I thought I could drink poetry until the words started to curdle in my mouth

Alone in her empty bed,
Hand upon his absence.

Terrified at the thought of
Him alone in his;

Enjoying the space and longing
For nothing.

Blue skies are ugly in the eyes
Of sadness,

Their emptiness relateable,
Loneliness sunburn.

She turns to the void.
To the beautiful trees;  

*Are you angry at
Me too?

Its 1:28am and I can't sleep.
Instead of seeing films of technicolor
on the backs of my eyelids,
I'm wondering whether your lips
taste like strawberries or vinegar.
Its amazing how heavy
a chest can feel just fondling
the idea of drowning in you;
and i think about the time you
accidentally called me an angel.

Now its 1:32 and I'm wondering
if an angel falls for you,
does that mean she's plummeting to hell?

Poetry is meant to display something magnificent,
but the only thing magnificent about this
is the tragedy.
(I don't want to write because there is nothing beautiful about this.)
And all I can think about
is how much of a sin it must be
to think about you,
instead of the boy who has built himself
around me like a cathedral.
About how it's dark outside,
but how this longing for you is darker.
About how I only write about boys
I could see myself loving.
And wonder why my thoughts
are dancing around Lucifer
instead of Saint Michael.

I don't want you
to tell your friends
how much
I matter to you.

I want them to know
by the way you'll
look at me at dinner

or

the way you talk
about me when
you should be
doing something else

I don't want
a necklace
or a diamond

I want your lips
against my neck
whistle your hands
hold me like you've
never touched anyone
before.

I don't want anyone
I want you

Michiko would never know
the strange creature that opened its bowels
that day, was named Enola Gay

she would remember the fine feel of the water on her face,
the taste of tea she had with her pears, and the odor of chrysanthemums through her window

the same window through which
her mother would stare, there, at the morning sky
at the smothering smoke of all creation

her brother was left a shadow
on a wall, nothing left at all of her father
who stood at ground zero

Michiko, only double digits the day before
would follow her mother down the long road
to the smoldering fires and scorched skin
and the stalking stench of the dead

on the path, along the way
but only that day, Michiko would see the black giant
growing in the summer sky
a magnet to her eye

more beautiful than all
the sweet flesh and shrines that fed it
a billion years in an instant
that August morn