a torn heart,
ripped eagerly, unwittingly,
by gentlest fingers on pretty strings,
a sweet voice
with cracks like the sidewalks
that take me home.
tears streaming,
i find that i am home,
here,
among the notes that tug at heartstrings— no,
not tug, wrench.
a closed fist over my soul,
i couldn’t escape
if i wanted to.
jailed in this floral prison,
there is nothing i want more
than to listen
as you take me
apart.

He found himself Untethered.
Unchained,
with every beat of waxy wing,
rising.
Sweet, tawny feathers
tickled his ribs pleasantly
with every arch
of his back, every tension
of his bare shoulders.

Warnings left unheeded,
unhinged cries leap from his lips
as he flips about
in the warm, salty air.
The undulating waves
far below,
look soft;
the rise and fall like breaths
of a sleeping babe.

A swarm of bees took his heart
in their sweet, trembling hands,
whispering congratulations.
He shook, blood burning with
each breath of bright air,
fresh.
His hair whipped by gentle breeze,
inviting sun
seeping into translucent, purplish skin.

Rivulets of hot sweat rolled
in the riverbeds between his muscles,
dripping from eyelashes and
elbows and jawline;
corners.
He spins up and up,
higher, up,
and down.
Down?

Arms flapping, flailing now,
trailing feathers and rivets
and loosening screws
like falling snow;
a storm above the sea.
Wax-coated eyelashes
laden with honey tears,
sticky, wind whooshing
through panicking fingers.

Scrabbling hands desperately clutching
chunks of melted wing,
scarred wood bearing the marks
of his father’s chisel,
unimportant now.  
His bony, haughty face twists in writhing
emotion.
He falls head over heels over head
over heels.

Split sea,
winded,
bones crunch as body impacts,
shoulders, back, thighs, toes.
Pale limbs bend in odd ways,
distinctly Not how his inventor
put him together, so carefully.
He tastes salt, metal,
blood and brine mixing in his mouth.

No space in there to thank his father too.

To be honest,
I think it’s untrue that thunder is meant to frighten,
to warn of a coming storm.
I think it’s nature’s call to throw open windows,
to for once enjoy something with open arms,
faces open to the sky, eyes closed and lashes laden with drops.
I also think we make way too many shutters
with tightly
stacked
wooden slats,
nailed to all walls to cover every window
of opportunity;
because we want to shelter our poor, supposedly fragile,
mercifully warm bodies from the elements,
from cold rain, cooling wind, colder snow.
Chill out.
Parents frantically shield their children in a noble,
albeit misguided, crusade to prevent their “little Timmy”
from experiencing anything at all.
Chill out, you, sit in the rain for a minute,
let the rolling thunder lull you
to…  
a slightly less high-strung existence, at least.
Where I come from, the worst bees can do is
sting you, you let it hurt for a little and then
it’s all okay, no (real) harm no foul,
and in the end you got to sit outside
and do your homework in the sunshine.
My mother always said not to eat the cookie dough,
that raw eggs would give you salmonella.
My sister used to sneak me bites anyways,
with a wink, because
“I haven’t got salmonella yet, and I always eat the dough!”
It was a risk worth taking.
I don’t consider myself one of those people
who would call others “snowflakes” for being
a bit more hesitant in the world,
for telling their kids not to eat the cookie dough,
for wanting a better, safer existence for the next generation,
but dear god do I think
we all should be allowed to climb trees,
scrape knees,
and live a little.
but enough about me—
Did your parents let you live?
You’re in charge now, have you ever let yourself live?
Do you want to go outside and spin
in dizzy circles
in the rain with me?

i’ve lost it
I’m not sure what it is
but whatever it was
it must have been good
because without it
i’m lost.

i’ve been mopping
myself up off the floor,
a hard tile floor,
where I get stuck in the cracks
and my bones crack with the labor
of it all,
of mopping myself off the floor.

i’m a wet pile of something,
a wet pile of flesh and blood
and hopes and dreams lost,
mopped up by a skeleton,
the crippling fear of everything,
but even she’s exhausted
she can’t do it anymore.

i swear to god
i swear i hate him,
wherever he is,
if he exists,
i'll **** his name and
walk backwards into hell.

i cry at any song that’s
even remotely
“pretty in a sad way,”
as my roommate says.
i cry whenever anyone
raises their voice around me,
it doesn’t even have to be
at me.
i cry when people
cry around me,
even when it’s not my problem,
or worse, when it is.
i break,
break down at minor inconveniences,
but who’s to call me fragile
except myself?
(because if anyone else did,
i'd probably cry)

a fall from heaven,
but I’m falling for you.
if our love is a sin, why then,
i’ll make sure all of hell
bows for me as
i descend.
god should be thankful
i will never have face him,
for he’d have to beg
my forgiveness instead.
we are still angels,
my dear, despite what
he may say.
my fall from grace
(or to yours)
may have been less than graceful,
head over heels over
head over heels for you,
but i know I’ll have a pair of open
arms to catch me when
i land.

and when those arms finally
embrace me,
i swear i feel wings
holding me as well.

once there was a man.
he wandered twisting caverns
without a thought,
swaying as he walked.

he came upon a button
on the rotting ground
and stooped low to pick it up,
holding it between careless fingers.

then there was a man with a button.
his ambling gait aimless
among crumbling walls of dirt,
and ceilings of the same.

he came upon a needle,
rusted but neatly threaded,
squatting to look and struggling
to grab it between nonexistent nails.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle,
turning endless corners
with a hand brushing along every wall.

he came upon a soft, dark shirt
and bent to pick it up,
noticing that, upon inspection,
it was missing a button.

then there was a man with a button and
a neatly threaded needle, wearing a dark shirt.
his eyes scanned the rotting ground,
holding the needle and button in a tense hand.

he came upon a pair of linen pants,
midnight black and tailored well.
he stepped into them, tucked in his shirt,
and continued on his meandering way.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants
stumbling through dank tunnels.

he came upon a pair of shined onyx shoes
and put them on without pomp,
leaning against the crumbling walls
to lift each foot into a shoe.

then there was a man with a button
and a neatly threaded needle in one hand,
wearing a dark shirt tucked into tailored pants,
dragging shined shoes through never-ending passages.

he came upon a suit jacket,
noticing that the pockets bulged with a pair of gloves
as he knelt to don it. he slipped the
gloves onto shaking hands.

once there was a man dressed for a funeral,
a man who was under the impression that
he had no occasion to attend in such attire,
a man who continued to wander infinite caverns.

he came upon a chamber
with sobered steps and saw a fitting sight.
A casket lay in the center of the room,
surrounded by wilted roses on the rotting floor.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who looked to his left and beheld
a veiled woman in spectacular mourning dress,
whose cold hands reached to hold his own.

her delicate fingers came upon the button
and neatly threaded needle. she surveyed
his garb and found the spot where his shirt
was missing a closure.

then there was a man dressed for a funeral
who, legs shaking, allowed a veiled woman
to expertly sew the button back onto his shirt.
a voice came from behind the veil:

"pay your respects."

his legs seemed to move without his say
to the center of the room.
he watched as his arms, no longer his own,
lifted the ebony lid to reveal

a beautiful cream silk lining,
bright against the Stygian casket,
gently cradling a man dressed for a funeral
with a mismatched button sewn to his shirt.