music notes work hard
tiny hammers on my heart
pounding away at the cement case
until i feel something

i'd like to believe i've built a temple here,
but everyone knows it's just a fort of sheets
and i'm still a little girl underneath

i'd like to be cradled in the arms
of my mother, not landlocked
with my legs around yet another lover

because lovers have got nothing
to do with love, just ******* and touching
and giving up more than you've got

i feel like i've been scraped dry
bottom of the barrel and yet i'm on some
kind of natural high

an out of body experience i'll take flight
and watch as i float away
in the middle of night

a twilight escape of the fourth kind

I am wiping Chinese
and Jesus off of coffee
tables. Pulling sheep
sheets down from
windows and mirrors
from bedroom walls.
I am trying to swallow
the dog hair stuck
in my throat, from
sleeping with mongrels.
I am watching days
pass on pillows
that smell of sweat
and cologne. I am
watching him finally
fade and pass into
the past. I am
loving you with
seventy five percent
of my heart, but you
have your hands on
the rest and are not
letting go. I am
wiping Chinese
and Jesus off
of coffee tables
and you are
pulling his pictures
down from
my heart.

when her toe hit the wood
                the nail split in half
                                                            ­                        in the center
                                        cracked just right
                                                     so when she applied pressure
                                 on her leg to be straight
                                                 up and down stretchy muscle
       the split
       splintered
                   and while falling she pumped
                                            air through her fists, open and closing
                                                         ­          maybe for the tan bar which
                                                           ­                         she could command in practice
                                    which she demanded now
                                   yet the stage was only the light and
                                                             ­                                              pieces of wood
                                                            ­                                                           and nail
                                                            upon­ landing the crowd gasped
                                                          ­             in entertainment
                                                   ­             at how graceful feathers
                                                        ­           flew from her mouth
                                                                ­     black and flawless
                                                        ­                            like the lace of her costume
                                                         ­                                                         envision­ing a swan
                                                                ­                                                   a crow
                                                            ­      it didn't matter at all
                   both could fly
                    but they had wings
                                              and she had faults, deep deep tremors
                                                 opened wide on the great black valley
                        coughing up feathers
                        when she wanted tears
and the crowd just stared
some smiling some surprised
                       all without blinking
                                     when the legs decided to extend some support
                       the mistake took root and gave her a rush of
shame
                               which allowed her to fly
                                          [briefly]
         ­        behind the curtains
                                                        ­                      like the crow
                                                            ­                   like the swan
                                      after the silence
                                     of awed mouths
                                                          ­gushes of applause
                                                        ­                           for the splintered tiny dancer
                               who tried to show the world she
                                                             ­    had something to say
                                                         but instead only managed to
                                                             sprinkle the audience with
                                                            ­            a few feathers.


They all gave it
rave reviews

She gets high.
I get high.
She gets drunk.
I get drunk.

I get high.
She spills sapphire.
I get drunk.
She spills unleaded.

She gets high.
She gets drunk.

I get high.
I get drunk.

I slow down for you.
I am a tortoise.

I arrange caution tape
from one dream
to another
until I'm afraid
to remember dreams.

there is something beautiful about a sad girl who stands staring into her own soul,
leaning hard against a mahogany mantle wondering how quickly gravity would take her if she let go

clutching onto something solid reminds her that she isn't lost inside some ****** up dream,
that the twitchy movement on the edge of her peripheral vision isn't your ghost ready to bridge the then, there, and in between

yesterday's masccara leaves the perfect hangover smudge, and wild curls turned stale frame a face ridden with gloom,
sadness and beauty compliment each other so well, she looks herself in the eye and decides to say forever locked in this room