Prep me for surgery.
I don’t know what’s happening.
This is an emergency.
A medical mystery.
Here’s my consent in writing.
My heart is gone, picked up and left.
Find me a new one.
Then sew it in my chest.

I am the Tin Man.
Colored hearts on my sleeve.
Drinking from an oil can.
Empty as can be.
With a map of misguided direction.
And the burning of my isolation.
I am the Tin Man.
Broken like you see.

I no longer have the heart to love.
Of course you refused and denied.
Wanting the things I couldn’t give.
You kicked me to the curbside.
How sad it must be.
Being the name no one will miss.
But I’ll mark you down on my list.
Even if it hurts to reminisce.

My joints are rusted through.
The hinges scream and grind.
Damage was all we really knew.
Tearing through body and mind.
The things that were stolen.
We now must replace.
At the bottom of the stairs.
And in the lines we erased.

Put me back together.
Give me back my skin.
I’d rather die from a broken heart.
Than live as a piece of tin.
Send a pulse to the vein.
Tune the drum at my core.
I am not an empty frame.
The Tin Man is no more.

I will not enter the space
between stomach and breastplates
to rest my weary tread.
But rather I sleep
on the surface; never too deep
in your fingernail bed.

She’s known as Riotous Rose.
Never has she wanted for company
in the intimate spaces between sheets.
His voice, it calls to her, guides her
down below to rapturous desire.
A carnal growl achingly echoes
inspiring ravenous teeth and hands
that ravage in the gentlest of ways.
****** roses blossom in her cheeks.
With nimble fingers she picks them
before offering them to her lover.

They call her Violent Violet
for the purple bruises that bloom
dangerously deep and disturbingly dark
along the tops of her knuckles.
To her it’s decorative floral.
In fights she clutches violets
offering their vicious beauty
to any contending adversary.
She’s a volatile force of nature.

Her speech patterns are like coffee.
Black, harsh, and bitter.
Empty of cream or sugar.

Her thoughts are caffeine.
Wired, over loaded, full throttle.
Piercing shards from smashed bottles.

I extracted the alcohol from her veins
and grieved the loss.
We had been conjoined at the hip
over the length of seventy-two hours.
During those days she watched
me stare listlessly into the abyss
blindly hoping for inner enlightenment.
She kept me company those nights.
Her hand holding mine
our mouths locked together like steel links.
I drank from her
to the depths of oceans
and the bottom of her stomach.
With every pull of strength
I stole from her, she faded
little
        by
              little
                      until
                               she vanished.

How I wish I could’ve gone with her.

It’s 11:49 p.m.
and we’re still driving.
That’s all we’ve done.
The needle hovers
lifting and landing
upon the E for empty.

We’re content with
the smoky upholstery
that buoys our curvature.
The mechanical shelter
that trundles beneath us.

He’s rubbing his chin
where his shadow grows.
His ruby eyes on the road.
Knees pulled to my throat
I breathe and savor constellations
wondering how they might feel.

Stubble and midnight starlight
is how the next day begins.

Around an armful of
pillows and blue blanket
you offered a parting hug.

I stepped into an embrace
that was lint speckled polyester
and the width of your hand spread
open at the small of my back.

We were infatuated children
pecking kisses innocently on cheeks
to express sincere emotion
rather than as a prelude
to the symphony of stirring sheets.    

We were lopsided in structure.
Me with my right arm scraping
the outcrop of your shoulder.
My left tucked under your armpit
snagging the loose folds in your shirt;
while your forearms cradled  
blue softness and half my ribs.

One one-thousand, two one-thousand
counted before we pulled apart gently
disentangling your fabric from mine.

And with a foot of concrete between
our feet we grew up once more.
Re-learning the warm colors of
violence and ***.
The cool colors of
drinking and drugs.