Latch the lock shut on this suitcase,
You folded lace and linens
lovingly, watch me leave:
the later beckons.

Oh, the ominous future waits,
but old days will hold me close.
Ornate minds and dresses:
there’s so much I owe.

Vast your love ventures-- I know this;
the same heart holding me
teaches independence
that fills a valley.

Each and every day I am me
as I learn to exalt who
I am exclusively.
Mother, I love you.

It was a fire that froze me,
flames grazed a heart barely beating,
freezing me firm
from a core of embers, heat of great therm,

the standstill of a solid soul,
a final surge of a song shook
from a burning center
riddled with freezing scars; make my words slur

with drunken lips and a harsh breath.
Frozen by passion so intense
I sit by the ice,
Hoping the chill will be my body's vise.

So cold, so cold, the fire swept me
From the arms that held me so dear,
Maybe this iced glow
Melds a chilled, burnt heart, only God will know.

A fire. A fire, I say!
It iced my very bones solid,
His heat left me cold--
He was my sun, the only thing to hold.

He asked me how I liked it today--
from the back or front?
He wanted to know why--
too small or didn't last?
He said he knew, so I shouldn't lie to him--
as if I was less than him.
What's a ****** to do
when the rumors peg her as a ****?
She can't ignore the whispers,
or the blatant accusations:
Now we all know how ***** she really is.
It's been twenty-four hours,
and already the **** is coming
with dogs, chained, in their heels,
makeup streaked and lipstick smudged.
He releases the *******.
But they don't wait for the cover of night to bite,
no, they lunge at noon in the crowded hallways
teeth of words, power of the sideways glance,
venom of whispers, bullets of pointed fingers
He needs a new name for the list,
his quota is short--
because when a girl becomes single,
she is an updated item on the auction:

Name: Lilith
experience: 1 guy(s)
skills:
     hands: 4/10
     tongue: 6/10
     on top: 3/10
     bottom: 7/10
volume: loud

Her reputation is spoiled--
the way her friends talk to her,
the invites she gets to hang out,
the fact that no one wants to talk to a ****.
Welcome, little ******,
to the Virtue Laments.

I was taken last night,
the beating heart of a love
young and quick
ripped from the chasm
that is my chest.
Now our bodies
cold and hollow
rest upon the shore
of tears and lies
promises and anger,
just the top of the pile of many.
In the eyes of the fearful,
our bodies stroke the skies:
Why jump if it’s so short lived?
But me, soaking in
the salt foam and sand,
do not regret a second of
                                                 freefall.
It was beautiful, short as it was,
and edged in gold
in the book that is my memory.

Impact was not kind
to bodies so hollowed as us.
The dust of so many before
cloud around our crater.
Yes, we fell hard,
but we are not dust yet.
So many broken bones...
Count the bruises with me,
and use a tourniquet,
you just can’t use me anymore.
I won’t climb back up with you,
but I hope that you will.
I want to, one day,
watch you freefall with another,
to be happy with any other;
it just can’t be me anymore.

Until then, I’ll lay here,
only looking up,
closing my eyes to the sound
of hollowed bodies hitting the sand.

Red    ,     red      is     the     color     of     my     hunger   ,
like     the     blood      that      flows      endlessly      from
the    cut    on    my   left   ring   finger  .   Like   the   rose
that    withered    on    my   front   door   step .  Like   the
color    of    my    cheeks   or   the   echoing  of  a  bruise.
Deny    myself    simple   pleasures   like   the   breath   of
another  or  the  feel  of  water.  Giving  more,  more  than
I have to satisfy another. My hunger is red like a lung, but
I’m exhaling more than in -- my hunger is your happiness.


Your hunger is a darkness that is simply nothing like a black hole
of  constantly  collapsing  stars  that  shine  like  an  an­gler  fish’s
allure.   Like   a   deep ,   deep   green   that   feeds   upon   the  
beautiful .   Like   a   hypnotic   blue   that   envelopes   you   in
a    trance    of    one    thousand    pounds .   Destroy  me   like
a    lion    upon    a    dying    prey .   Take    and    take    more
than        what       is      offered   .     Your     hunger     is     an
endless         cavern  ,      inhaling      more      than      out     --
your               hunger              is                 your                  gain.

I've never felt a red rose,
never pricked myself on a thorn,
never smelled it in or got lost in eyes.
My mother has a red rose -- my father gave
it to her, and it is beautiful, and it is kind, and it
is loving, and it is something I have  never  seen.

This  pink  rose  is  something  trying  too ­ hard to be red.
Slashing and  ripping  at clothes  with  sharpened  words,
claiming it’s  merely  the  thorns  of a red. This pungency
is blamed upon  me:  I can  not  handle  the  sickly sweet
succor stuck under my  suffocating  nose. He holds  me
by the chin, condemning eyes borrowing into mine, grip  
tightening. This pink rose is dead, withered, wilted
and weathered by the storm we’re caught in.
Everyone sees  red  where there is none

--  o r   p e r h a p s   t h a t ’ s   j u s t   t h e   b l o o d  ?  --

this pink rose has me trembling,  fearing
his appearance and his eyes; knowing
he’s   stronger   than   me,   but   the
uncertainty of “would he?” scares
me more. I can’t leave because
that same knife he used upon
me, he threatens his own
skin. It’s such  a  small
world, such  a  small
town, such a small
neighborhood,
such a small
building.

I can’t walk these  halls
with  comfort  or  safety
anymore, not with those
eyes burning blame into
my    back    and    face.

This abuse is without visible scars:

the coppery blood
is that of a broken heart
pooling around me,
craving to drown me
even as we join as one --

the throbbing bruises
are that of spoken words
sprouting like flowers
seeking to consume
even as he spreads me open --

the suffocating broken bones
are that of the fear
filling my lungs,
burning my nose like acid
even as he kisses me --

the deafening tears
are that of threats
ringing and screaming inside,
stealing any other sound but him
even as he makes me laugh --

the blinding black eye
is that of isolation
wrapping tight ‘round me,
sewing my eyelashes together
even as he glances my way --

But you can’t see it, so is it really there?