Loving you
It will take me a long while
But when you ******* lips,
The love will no longer be bitter, no longer vile and lying,
You will taste sweet, sugary time.

My Dearest Molly Anne,
I hope you are now satisfied
With the sinking bags under my eyes and
The empty gap between my thighs, I hope
You know I can no longer sleep
Without you to rock me through the slow-rolling lake,
And sing your song of a thousand sheep.
You've started throwing
Thick red waves into my sink and
Messed with my ability to think and
Darling, you pull me
Under miles and miles of freezing sea
And you take and you take,
Never satisfied.

Hello, I'm not doing very well,
I think to myself.
I'd like to tell
You but my every apple, every cell,
Has been gutted and cored and you look so whole,
So pretty, such glow.
Hello? You're so nice on the eyes that
I never want you to know
The way I bleed through a shattered heart because these shards
Would poke holes
Through your sweet, sugar-glass wings,
Wings that could be delightfully clipped and pinned in a glass box
But I'd like to see you fly
Because it’d peal my dying, gutted mind from
All the empty apples inside
This holed up soul.

She says,
"You should know, dear
"The world doesn't stutter when it walks,
"Not the way you
"Stumble through your thoughts." And
I wish I could untie
The spool of my mind
But I
Keep feeding it thread,
Hoping it will spill out my mouth in
A rainbow scarf

Momma what’s a life in shadows?
She asks the moon, because momma’s long gone.
Are they pretty, all faceless and shifting?
Or are they h a z y ?
Does the running woman in the rain believe herself a bird?
Where’s her flock momma?
Is she l o n e l y ?
Lost about the stone’s pure grain and glory?
I’m sorry you’ve got
To share yours with the sun.
Does he know, momma?
Does the sun know
About the shadows?
Maybe if he’d come down
He could keep them c o m p a n y.
I would
If I could.
Momma what’s a life in shadows?

I
Cannot cry on my own.
Sadness will pour through my pores but
My eyes stay dry which is why
I keep a list of songs,
3 pages long,
To which I pretend to relate,
To which I scream and let dry sobs ricochet
In my chest.
It's much like permission, because I've told myself--
I have been told
--That I am not sad.
That I do not cry, there is nothing to cry about.
Not the empty wounds in my soul, not the hole in my heart.
Compared to the rest, I don't have it too bad.
See I cannot cry on my own.
So I weep through another, and I know it hurts
The both of us
But without the outlet, I feel I might die so, so horribly.
And I've got to survive
To tell a story, my empty story, that will awe the rest.