They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.

                              The sweetest sacrifice

   Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
    as if she had ingested the heavens and now
     they sought a means to escape.

                              For the good of the many

      The slow slant of her lips
       was textured and fine,
        a simpering halt in her meadow of face.

                              Do not fear, little one

         The disciples sang at her altars and allow
          her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
           streaking under the curls of their incense.

                              You will be blessed

            Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
             still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
              A knife presses close, slight

                              You are the savior

               and silver as the pulse of her heart.
                Eyes flicker wide; her
                 last breath slides through.

                                One life paid for all

She is the world,
they whisper,
hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.

Trapped.

     I am snared,

forever burning.
The very feathers

circling my throat
tingle with flame.
Embers shiver

as they drip
down my back.

     I am ashes.

There are hands,
with want to touch,

the desperate
feverish mortals
seeking forever,

scrabble about,
thieving my eternity.

But I do not hold
the grail they seek.

I am no fountain
for life and for living.

     I am an undead curse,

ringed with flame.
My talons are pitch
and empty as coal.

The pool of my eye has
the haze of raw steam.

     I did not choose.

I was a spark and
no new-born flicker
shall birth from my

flank. I will never put
tinder and flint to my

breast, never pull forth
a struggling bairn.

     I am barren.

Never will the scorch
spread further than
my soul. The swoop

of my neck is the
tongue of the flames.

     I am bound in this burning.

The smoke fills my lungs,
blacken and sear.

     I cough as I choke,

my skin catches light.
Cracks.

     I am dying.

Everything flames,
spirals within.

     I am free,

roasting to pieces,
crumble to dust.

     I am burning,

beaten wings
an inferno.

     I am free.

Inhale the ashes.

     I am reborn.


Again.


Trapped.

They proclaimed she
was the “all-or-nothing” breed,
  a single lark thriving amongst the wrens.
   Her eyes were as lanterns, luminous and protruding,
    as if she had ingested the heavens and now
     they sought a means to escape.
      The slow slant of her lips
       was textured and fine,
        a simpering halt in her meadow of face.
         They sang at her alters and allow
          her put-upon face to blur through the lines,
           streaking under the curls of their incense.
            Skin faintly blue shines silky as lies,
             still like the cloak wrapped tight around her soul.
              A knife was pressed close, slight
               and silver as the pulse of her heart.
                Eyes flicker wide; her
                 last breath slides through.
She is the world,
    they whisper,
  hushed as the tears of her blood cry down their arms.

I’m always glad to hear your ***** is doing well. Their temperament is, as always, forever hard to tell. I heard that Mercy Lane had to have hers declawed. It scratched her over quite a bit and left her slightly flawed. All the things I know of friends fly from my mouth like birds, but idle gossip I should not spread when purpose steers my words. With weighted heart I tell you the reason that I write. The man she feared used tempered words and put her down tonight. I didn’t know my ***** was tame ‘til she laid heel for him. She rolled right ‘round under his palm and shocked me to the brim. Little more did I suspect that she would now submit, especially when his liquid voice just set her teeth to grit. He oozed some words and touched her sides and caused her eyes to glaze. Then, when we were both sound asleep, he shattered her to haze. It burst me out of all my dreams to find myself worn thin. Now I don’t know what to do without her in my skin. Tell me now, my dearest friend, what should I do hence? Should I let him have me too, or rise to her defense? The only problem seems to be I’m without her; she’s me.

Look at all the ***** that I give
I labor through each, contraction after contraction
pushing through the breach
Nine months of waiting and hours of screams
will not be stillborn

This way, when I give a ****, someone will appreciate it
Someone will be there in the delivery room
cradling my hand as I spasm across the sheets
They will coo and observe over my sweat streaked shoulders
waiting for the feels

But maybe, just once, once my **** is free
sliding from me in a wash of catharsis
after the placenta peels free and the afterbirth escapes
maybe it will be cleaned and weighed and wrapped
and laid upon my arms

maybe then I will feel the feels
I will contract the disease of affection
a want for this **** that I carried
A stubborn resolve may just rise in my throat
and not a single **** will I give

When I remember you, I conspire with you.
now I flee you.

I ran you across the heat of my arguments:
snippets of friends, trials of unfortunate others--

As I stretched out in hope,
I fought you blow by blow.
Your mind should have eased off by now,
not constricted like the strangling fist,
empty angry space--

I touched your every pore,
crimes of the disinterested mind,
the stones of ambivalence dropped into my stomach--
you slathered more, spreading your reasons
like the trails of slugs.

Whatever you think,
you will not sway me thus,
among the condescending blind.
Your path is not sprinkled with wildflowers like mine:

your tongue is the angry chatter of sparrows
which pluck and bicker in wickedness--
which pluck and bicker, in echoes keening
the helix from our sides
to the lake of fire.

Socks are only really okay when they have holes in the soles and some scary stories to tell

The prettiest leaves are wrapped up in fingers and traded around for some days

A nothing together is better than many a venture alone

Knowing where the fork belongs is not a real thing

Best kind of weather is cuddling weather

Life music plays on windchimes

Don’t sleep but for dreams

Never go

Breathing