Leave me
in the pieces,
the shambles,
you found me in.
I have not begun
to fit them together.
And I could not allow
another to solve my
broken riddles for me.
For while my puzzle
remains unfinished,
I do not yet know
if I am missing
any edges or
a vital part.


**V. K.

Our conversations are tepid.
Perfunctory, they run in circles,
hamsters on wheels, wasting time.
I don’t care how your day was.
Undress while we mention some
senseless detail about the weather,
buttons still done and silk pulled
over your head to save seconds,  
so we can lose them between us
and pretend it never happened in
the morning.

I only kiss you when I’m tired of being
alone.


**V. K.

When I was born,
I took a breath and
absorbed all the
dreams and lives
I could lead soon.
I took a breath,
just before my
parents held me
between them and
in that loving nest,
a second womb,
I grew. Their warmth
kindled my flames
and I burned to try
living. I grew until
the space was too
small. Suffocating,
The flame was stifled,
smothered, I prayed
for death, if I died
they would have to
let me go, I swore
they would. I would
slip like ash through
their fingers and then
I could join the fertile,
nurturing soil for
wildflowers. Wild,
no one would ever
put them in a vase.
My parents could not
display them at the
funeral of me.


**V. K.

Sometimes,
I will myself
to forget
you hurt me,
and then I am
in pain.
Consumed by all
I didn’t do and
ravaged by what I did.
You are always
without guilt,
smoke in my lungs
as I ignite.
You were on fire
and I was so cold…
Sometimes,
when I am
burning
for the touch
of your hands
on my skin,
I distract myself
with the singe
of an overheating laptop
on my thighs,
thank god
I never let
your embers
land there,
and I write.
About how warm
my eyes are and how
someday, someone
else
will worship them
as they make me smile.
The heated hope
evaporates my tears
and sometimes,
I remember how
you made me combust.
Red. Red. Red.
I will smother
your memory
until it is ash
and you are
the only one choking
on smoke.
I am the fire.


**V. K.

And yes, I still write.
I write him delicate letters,
like the ones I saved for you,
but I think of you
to fake love on paper.

Sometimes, I write the color wrong
of his eyes.
I’ve whited-out my praises of
the dreams I saw in your blue skies,
for the bland, brown that
are his.

And I don’t know
who hurts worse between him or me,
that the white out is still wet
– smudged –
and he sees when I hand them over.


**V. K.

Wilderness in our eyes,
running from our destiny
with trees whipping past.
I was gone and so were you.
Laughing in the face of
the meek, who never dared.
Sharing stories and dreams and goals —
our escape plans. Knowing that
if that destiny was catching up
(hanging heavy in our dense minds)
we could find somewhere to hide
that no one else could seek.
We believed we could escape this
dreadful, dreary, destroying destiny
on a pre-emptive honeymoon with
almond flavoured last resorts.
And with arms wide open, we drink the poison.
Overdose on our medication and
wash it down with
wedding champagne.
We won’t apologize,
falling for the wrong

love.


**V. K.

Although the world is glimmering
your eyes are dark.
I think.
They won't meet mine and
your hand curls tighter around her,
while I twist myself into knots.
She looks, though, can she feel it?
The tension?
No. Your stress and my eyes on
her lovely party dress are
subtle. No else can see this.
They see how your smile tilts,
how her eyes shine, how that ring
sparkles.
They see how my drinks sip away.
I've only just finished working,
and some clever friend of ours
– of yours –
I can hear him say he loves
my book. I am listening to you.
You say it often. Murmured softly
against the shape of her neck.
I always needed to remind you
to say the same to me. Oh, yes,
you were so forgetful.
I never said it though.
But you never missed a night  
with me. Did you ever miss me?
And behind your smile, I see pores.
The sweat on your forehead.
You're as nervous as you were,
with your thunderous heartbeats
kneeling in my apartment.
Asking me a question,
the numinous question,
I could never answer right.
Right next to my manuscript,
that held the weight of souls
I created, when I sacrificed
my own.
It's obvious now, a loaded gun,
pressed to my temple, filled with
conventions  and editor meetings  and
my detached penthouse.
I never said it.
It's after, that I think.
In the dimness, that I think.
And I can't stop myself from asking it.
How did I forget so easily?
I never said it back.


**V. K.