**** you for making me
Open my eyes to the
Outterness.

And for making me smile in my
Sleep.
Hell, I don't even know if I

Could ever fall for someone as
Perfect as your first-to-fifth
Digital

Impressions have made you
Out to be.
I zen my shoulders back down

And breathe, embracing the
Adventure of having even so much
As whispered to your

Shadow. Tomorrow
Or a decade's time away
Or a swift aeon's,

You'll be gone from my life.
I'll still be grateful.
No flower disregards

Even a second of petal-stroking
Sunlight.
In a world as dumb

As this one, your very being
Is a drop of supernova in a very
Silent *** of cosmic wordlessness.

I hope you're not
Scared of
Poets.

we the daughters of sliced sunbeams
and those who chase gales in between
the pasture gates and barbed fences behind
the silo--

who think there's nothing softer than the way
honey sounds drizzled on toast or daisy petals at the supermarket
the women of ferocious silences, standing before
dozens with trimmed smiles and deafening inner beauty

squeezing our fingers down barley stalks and sewing
the roots into our dresses, we've tried six ways to sunday
the rules, the book on being wanted, before realizing that anything
born out of self-indulgence wilts away
all the work we did to grow and plait our hair with vanilla,
dipped in sweet almond oil we had no idea
that pretending
could only get us
so


far.

I remember his memories
Sometimes they are mine
A world of attrition
Skewed by rosey lenses

I felt his pain as they shattered
I felt the burning cuts in his hands
I felt that strong grip as he held the pieces
Just as I felt his strength wilt

He tried,
But feeling for the first time
The physical suffering brought on
by a conflict of emotions unresolved
Led the poor boy down a road
An avenue to bleed out the hate
To break the skin that trapped them in

Short term relief
For long term grief
He sought me out
And asked with a plea
To take his life, and set him free

Sometimes I hear him,
In the back of my head
But no, he isn't dead
He wills himself day by day
To not pull the trigger
Of the shaking gun of deciet.

I've neglected
This sordid sin
To mourn
My tattered skin

Sunday I seek
A warm place
To fill my lungs
With breath I've sought
To hide a moment

A warm room
To rest
A warm room
To neglect
A warm room
To forget

Here in the darkest recesses of this hallowed ground,
do I sit in my shredded clothes lamenting my soul,
what trickery is this that my spirit should spout forth such a distasteful drone,
welcome one and all says the banner of my grimace,
let me show you some wonders to behold,
such cordial tales in this darkest of catacombs ,
come feast on these bleached bones,
oh retched man am I,
set aside all thoughts for the morrow,
for here is my curtain call,
hanging from the hands of a faceless clock.

i cannot imagine myself,
i mean the voice with whom I speak
who both doubt and believe (in me)
i cannot imagine that self
without you.
your silence a symphony
your words a philosophy
carefully constructed behind
the blue iris and white wash
of your eyes.

i cannot imagine my life
without you in the passenger seat
(you let me drive) and you've yet
to fall asleep
i can still feel you staring at me
and that self doesn't want to believe
(at least not on this particular day)
it's worthy of whatever good you see.
yet here you are, in all your quiet thunder
humbling me with each individual
breath.

i cannot imagine myself
because as much as i have wrestled
and fought against this inevitable truth
it grew more clear with every struggle.
i cannot imagine myself
because since the day i met you
i knew inside this mind of mine
i had to make room for two.