So the wolf that I feed is the wolf that then heeds me? Or does it "feed" me? Am I spoiling one greedy? Both wolves are inside me, how could I deny the darkness that sparks THIS? My wolf pups both need me. Darkness suppressed grows enraged and uncaring, and really how good is the other if it can't practice sharing? I want to be "good" but what motivates that desire? We're selfish by nature, it's survival, hardwired. Being "good" after all could still be subjective, jury's still out on inherent versus collective agreement, conventional reason, ****- what's the 'greater good' and from whose vantage point can you see it? Maybe being selfish isn't such a bad thing, if what I want is to love and the trust that it brings. Could it be that my wolves don't need to compete, that when there's no fear of famine there's always enough to eat? I know that Darkness explored widens the spectrum, learning not to fear yourself creates oasis in the bedlam. But one can get too comfortable within their indulgence, succumb to seduction of abundance and substance, lie to themselves about what their heart truly craves, pleasure's not evil, but distracting, it plays on denial, creates rigged to fail trials, enjoys shame and destruction trapped in a sure to fall spiral. The part of myself that doubts if I'm worthy, rationalizes pain and makes the road to joy blurry, tells me I deserve to take and take because I know I'm the ****, and then strangles me with disgust and says I'm really just a piece of it. So how do I know when what I want doesn't fit with my vision of health and my "forgive yourself" bit? When does being ******* myself become the problem and create ultimatums that mean certain death if gone back on? How do I understand moderation and hold space for human error, allow trust in exploration but not make choices in reaction to terror? Terror of failing as well as terror of success, but embracing imperfection is what gives my heart rest.

Here I am,
caught cutting up my palms on broken plates,
palms that banged on pots with wooden spoons
palms that I kept warm in your pockets when I had no
gloves.

Here I am,
sitting once more at the edge of the earth
legs dangling over the side,
legs that danced on stage before they broke
legs that wrapped around you when you carried me
to the couch.

I swing my feet and toss a penny into the
abyss.

I have always loved it here,
with the waterfalls that pour into the sky
and the hollowness of the ground beneath my
weight.

Don't slip.

Here I am,
laying on my stomach with my head over the
edge,
I can see stars below me,
my hair is blowing.

Hair that my mother used to brush while I
fidgeted on the three-legged stool,
hair you pushed out of my damp face to
see my eyes
when I was flying.

I always knew the world was
flat.

Would you like to see it?
If you unwound my brain you'd find a map
to the edge of the world.

It's okay,
the rest of me has already been
unraveled anyway.

My mother was a writer.
I remember her,
papers spread out upon a bed sheet in the sand,
stacked pebbles protecting her work from the wind
as I made drip-castles at the water's edge
and braided crowns from wild poppies.
I would run to her so she could
rub grape sunscreen into my sandy shoulders
and I asked her once,
“Mama,
is that poetry?”
and she said “No little one,
you are poetry,
this only tries to be.”
and I thanked her,
and ran back to the water
to search for flat stones to skip,
and thought no more of poetry.

Sun draped across her legs
crossed beneath her like
folded wings,
The Carnivore watches.

Satan said, 'stay naked as you came,'
so here she sat, white as mushroom,
raw as shrimp.

She leans, a sifted sack of flour, against her wall;
love rising within her like a cloud of mosquitoes,
for here comes her Plant Eater.

In her nakedness she hides,
watching him trot across the floor,
his movements thoughtful and slow as cooling lava,
shrugging on his brontosaurus suit like an old bathrobe.

He has vegetarian ankles,
his bare feet are splashed with mud
like an old truck.

Carnivore that she is, she bursts out of hiding
naked as Satan,
and she demands her heart.

“I do not love you,”
she lies,
and points to the cedar box in his soft hands.
“Now give me back my heart.”

“No.”
he cries,
and runs from her.

She knows the box is locked and has no key,
though the brontosaurus has not been told
that there is no hope
for this particular heart.

He hides from her behind a tree,
but the tree puts down its other leg and walks away
leaving him exposed as the naked Meat Eater
who catches up to him now.

This time,
before she can get to the tying by the wrist to the chair,
he swallows the box
and holds it in his belly.

Synthesizing, compromising my semantics
I warp the story for the glory of romantics
You roll your eyes and say my lies are just my antics
And it's true, but it's for you, I'm sycophantic.
My need is frantic, transatlantic, it's gigantic
We feed off pain but the most gain is when I'm manic
I fear you'd run but then the fun for you's volcanic
So full of shells we call ourselves we're, like, satanic
Stay, play, pray that we like it this way
Love me like an addict just don't mean what you say
Cause if you do, and it's all true, life's a smoke and I'm your ashtray
If you'd rather be dead then you can't love me in the right way.
You're Chaos, I'm Calypso
You taste sweet on my lips though
Numb 'em up like yayo
I think I want some more though 'cause
Synthesizing compromising your semantics
You warp the story for the glory of romantics
I roll my eyes and say your lies are just your antics
Hey, yippee, you're just like me
We're sycophantics.
This beautiful madness we support like Atlas dive into the vastness and embrace the blackness
Rip into my skin I'm a succulent cactus, please survive the poison the pain's to distract us
We'll never know what makes us grow
Without the lows I could not flow
So let's be brave, **** Plato's cave and ride the wave 'till we're depraved
Because boy
I want to take care of you
I want to share with you
Lay bare with you
Because love is pain but I'm not scared with you
Walking on air with you
Electric chair with you
I'd cheat on myself for an affair with you
Dance Latin squares with you
Break chinaware with you
I'd be both baby and mama bear for you
Play solitaire with you
Make liquid air for you
And you're the worst and it's not fair, it's true
But if my name is blue
Well then I love you too.

He was wearing too much beige
When we bled onto the same page
Met me in the middle laughing
‘Cause love is at the heart of rage
He put me on a list and I
Called him a phase but
We’re not short on time and
It’s always today

He’ll tell you his story
But his eyes plead “don’t bore me.”
They whisper: “Show me
Something real.”
He can’t stay in one place
Afraid this great chase
Is better than what’s right here.

He’s a real salesman, yeah
I know all his lines
Says he hates drama but
A hundred commas say otherwise
I wonder if he knows it
When he lies, maybe
We are all just selling what we think
People wanna buy

Dancing in the streets of Denver
You’ve got one thing to remember
Don’t you waste away this splendor
You’ve got one thing to remember

I told him
You don’t light my fire
And I can’t control yours
Even if I wanted to
That’s not my ******* chore, so
So I stood near and I watched him
As he watched me grow brighter
We shared in the warmth
but we each had our own lighter

It’s the brightest of flames make for the
Quickest of burning
A lesson that I wish
Still needed learning
So I’m leaving in the morning
Heavy with mourning
“That’s a strong word” he said
“Not really” I told him.

(Dancing..)

Strangers in the morning
Unless he wakes up in my arms, maybe
Someday he’ll believe I never
Meant him any harm
But I can’t slap you awake this time, no
I can’t slap you awake this time

He’ll tell you his story
But his eyes plead “don’t bore me”
They whisper “Show me
Something
real.”