...
I've been homesick,

It's been a long time since I've last given birth to gods in my poetry; so to the old truths and the new: 'hallelujah'

My tongue was a slave to lovely things---I'll admit it was easier that way, but now I've been writing it down again; turning spiders into stories and cancer into planets

who was I to begin with,
who was I.

I'll say it now. I will never escape the wolves. Those wolves with their chalk outlines and their lakota moons. They'll try to teach themselves how to walk back into your life again and don't you dare forget the ruin, oh don't you dare forget how the fire kissed you

she was moonlight sonata,
but he was clair de lune.

He fed me to the bullet feast when he saw fit and I left his ashes on the sidewalk; daybreak can have it for all I care now.

"I don't know if I'm in love with you anymore"

I remember my body as a garden of stars disguised as flowers; my roots merely empty spaces dismantled by the light. I remember the bullets in the soil he planted, and the wars that grew in it's place. I became a walking example of death; a soul in the process of decay.

Who was I,
who was I to begin with.

Dear all that has haunted me all these years: I am ready for you. I have always been ready for you.

Tell me where to sell my soul, and I will meet you there.

---Swimming in the moonlight

It's been awhile since I've thought of you,
but I suppose that's because I don't allow myself to think of you anymore.

I don't remember the day I stopped breathing,
It's been so long.
Guilt was a stranger on my doorstep and he sunk his cold hands deep in the pit of my heart;  An abyss he consumed from fall, an abyss that still hangs in his mouth.
Sorrow has him famished.

Your bones had bested me into the shambles of reason. I could not help that your ivory soul stood in my reckless wake, nor that my fingers craved more than the garden that was your skin. I should have known my tongue had diseased your mind with unkept promises.

"You sad soul," the bathroom mirror hissed whenever I swallowed those pills.  The door is all but welcoming, and I stand praying for comfort within the grain.

A regular reservation I had on my rooftop with Guilt served most of my years. We basked under that sea of stars.  I watched one night as he coaxed a few into a glass jar.  
It cowers on my desk still.

to love a poet
is to admit the world
is tragic