I hated her then. I hated her for all she proved she was
not. For all we could have been.

But I loved her. For every child's smile & girlish eyelash
flutter. I loved her & she's gone.

I stretched out on pavements at dusk
oblivious to the idea of safety in case of mindless vehicles
mindful only to the collected heat radiating into my stupid skin.

I suckle on the bones of my mother's memory
her nails running up my spine used to soothe me.
Now they leave puncture wounds.
Sweet breastmilk that one day turned irritable and absent-minded;
she slapped me when I refused to drink.

My haughty attitude or pouted lip:
the only way I knew how to ask for help.
Didi you hear me?
Still, I suffer, scream in silence.

Maybe I seek acceptance from men,
but I want a woman to know that it's me who is in control.
I wanted approval daddy,
I'm not an object for your manipulation, mother.

Stupefied, I stoop, slouch through short doorways
that accept men who don't hold their heads high.
I slink into outstretched arms meant for other people.
Tonight, please. Tonight, just. Hold me.

la petite morte. she
cried out. slow, soft and mournful.
sensual sadness.

am I who am I?
bad so that is
sporadically me love to
moments in live I
yet
them to unattached am I
chaos the control
worlds material organize
emotions the clutter
spasm sputter spiral spin they
know ever won't I joy in even
like smells peace what
until not
nostrils living these
into collapse and decay
dirt.

what does it say about me
that i am comforted by
the Burning Man?
his skin chars & peels
tendons beneath earnestly oozing
anxiously trying to soothe the flames
kindled by papery wishes,
wooden expressions, angry inflections.
his ashen tears
stolen away by a wind's tired sigh
flutter down to a ground somewhere.
the fire will purify him of his
infections, the dust will return
to the dust, but the man who
touches my forehead so lightly, steams
the cold sweat from my brow,
calms my terrored shuddering...
i am losing him smoke ring by smoke ring.......


.......what should i think of him
that he is addicted to loving
the Dripping Woman?
my breathing is wet and laboured,
there is less, less room for
air when lungs are naive to the
furtive ripples overtaking them:
some people die by the drop.
.
.
.
.
.
.
clove cigarettes smell most
like him. we lie together &
stare at the cherry blossoms
dropping to tuck us into our bed.

if getting better
is what this is called, then i
would rather stay sick

last night i flew over
seven seas that seemed as one
to you
on battered, ****** wings
& you thought i looked ****.
you like women ragged & jagged-edged
with souls as severed as your own,
hoping to find one whose broken
pieces fit snug to yours, but
you're so stupid:
this is the hoarding of shattered glass.
you hold me, don't flinch when i
hold your gaze and cut you deeper than anyone
has ever pressed before. i say 'sorry'
but there's no need to explain;
you already know why
: i'm hard to handle.

last night (your yesterday)
you felt me long before my
feet lifted off and you
waited, long before my
restless wings wandering soul
knew where i was going, exactly.
the door was closed but the
window was open, i slunk through
huddled beneath the frame
sodden and soaking the floor. pitiful
desperate vulnerable thing but i
think that's what you loved me for:
you think you're **** and unworthy
and here is one that crawls to you, begs
for you to touch her and lays her head
on your knees to sleep.

i think that's what you loved me for.