You’re always in my minds corner,
but just too close to home.
I’m just a few stops, from preventing us,
to being better on our own.

I kiss him by his pink thin lips,
I guess I work with what I’m thrown.
But take your shots and forget-me-nots,
because my educations better off shown.

You’re just out of reach, the edge of my seat,
out of touch with my emotions flown.
Listening to your old jazz tunes,
I wonder what keeps us both alone?

Contemporary composure,
compassion fatigue,
and the endless misery
of loving someone that
could never love you.

The rigid grey hills in-
between his shy pale arms
cheer with conviction.
As he reminds me of
how it feels to be.

Autumn’s fog dances over
the lake so calm it chimes,
as I sip its reflection,
and with it,
his small half-smiles.

I write every night
on the dark cedar floors.
Tumbling in old terry sheets.
Falling in and out of,
waves of grandeur.

Let them put me in my dry grave
with whispers of how much I meant,
and how little to show for it.

Give him red roses like my tattoo -
the same one my father had warned
would last forever.

Put bold ink in my obituary -
and let my mistaken mother
misspell my degree.

They can finally paint my long nails pink
and cover me in
compliments of untimely character.

Or my great grandmother Elizabeths golden rusted rosary's.
My papa will finally have his Rose and Rosalia in one place.

I’ll finally talk to god
and tell him my name was meaningless
I don’t need a name to know the hells I came from.

But they sent me to heaven
only for what I stood for
only after I could
no longer stand it.

I fear you -
your rights and wrongs
the small on your back
bigger than before
I fear you -
that you know my dark parts
and my light ones too
weaker than before
I fear you -
kissing another broken woman
that sh’ll fit even
stronger than before
I fear you -
in the way I fear myself
because we hate the things we are
and you’re the worst of all

Let my ******* be your soft pillow,
my green eyes your emerald riches.
Arms that build up spirits and characters
for fantasies of how you want me laid.

Down in my light pink silk sets and soft
pure velvet skins - ask me for the keys.
Plenty for one small stern lock,
but you always end up breaking it open.

Our jacaranda tree waves
with eastern movements,
and fast September shifts.

Teaching my temples
to hold on for moments -
months of abrupt melancholies
and state-less depressions.

Pouring worser shades on
brighter faster mornings.
I find my pieces in what I’ve known

All along -
an unhinged gate
to a fortress of starving pansies
overgrown and unloved.