It grew through him
violently,
relentlessly.
Vines and thorns
weaving throughout his
entirety.
Is this what happens
when pride grasps the heart
and punctures the brain?
He touched with force -
bruised and slit.
turned kisses into slaps,
love to sin.
Stood inches taller,
vines lengthening his limbs.
crawling up his spine,
weaving into his skin.
He finally agreed
with his family:
I wasn't good enough for him.
Pride was like
an infestation.
a twisting ****,
an infection.

We were lying in the field
Behind my apartment
A mid-day meal
Wooden compartment

Your eyelashes extended
Your forehead and hairline
You intended
To find a fault line

The earth crumbling beneath
And car alarms sounding
Uncultured heath
Fractures abounding

Your dark skin mixing with dirt
Dangling from the rift
Dropping unhurt
Found gold to sift

Leaving with your small treasure
And I in the dust
Aim to measure
And readjust

Scratchy syllables
And raspy tones

4am
Dial tones

Two sets of sheets
Hushed voices

Lovers repeat
Promised noises

States and state lines
Limit touch

Cedars and pines
Fields and such

Loving is smooth
When the world's asleep

Sweet vermouth
A luscious treat

A sliced moon
And miles between

Asters in June
Unforeseen

Never try to trick me with a kiss
Pretending that the birds are here to stay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

A stone can masquerade where no heart is
And virgins rise where lustful Venus lay:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

Our noble doctor claims the pain is his,
While stricken patients let him have his say;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Each virile bachelor dreads paralysis,
The old maid in the gable cries all day:
Never try to trick me with a kiss.

The suave eternal serpents promise bliss
To mortal children longing to be gay;
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

Sooner or later something goes amiss;
The singing birds pack up and fly away;
So never try to trick me with a kiss:
The dying man will scoff and scorn at this.

All this
Burgundy
In the bathroom sink.
I had no idea,
No realization
Of the color
Inside me.
I imagined that
I was made of
Gray sludge and
Murky water.
But this vibrance,
This liquid brick
Is beautiful.
The cold porcelain
Is covered in my
Colorful innards.
I will paint the house
With my beauty.
My ever-flowing fluid
Won't stain
It'll color.

The lamp's glow
Across his face
Brought out
The dimples
I hadn't noticed.

He whispered that
I was beautiful.
In those moments,
I almost believed him.

I almost believed the way
He kissed my shoulders.
Almost fell for his
Disheveled curly hair.
Almost wished I could
Watch him
Rub his eyes
And brew his coffee
Each morning.

Almost.
What a pathetic word.
It insinuates that we were
Close...
But not quite there.
Just didn't reach
The mark.

I said that
He was attractive,
And that his shirt
Didn't need to stay on.
He almost believed me.
Almost.

The popcorn ceiling
flakes off
onto the comforter.
I turn over
and pull his
heavy arms
around my neck.
He is dead to me,
but his grip
is alive and well.
Air passes though
purple lips.
Fingers are stiff
yet take the time
to graze my back.
Smile: crooked
before breaking
the skin.
You're dead to me.
Or are you?