I think…

yes, I know, a dangerous pastime.
I was wondering silently among
the silent rolling hills and cowering the
booming tempest that has become
my mind. I stumbled upon your grave
once more. A small grot wedged
into the hillside, overlooked by the
darkest and loudest of storms,
flashing bright, illuminating, so that
I might never forget what lies here.
I sat with you and we exchanged words,
the grass above you whispering into
the wind, caressing my face once more,
but my heart does not sway like the
leaves of the Life Tree anymore. So
I found myself thinking…
about how very fragile trust is
about how little people put in one another,
but how quickly the blame burns blue.
A flame like that engulfs more than skin, dear,
it is still hungry after the house is gone
and the city sits in ruins. It came for you and I,
I can almost see it now, sitting among the rubble.
It took something from me, but left it in you.
I think my mother told me once,
that lone wolfs are alone for a reason,
and now I see why. But I digress…

I think…
the reason why the blue fire took me,
a simple notion that is clear to me now,
you couldn't trust, so you can’t be trusted.

I have come to realize that sunsets are
archways into a mourning and deft Earth.
Urban streets become hunting grounds –
growling crass echoes to her ears;
eerie red eyes.

Swimming in this sea, the fish come to feed –
fields upon fields of endless black concrete
caulked with hands reaching from shadows
shan't see us. Artificial lights,
like showers, swing.

She is unyielding: a light in nothing,
null to the very gravity she bends.
Belle, eyes that swallow fireflies,
fight a darkness that dawned in her:
hurt by dulled sheen.

Walking close enough, providing armor,
our coats barely touch: nylon on her wool
would give a warmth street lights can't give.
Gifted by moon's light, only then –
then I see her.

A flower, healing yellow, on her cheek
chiefly blazon the frailty of her skin.
Skiffs could take her from bottom,
but, she’s sun grayed; a soft hidden
hymn of the moon.

You know things are wrong,
when you see yourself
as nothing more than a game piece
when you see him
as the player controlling your moves.
There's something wrong with society
when all you see is a chessboard
but no one playing.
That's not true though,
that no one is playing,
because there will always be him --
moving a knight to block her path,
using the queen to scare her into his arms.
She's check-mated into a corner
and doesn't even realize it
because he's got one hand playing her
and the other up her friend's skirt.
But I can't look away,
because everywhere I turn
is another game being played.

These are my bars.
Limbs that stretch too much
to soaring stars
I could never touch --
these limbs are defective.

Bitter restart,
frail, powerless cudgels
grasping at Heart.
Claws cutting pastels,
shredding ****** dawn sky.

My mirror sepals
are names and faces
of all people
who met my graces
or sailed my winding path.

Leaves of glazed gold
reflect sun's bright rays
as they enfold
the sharpened green maze
in torn and ripped portraits.

Leaves of Abyss
litter my bony scars
swallow my bliss
coat me like hot tar --
kissing at dying bark.

Red lipstick stains
on switch blade carvings
of names on veins
with no callings
see me as a trophy.

Nothing of worth --
just merely conquered.
A space for berth
and his young *******
I am nothing to him.

He can't see me
as mighty Belle Arbre
or hear my plea
as I feel his barb
plunge my old wooden core.

He cut me down,
carve me to shape him --
I'll be His crown
as he is condemned
by my only Father.

That's so far long --
sitting on his lap,
dreaming I'm strong
enough to entrap
all my stolen virtue.

His silver tongue
wove such a strange tale --
willingly hung
and welcoming jail,
all he promised was love.

Something bruised skin,
cut lip or black eye,
limbs bony thin,
or tears asking why --
they've never known this thing.

I reach'd for him,
branches out-stretched,
he was my hymn,
so close, yet farfetched --
he sat among the stars.

Me, bound by dirt,
jealous of the birds
nest'd in my skirt.
They are just songbirds
but take flight for granted.

I would give all,
every last petal
if I could fall;
shrink to a pebble --
give anything to hide.

But I'm a tree,
I'm mighty Belle Arbre.
Broken, Earthly.
Yet reduced to garb,
Everything I am: His.

Bad girl. Hush. Speak. Sit*
Talk to me like a dog;
I'll treat you like one

IF
THEY'RE
NOT
MY
FRIENDS,
THEN
WHO
TRULY
IS?
MY DEFINITION
SHATTERED
MY HEART
BROKEN
BECAUSE
I
THOUGHT
THEY'D
ALWAYS
BE
THERE
FOR
ME.

