Mud, whiskey, death
and bad debts, the river's
high water, mysterious birds
flying south disappearing
like a youngest daughter,
no good men, bad intentions,
changing seasons, unexplained
pains, all of these are reasons
I've seen good women weeping
after the hardest rains came.

I was cold so you wrapped your body around mine. I was cold so you let me borrow your sweatshirt, each morning I would wear it and pretend it was you, wrapping your body around mine. My heart was cold and that way it remained, you withdrew your right to wrap your body around mine. I gave you your sweatshirt back.

I wonder if I will ever be warm again.

sparks of you
           lie within me
               not dormant but
            silently active
a volcano on hold
         embers in the haze
            of intensity's throb
                  and glow
my heartflames
supposedly on low
your bones are
almost molten
melding with my own
and my cells are
tiny brush fires
craving a certain water
but not just
                    any kind
I need liquids
fresh from the spring
                 icy seas
to cool my heat of soul, of ****
and gelatinous nomenclature
that clings to my tongue
I need my loops of wild light
to be egged on in the
right fluorescence
yet calmed as I spin
into your sphere

Quiet, now. Just hush up
Put your hand on my chest
          feel the beats
   calm my frenzied wires
drench my parched lingual
       expressions with your
              aqua pura
the salty sweetness
of deep desires quenched
I need soil
of the right kind
I am not a desert flower
but I have thrived
in the dry cracked
barren lands
       sunstreaks in my hair
              blooms have burst forth from
          the ******-in parchment
of my skin
making it smooth and dewy
and despite themselves,
festoons of flowers
decorate the pain.
belly deep
fill the milky white
of ******* with colors
releasing the constant,
strict tightening
pressing on my chest
and if given the
right conditions
this volcano
will
      so deliciously
erupt

Just give me
a blindfold
and a cigarette,
or two.

Love is a word
like a sword
that has worn
out its scabbard,
a lonely *******,
or a red rose
that opens alone,
a dream that lingers
for too many seasons
and passes in the shadows,
furrows in the dust
on a bannister,
a rock in the garden
of lust,
an empty place
at a table,
a ring on a cobweb
in the rain,
a long hair on your bed,
a nail in a blank wall.

I pulled the monster from the shadows, and cut his throat with glee. I muttered prayers of forgiveness, and declared it Destiny.

I couldn't stand the constant battle, the knife left in my back. I've run out of fingers and toes, counting all the things I lack.

I took those wings he severed from me, and sewed them back into place. I stood tall in spite of rumors, whispered phrases of disgrace.

Never did I claim to be a Saint, my history's tainted and twisted. But I had to ****, this Demon that existed.

Maybe I should feel remorse? He's 10 feet in the ground. But no matter how hard I search, no emotion can be found.