stories written for me, into the ocean,
I sent my farewell postcards for them, upon the rocky shore,
I cried as I watched them torn and taken,
But nobody loves me anymore,
And I burn, burn, like the brightest of opals,
Green with envy like the jade my father stole
Red with rage like Gerry's birth stone and I
But I've made my choices, after all,
So I burn.

one day
i would like to
step out of
my evening shower
to find you
in the kitchen
saying you liked
today's rendition
of our favorite songs

Still, I remember when you entertained the idea
Of shipping off with me
I remember the passion in your eyes,
The assurance that we could do anything, just be
But what we’ve become, is everything I’ve been running
From.
And now, no matter what I desire, I have seen the darkness I’ve cast over you
The way you shy from my touch, that I should have known better
Why didn’t your father ever teach you not to play with fire?

It's a dead end heat, walking along the black asphalt,
Gravity pulling heavy on my ankles, needling my sore shoulders,
As various A/C units kick on, droning against the dead leaves,
Heavy as rushes at the edge of a pond.
I can almost smell the moss and peat and crave the cooler air,
Mouth watering for that earthy atmosphere and paths, outside this blistering concrete,
On and on the days drone on, on and on they fly by, and I'm missing,
Hours spent inside back tracking hours, reminiscing the haze
Over an abandoned playground, or the touch, of a forgotten moment,
Blood slowing, shutting down, circulation sluggish, dead,
Trying to cool down for just a breath

I am my father's daughter.
I'm a dreamer, and a fighter.
My morals are few and thin,
And I've never quite fit in.

I am my mother's daughter.
But less so than my father's.
And oh what a sin it is.
That she hoped I'd be hers, more than his.

If my dad were still alive, he'd say,
"Kyra I didn't raise you to be this way,"
"I'm so disappointed in you, you're squandering your youth,"
"Didn't amount to much in College, and can't keep a job,"
"You're lazy and a slob, and I don't like your tattoos,"
"I think you cut your hair too short,"
"I don't know what to do with you,"
He'd say, "Your financial skills are lacking, you run off with those the same gender as you,"
"And you're always moving around, with your head in the clouds."
And I know it's all true.
But daddy, I grew up to be just like you.

I want to be beautiful poetry, but instead I am vapid stanzas,
An indrawn breath between the lines.
The dampened air before the rain, and the traffic light that never turns
I am the catch in a song and the dying embers of firelight,
I am an inland lighthouse.
I am an abandoned wasps' nest and a mangy alley cat,
A tarnished ring in a landfill,
But I am also pearlescent, the destination after a long journey,
Beautiful, in its own way.