I've reached the point
where all I want to do
is scream; curse the world;
cry until no tears are left.
Girls who told me lies:
"no boy will come between us"
"we're friends forever."
How silly of me to think
they meant those bound words?
My heart hurts because of them
I loved them like kin
But how quickly they've left me
because of a bruise:
a small mark on my neck's side.
It's just a hickey.
But they don't want to be friends
with a "****" like me.
It's not my fault they're lonely
not my fault I'm loved.
I want to blame jealousy,
but I'm just running
to the arms of Patriarch
crying in His sleeve
begging for His forgiveness.
Because this hickey,
the same ****** mark as
scratches on men's backs,
marks me as a ***** ****
and him as a man.
But we're friends forever, right?
Or was that before
I had the gall to love him?
But that shouldn't matter, right?
Because something like
a boy won't separate us.
How stupid am I
to actually believe
I thought I found friends?
Girls are such terrible things
we deal in weapons
of silence, gossip, and blame:
things that do not show
things that will bleed the heart dry.
My heart is bleeding out: *D  R  Y

One evening I was walking home,
nice dress and heels stomping pavement
of the moonlit streets in my home city.
I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe.
Catcall. It's not a compliment. It's demeaning.
He says *****, but all I seem to hear is
strong. daring. opinionated. outspoken.
Because that's what he's saying
when I stand up for myself.
when I act outside the roles of a "good" woman.
What he hope, with a five letter word,
is that I'll shut up, sit down, be seen and not heard.
because that's what being a woman is:
suppressed.
So, thank you sir, because all you've really done
is given me a reason to fight harder
a purpose to speak louder
and a way to stand taller.



"I've got something you'd love to grab onto, babe."

"What a shame... I forgot my tweezers."

The first mile you walk with a person
is for friendship.
Small blisters and cramped toes --
why don't you try walking in heels?
Didn't think so...

The second mile we walk
is for love.
Now the bleeding starts --
little drops, here and there,
never enough to ****.

The third mile my grandparents walk
is for rediscovery.
They're used to the shoes by now --
the "You like pie?" moments;
the little things that make them remember.

The fourth mile we all will walk
is for mourning.
Learning to live without --
blood trailing behind you,
yet the march must continue.

I wonder, love, if you see
these stars that hang over me
or if you, so far away,
forget to look up?

Eyes the color of burnt wood
Hair a glow of dying embers
Skin pricked and stiff --
No more blush,
No echoing heartbeat.
All foretokens of a fire long extinguished.

it started slowly --
growing inside, never stopping.
no matter temperatures warm
or blankets thick,
the ice blossomed like a spring flower.
flourishing with each shiver.

For some reason
I thought you were mine again.
That those words
Spilled out of my mouth
Never happened.
That,
For some reason,
At the end of the night,
I could call you mine
I could rest easy in your arms.
I found myself wondering
What your lips felt like,
How they would taste
If you kissed me right now.
I couldn't stop thinking
About your hands on my waist
Spinning around that small dance floor
Like it was just the two of us.
And,
For some reason,
For a split second,
I let myself believe it.
I felt a happiness that couldn't be described,
It filled me to the brim, yellow, like the sun.
I turned and smiled at you,
But thank goodness,
You didn't see me.
At that moment,
My heart broke all over again
And all I wanted to do
Was scream.
Cry out in frustration
“Why do I feel this way?
Why can’t I let him go?”
It must be the very thing I wanted to avoid,
My greatest fear:
*Love.

Though I will stop breathing,
I do not die,
Not yet.
Not until my name
Ceases to graze lips,
Only then can you declare me dead
As I live on
Through the pages of my work.

I'll be in the meadow,
running,
but only moving still.

Love is a sword with no pummel,
simply just a piece of steel
with room enough for two hands -- our hands.
From the first time I held yours,
on that windy day up that winding hill,
we grasped onto that pummel-less sword.
As we grew closer, so did the cold steel,
until one day we're inches deep
rupturing organs and arteries.
It's not something you see right away,
love is almost like shock --
the way it clouds judgement.
I told you to let go,
to let it fall away and to let time heal,
but your grip only tightened.
Twisting and turning that sword
until you're on scrapped knees,
hoarse voice screaming accusations.
But while you wallow in pain,
I've stitched myself up.