like ******* crumbs you're
still on my tongue the
stomach ache I can't
escape

the old haunt I missed
before ever stepping through the
door

the scrape on my knee ghost
of which still stings

and for a while still,

I  may cry at normal
things.

Too right-
a cup so full
cannot hold
cannot comprehend
focus or push back

a cup will spill, trembling
when held in unsteady fingers
knuckles white, nail beds stark

a soul pushed
a soul stretched

has no balance left

In time, you will walk on

my fingers will become stars
my lips, branches
my heart, brittle moss
you will go away from me gently

and grow upon this loss

Sometimes I feel like a walking calamity.

sort of unfinished-
like a painting missing just that last daub.
Like a sketch instead of a snapshot.

I'm clothes that don't totally fit.

I feel ungrateful- often.
Smarmy and altruistic.
A vain liar.

the princess ideal is not for me
nor is the martyr

but lately I feel I wear both the dress, the cross and the crown.

Invisible stigmatas staining my palms.

Bearing everyone's burdens but my own.
When did I decide that was my job?

Who chose to put me in this role?

If I am in charge of my own destiny, why did I choose such a lousy one?


in the final fight,
I won't walk to the light. I'll brandish my umbrella for the storm cloud.

I've painted on the silver lining for others. They've eaten my words.
But this is something I cannot swallow.

Oh life- you bitter pill.

Drove my sleepy heart...

Today, all I could give you was coffee

but you've already got more than that,

when you're ready to wake up.

I can make my voice strong
but the truth of that falsehood makes my throat burn
I am losing ground

slip-sliding over gravel
boots into wheels and I am back
and that control
is not over you
and it's not over me

it's just lost in space floating
between my pillows
and my quiet thoughts at night

the balm that I hope I can bring by turning off the light does
not quench

sleep does not smooth and
the jolt of decisions overly made
hashed and delayed

has my existence catching itself at the door

I don't want to be human anymore.

So Stuck.

Mire of Muck.

Inside my Blood.

On top of my Soul.