i am about to be nothing.
on the cusp of a wisp
i am dis-jewelled
and the farthing in my hand
is a clip of my purchase.
to destroy is to be a manling.
i come from dust
and this is the love
that has no name
but claims the cinch of my wrist
'round the throat
of my tulips.

again....

i am made to unmake.
i claw at the virtue of my truth
only to suffer
the cavernous ploy
of my wishful thinking.

you are the sun
that spoke my name
and said "why? "

i am the smoke
in an otherwise
sterile balloon.

was
on the evening
of the harvest moon
neurotic tensions
whirling
everything just
stirring  
dreams as visions
come without sleep
and i fall deep
into a cesspool of
cerebration
and the grisly truth
that accompanies
thankful that only
the coyotes may hear
the loud cries
of a broken woman

4/19/2015
dedicated to the girl I used to be

crushed right next to the
broken glass.
"I don't write
nearly as much poetry
as I used to,"
I tell her in the orange light
of the German café
this time it is shining in through.

"Like you used to
before you were sedated?"
No.
I suppose it must be the weather.

I remember dancing to morrissey
in my darkened room at 3:43 am
on a January tuesday,

it was a good lay, good lay,good lay
Like some sort of charicature of teenage one dimensionality

I remember picking up a half empty
Heineken at a dorm room right before
winter finals like some sort of charcature of teenage pretentiousness and

putting my tights on, "my mom thinks I'm shopping, cute, right?"
Old floor crushing my shins minute before like some sort of charcature of teenage indulgences

"Don't you sort of miss the cold?"
I ask, picking at the cake and
the girl I used to be this time last year
infinitely more innocent weeps at

confrontation

I want a bullet to the brain
but not the repercussions
of it rattling in my skull
& exiting to strike those
that are too close.

as the moon modestly peaks through the cracks in your blinds, your feet pitter patter on the ground
like raindrops on rooftops,
causing the feeble wooden floor to moan like a ******, never been touched.
you climb into your bed,
missing its frame like you never thought you'd miss him,
and you pull the blanket over your head.
it's harder to breathe this way, impossible to read this way, but you will always stay this way.
you used to think if an intruder crept into your bedroom, you'd be safer this way.
now the blankets prevent you from tracing the spot where his head should lie,
like the blankets are guarding you from the thoughts of him,
yet every small, warm breath you take reminds you of the way he coughed all the time.
maybe he spent too much time under covers as well.
your alarm will ring in two hours, as if you have anywhere to be.
your thoughts live in a funeral home, its bed a casket.
you used to sleep with less pillows - one became four, four became more
surrounding yourself with more while you look like less.
your fridge seldom opened, your room never left.
friends wonder if they should check and make sure you're still alive,
but never do.
you painted a picture the other day with your sister,
you let the paint drip like tears.
you discard old objects of importance like you discarded the thought that he was a constant.
the only thing unchanging is the tick of a clock,
and time means nothing when it's always mo(u)rning.
every day you watch the sun claw for the east, but it always falls for the west.
rainbows don't mean much anymore, because the future is in black and white.
the past was a coloring book, and sometimes he left different hued bruises on your cheek.
the memories of the secret go locked away in an attic to collect dust and lose importance,
yet the key lives in his pocket.