798

She staked her Feathers—Gained an Arc—
Debated—Rose again—
This time—beyond the estimate
Of Envy, or of Men—

And now, among Circumference—
Her steady Boat be seen—
At home—among the Billows—As
The Bough where she was born—

Who are you who knows my muse?
My ramblings on the page, who hears my voice with each line?
The subtle and shaking truth my mouth has bled?
To you I am grateful
To you I still write
Thank you (as always)
Friend

I walk with a head full of clouds, a mouth full of wisdom
Trudging in a sea of doubt flippantly filling in the void with words unspoken
Teetering on the edge of what is "right" what is "wrong"
Floating on the tempting water between what I am and what I "should be"
What the letters upon the box should say, were they stuff me to forget me
Their labels still sting the inside of my nose, the latex embedded in the skin from each ripping and re-sticking.
I wear a face upon my skin her butterfly headdress bleeds the color of their contempt, the slick lines of abstract freedoms morph to become the fluttering of a thousand wings
What I want most I have bled to show, how my mind works and sees has printed on the skin
Put there to remind all I am more within.

I kicked the edge
of the coffee table
with the top of
my small toe.
And then I thought of you.

I dropped that glass
But nearly caught it
with my then glass
Shard filled hand.
And then I thought of you.

Knicked the edge of
my Razer against the
Contour of my face
while my blood filled
the rest of the mirror.  
And then I thought of you.

But when I nearly
cut myself in half
with that old ax
And dead tree,
I didn't think of you.

You don't want me dead,
Just alive enough to feel the pain,
because when you're dead you can't
feel dead,
when you're living
Sometimes it's all you can feel.