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 Mar 2013 Hana Gabrielle
Chloe K
You came like wildfire
Indistinguishably incendiary
Struck my butane skin
With phosphorus fingertips

Clouded myopic eyes
Saw the ashes to ashes
Flushed lackluster lips
Whispered dust to dust

What you left me with:
A collection of burnt bridges
A drawer of regrets
A heart of hieroglyphics
a car full of bodies
lungs full of smoke
hearts full of love
a night to remember
-
Now mind is clear
as a cloudless sky.
Time then to make a
home in wilderness.

What have I done but
wander with my eyes
in the trees? So I
will build:  wife,
family, and seek
for neighbors.

                     Or I
perish of lonesomeness
or want of food or
lightning or the bear
(must tame the hart
and wear the bear).

And maybe make an image
of my wandering, a little
image—shrine by the
roadside to signify
to traveler that I live
here in the wilderness
awake and at home.
Everything became interchangeable.
Words of wisdom,
which weren't welcoming,
were washed willingly.
Only now knowing
that the definition of a "wash"
is a sensitivity.
An appropriate metaphor
would have been a description
of an undertow; hands over feet,
because a cartwheel is superfluous  
underwater.

It's interchangeable.
The fact that the
white whale can
signify the tepid tactic
of the once sought
suitable soul.

It's tangible.
The decisiveness of another party.
A warm body to lay beside.
Another to lift the veil.
To speak love and hate
with full confidence.
Understanding that love and hate
is reachable.
Aloof to the fact that
you are
the love and hate.

It's manageable.
Although, *******
teeth has become customary,
the prospect of "******* face"
still lingers.
It's only until the lack of movement
with fingers...
It's the lack of *******.
But, it's manageable?

It's interchangeable.
It's knowing that what was
sought after was temporary,
that a sealed kiss will
eventually lead to an
opened envelope.

Then after time has taken its course,
you will be inside of another,
and another will be inside of her,
but the difference isn't the physicality.

It's the emotion that kills you.
If you love someone, set them free...

But not before you
imprison them.
Poison them.

Their thoughts.
Their actions.
Their relationships.

Case and point is
not knowing how one's
own bitterness can grow on
a person, like mold,
like a fungus, until
it eventually eats away
at what we consider to be
a soul.

Maybe it's a caustic perspective.
Not everyone falls into the dirt
and grime; public sunshine,
when all the while it's a parasitic
paradox of a relationship.
Something you can really sink
your teeth into.

Saying "I love you"
after a week is weak.
But somehow it's acceptable.

It's the same as the
lame man called gay,
and the idiot who's
*******, the librarian
who's a freak in bed, and
the man like me,
who's bitter,
who's dead.
If you want people to like you write them a poem.
If they still don't like you, nothing you can do will change that.
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