she's made of honey,
vinegar,
and some flower seeds

I will scratch that itch
and she will devour my anger

in a room dimly lit
we play back half a relationship
like it's something we deserve
or even dare to understand

a breath catches on my teeth
as it tries to escape, and it snarls
as it claws at freedom.

my teeth are a prison's gates;
my duty is to maintain the silence.

while the confinement holds,
my words die, discontent;
the scratches on the wall continue to wait.

This depressive choreography
                                     of flames
                                     f     i      k     r     n
                                         l    c      e     i     g
consumed in the geography
                                 of bodies
                                 b   i   c   k   e   r   i   n   g
                              
Tongue's embers  licking  
                  the innocent cheek
words like poniards
                     P   R   I   C   K   I   N   G
leaving this dance at its
                                                          piqu­e

Now left  a  s m o u l d e r i n g
             soloist on the stage
                            a dance so sobering
                                     watch this fire's rampage

burn his own pyre
              I gave into the rage
burn his own desire
             another illegible page
tossed to fuel the bellowing fire
              the end of our golden age

Paranormality
she sought
in her eyes, you could see the contradictory lights
flicking off and on
an epic tale
of color war, she was.
the sun and the black hole merged
a trail of overflowing fountain left behind
was it the light in her that tried to banish the dark,
or the dark in her suffocating the light?
the grey always kept her at bay
leading her astray
so how does reality suit for her?
a melancholic sway between right and wrong was her act.
Frenetic.
She was never on a railroad,
so how did she derail?

shaving dry to set a spark
rub in soap and ride it out
the fingers are so clumsy but
talent brags foam up the mouth

is it the youthful face, or dress  
that clings like foil around the waist?
not self-awareness, but contempt
the true enlightened prophet makes

morality like marbles,
shining silly and misguided;  
never falling out of love, but  
finding better ways to hide it