my fingers never warm up
and you joked about how
cold my heart is,
it must be so cold in there
so I asked if that's the way
you deflect--because every
time I tried to care for you,
you'd mock me.

I felt like your world
wasn't all inclusive
i wasn't a shiny stone
in your rough, just a
***** in a fenced
garden, a breeze in
your wild storm--
but I found what
usually is at the
heart of a tornado--
eery silence--and you.
stripped down and
angry, a self-made victim
shouting you made me do it.

But was I there, Peter Pan?
Did I make you do it?
did I weasel into your
head and take you
hostage? Did I rip
you away from
Neverland, shed
light on what
was never
magic?

How bad can a bullet be?
I ask myself this as I place
the revolver to my skull
and fire away at the land
of make believe; listening to the
crickety-clank of the hollow
chambers that trip and stumble
over each failed attempt
at breathing anew --
like a baby taut with its rope
gasping for life but in vain.

Turning the thoughts over
Again and again
Sweet, dancing lover
Trapped in my head
Slow and melancholy
Swooping low to the ground
Springing back up
To my heart beats sound
Fluttering softly
Round and round
Spiraling silently
Long, graceful bounds
Our feet fall into places
That our eyes cannot see
Avoiding eachother's faces
Ignorance like a sheath
I hated your innocence
So pure and niave
When we are dancing
I think of these things