Mother used to say...
Mother used to say...
Mother used to say...

Crack a ground
Stand tall, a tongue
Swallowing bridges.

Cover a face
With faces seem like TV
Channels and ******* journalism.

High notes, hoarse voice
No neck has been hurt before.
Only skin and skin and skin

She bled, didn't care
She knew all the wrong things
And all the right doings.

found
grounded bird closed in
ribboned-box and buried
underneath a willow snapped back
to finally relax
to decompose and nourish
by the lake in drooping shade
the felled leaves pile
candy wrappers gray snow in
parking lot corners
with pumpkin spice scented candles
with charred letters skirling up
the arm dropped to sizzle and puff out
white beanies
flannels
leather boots and jangly bronze-leafed wind chimes
I sit on the patio and listen to you speak
the chill of your words
perched like a squirrel barking on a fence top
hibernation preparation and breeze
the gospel of your autumn

it’s lovely.

I'll still be waiting for you in the silence
when all my souls are set on fire
only to give you space
to find home
inside of
me.

The fire spreads while you touch me
gently
I know your lies, and i've known
all of them
for years
six years
i can see your odd blinking &
i can hear your trembling voice
when you say
you have to go back home
or to go back to your
stuff
with has nothing to do with me
and it's okay to try to protect
someone who's been hurting for
more than two decades
but it's not fair
to treat this person
as someone who's as weak & innocent
as a kid
that wouldn't know how to handle
the truth
i can be hurt & i know how to hurt people
and it can be dangerous
because i know where to put the
sharp words & leave no traces behind
but you're not me
and your lies have been as sharp
as my own words when used as a weapon
but i don't know if these
wounds will heal anytime soon
unlike when i am the one
who inflicts them myself
because i don't care if they will heal
because i wanted the pain
because i longed for the wound
to be open & reopened
as time passed by
but your lies are like a razorblade
slipping back & forth
through the same wound
you've inflicted on me
many years ago.

The destruction is a struggle
but also a desire
and I long for it
more than I ever longed for
anything
in a lifetime.

It was a question;
a simple inquiry
that I had been running from,
catching me off guard,
trapping me in this feeling,
that I had been found out,
before I had found myself.

I remember taking offense,
as if it were an accusation,
rather than a question.
Out of breath,
and suspiciously defensive,
I was frightened out of my mind.
But it had been asked with such disdain,
such disgust and disapproval,
so I kept running.