He came and went;
the smell of burning rubber
strong between her legs.

there's no poetry in perfection

8.1.14
I felt my ancestors whisper through the trees,
their cold, dead fingers running over me
grasping firmly at my memory,
blowing the tears from my cheeks.

The forrest watches over their grave
as God could clearly not have seen through the canopy

I've got a hole in my chest
where my heart should beat,
and cigarette smoke
where my lungs should breathe;
and as my veins over-flow with pure alcohol-
it's clear that sin owns my body
and also my soul.

I can't look people in the eye-
I know that it's a flaw of mine;
but he stroked my face
and made it rise-
so that his gaze could meet my eyes;
and that look,
that stare,
it bore a hole-
that saw deep down inside my soul.

*[To see
and be seen;
I think I'll make a little more
eye contact]

It was as though I had been on trial
for nineteen years,
due process
disallowed.

The prosecution-
my chemical imbalance-
so harsh,
eased up.

The defense-
Prozac-
allowed to make
my case.

I remember it well;
the day
I decided
to let myself live.

The time had come to submit to
an urge I'd long denied.
Wanted to stop the crushing pain
with a method not yet tried.
So that night I took four Ambien-
didn't care if I lived or died;
and I slipped into a deep, dark sleep-
my fleeting suicide.