In death--
possibly suicide--
I wish to
fall into your arms.
Nothing simpler--
no other request--
only closer to
divinity in your grasp.

You believe that
my body is the night
yet you don't know that
I'm a woman of the light
and you are not a piece of art,
not remotely modern enough
to know me
and the ancient clay
of the *******
stitched to my chest.

My eyes were bloodshot
though sleep was a shadow
hovering over me
but not overcoming me.

How so?
I never really know:
I guess my mind never shuts up
and my bipolar trigger awakens.

I was two when he stood in my way;
shy and frozen at his feet.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

My adoring grew every passing day,
like he was the calming sea
though they told me he'd be gay.

He held me firmly in our teen sway;
begged to see my femininity.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

Just friends and nothing more than play,
I was Juliet and he my Romeo
though they told me he'd be gay.

Every kiss drew him closer to stay;
every touch pure sensuality.
(I thought he was an artist with clay.)

Him and I moved to Oregon in May,
for art and Shakespeare.
(I thought he was an artist with clay)
though they told me he'd be gay.

I remember lying on the bed
**** and beside you.
You reached for a cigarette
tobacco and yearning addiction.
I watched as you roamed the sheets
back bare and smoke floating.
The smell made me dizzy
my hips a pillow to your head.
You kept inhaling for an exhale
high and relaxing vibes.
I remember lying on that bed
only a body while you adored that cigarette.