His liver, My heart
The true torture is not in the breaking,
But in the knowledge that you will become whole again,
Only to feel them rip your organs out again.
He stole fire
I loved the wrong people in the wrong way
Neither of us deserves our punishments
But we can't bring ourselves to regret our crimes

On my sixteenth birthday,
my uncle gave me a balsa wood airplane,
or rather, the wood
that comes together to make one.

While I started out strong,
assembling most of the fuselage,
it would go unfinished
and stay a skeleton.

Most of its life
collected cobwebs.
My uncle drinks whiskey
in the pool at night.

I think of the airframe
still waiting to be put together,
waiting to fly
to the other side of this.

The wind whispers in soft, lilting echoes;
that enchant and linger the presence of idle stars and graceful jasmines;
on a musky summer midnight

the body i live with
does not appreciate
the thoughts that keep it restless
in the early hours,
the ones i won't part with.