Im not the kind of girl you call beautiful
for a return ticket, a quick visit,
into my most sacred parts.
I am the kind of girl you call exquisite,
as i show you how to master such
carefully created works of art.

I walked into your hospital room,
And looked at,
Your fragile body.
You'd lost much weight since I'd last seen you,
Your skin was a sickly yellow,
And you seemed weak.
As you were watching TV,
You didn't see my small nine year old self,
Peak at you from behind the curtain.
I saw machines hooked up,
To your arms and chest,
Wires going this way and that.
I heard the beep of the heartbeat machine,
Measuring your steady heartbeats.
Thrilled to see you were still breathing,
But still frightened as I knew,
Your time was coming to an end.
I looked at you,
But you didn't move,
Absorbed in a soccer game.
So I took a tentative step forward.
"Daddy?" I whispered.
Your head turned and instantly,
You smiled,
Your blue eyes glistening like your whole day was made,
Just because of my appearance.
"Come here." you said,
Inviting me to sit next to you.
You put your arm around me,
And asked me how my day was.
We talked about many things,
And got caught up,
Since the last weekend I had come to see you.
We continued watching the soccer game together,
Cheering our favourite team.
So we had father/daughter time in a hospital,
But it's fine,
Because at least I was spending time with you,
And making your last few moments on this Earth,
As special as possible.

+10+

I spend 3-4 hours a day watching a man swim laps
Back
And
Forth
Back
And
Forth
And then im called to
The hospital
To see my Pappa
And im watching the same thing.
A man going
Back
And
Forth
Back
And
Forth
Dying
Going round in circles.
Dying
Dying
**Dying

the *** machine has begun to breathe on her own.  father ***** a brown bruise into mother’s half of my cigarette.  I could be doing a handstand in a prison yard or watching as my cell is turned upside down.  brother uncurls a finger from his made fist so deliberately I know he means it to be a hard-on.  I crush my eyes with my eyes and try to remember the name my son gave to the loose tooth we hung together from a doorknob.  was my son told me the puppets need our hair.

Darling,
please
kiss me
on my scars
it's been a long
and cold day
of war
and all
I want
is something
warm and soft
against my skin
because healing
is a slow process.

Sometime around when we were sixteen
I fell from the roof
As we sat there together
The thump of my crashing body
Loud enough to wake your whole street
And yet there was no alarm
The Witching Hour.

You slid down slowly
From the roof where we visit
And held my head on your thighs
as I curled in to a protective ball
And stroked my hair
As I sobbed in to the night

You lifted me
Oh so gingerly
Up to your room
On to your bed
And cleaned my injured skin
And hugged me as cleared
My tearful eyes

I fell asleep that night
Your warm breath on neck
Blowing away my insecurities
The bandage you wove
Across my scratches and bruises
Ensures I am alright
Your strong hand on my side
Ensures you won't let harm come ever again
Our promise

I look back on the night
When we were just sixteen
And I remember no pain
Just your strong hand
And your warm breath
And I know I am safe.

Three summers ago
I loved a boy
who's hair when moved
by wind or hand
was always magical,
who possessed tanned skin
and eyes so blue
they were waters to drown in.
Around him I felt enchanted
and he was enthralling.
He captivated me,
turned me into a slave of my emotions,
with words and promises
I knew he couldn't make come true.
"Run," my friends urged me, "as fast as you can."
But without him life was jaded,
their warning
had been voiced too late.
Already I had pricked my finger,
on a spinning wheel
and fallen head over heels
in that chemically induced slumber
we sometimes call love.
He opened a door for me that led straight
into a world filled with
bushes of roses
and buckets of sunshine,
I promptly forgot that too much sunshine
scalds the skin
and turns it a burning, vivid red,
almost as vivid
as the crimson blood
a touch from the thorns of roses draws.
I knew I had been warned so I stayed there
bleeding and burning,
swearing to myself as I suffered
that I would never again
give my heart to someone
who would not give me theirs in return.

This summer, three years later,
being around you
means feeling like being able to combust spontaneously
and I cannot forget
the sensation of my skin in contact with yours.
It made me realise
that though I have always loved you,
I started loving you a little bit too much.
You are my every thought.
They say you never make the same mistake twice,
that it is your own stupid fault the second time around.
But if it really was a choice
why then is it
that I spend all my nights these days
pleading with the universe
to let me unlove you.

Forbidden because a number,
Wanted still the same,
How to finish this picture,
If you don't add a frame?
A painters dream,
No longer there,
For this picture is forbidden,
Nothing in life is fair.
Little by little,
The painting comes together,
The artist can see it coming,
Starting to feel better.
How can something like this affect the value?
Any painting of any age,
Is still a painting,
Colors on a page.
The artist doesn’t care anymore,
Paint on the paper,
Draw out love and let your worries turn to vapor.
All you have to do is add the final touch,
I wait here patiently,
Now all you need is to add the frame,
Together we will be.
You have painted courage, devotion, strength...
your angel from above,
those things are what make
our forbidden love.