i stand cold and dormant,
collecting dust. often times unkept.
the glass covering forbids me from exhaling the air seeping inside; i’m suffocating.

I breathe,
Letting recognition
Settle in
And through
The experience
Of filling
My body
With air
Over
And over
And over.
Then I notice
Breathing
And recognizing
Breathing
And noticing
Recognition,
And the air
On my face
Is cool,
And my partner’s
Sleep sounds
Are steady,
And the mint
In my mouth
Is almost cold
As I breathe
And notice
And breathe.

Fear is a headline
a casting shadow
a waiting room
a cancer
a culture
a color

It is suddenly knowing
or never knowing at all

Fear is the hanging silence
the falling voice

It is a darkroom
where negatives
are developed

Fear is something
about your eyes:
wink?
blink?
pink!

It is always having to say
you're sorry

Fear is what comes
after a sentence
and before a final meal

It is opening the mail
It is waving goodbye

God said                                  Satan said
Let there be light                      Let there be shadows
and there was light             and there were shadows

God said                                  Satan said
Let there be mountains                      Let there be valleys
and there were mountains             and there were valleys

mountains of light                     valleys of shadows

God said                                   Satan said
Let there be humans                        Let there be beasts
and there were humans              and there were beasts

God said                                   Satan said
Let there be beasts                         Let there be humans
and there were beasts                    and there were humans

humanly beasts                             beastly humans

held as hostage, she reaches for worldly signs, but is only led to estranged sights. women’s frames are set ablaze by those persecuting her, shouting prayers to cast out apparent demons.
they would be so lucky to know that she is a god.
a woman is to be a blackhole: destroyer and creator of heaven.

there’s a strange dance with the past:
blurred visions.
if only i could’ve held on a little longer.
swinging back and forth, faster and dizzier, my sunken eyes can’t erase this hazy torture.

Is anything truly what it appears to be?
Why is it, that when I smell
Honey
I do not think of buzzing bees,
But of whiskey, leftover on your breath?