The first time I laid eyes on you,
I caught a glimpse of the break of dawn -
a luminescence of  breathtaking events
flashed before my eyes
in fast forward.
As we started talking,
I saw the radiant glow of my
somber, brown eyes
reflecting on yours.
The moment our fingers
first touched,
i felt a sudden jolt
of electricity flowing
through the current
of our bodies.
We became two atoms fusing
to release massive energies
to fuel the sun’s rays.
The warmth became
our refuge - comforting, safe.
Seconds turned minutes,
minutes turned days;
I witnessed an everyday cycle
of day fading into dusk.
I have woven myself in
the soft beaming light
of your soul,
but deeper, I also immersed
into the abyss of  your darkness,
until we both suspended
into the nothingness.
One morning, I felt
warm, moist air
surrounding my atmosphere.
As the veil of pitch-dark clouds
approached, I enveloped in
anxious anticipation.
Is this the beginning of the end?
As the storm surges,
squalls of rain
and a heavy whirlwind
loom overhead -
it comes from a distance
but I can feel the destruction
happening within.
Slowly, i was consumed,
washed away - a mere casualty.
As soon as the skies cleared,
we were no longer.
I walked barefoot
in streets
of the aftermath.
Remnants of the storm
were scattered all over.
I was no longer whole,
but I did not need to be.
I waited until a glimmer
of light surfaced through
the horizon. It was stunning
after all - to be alive and
greeted with a speck of hope,
In the midst of a ravaging maelstrom scheme.

water drips steadily into the black sink
there is no warmth here
some breathing relic of a bygone era speaks lively volumes on death;
rigor mortis racks the bodies of intent listeners
there is honey and dirt on his breath
he has been in the apiary
round eyeglasses grow brittle and their lenses blurry, closing the window of his soul to a loving corpse who cannot smell the dirt on his breath
honey and cologne
where has he been?
water drips steadily into the black sink
he touches her arm;
fleeting warmth,
bitter cold,
here again

my father told me
to just come home
once i hit my
breaking point

how do i explain to him
that i don't have a breaking point?

my body will twist and turn
it will boil and bubble from
the inside out but i will
not break and my lungs
will scream for air my
heart tied together with
knots and crosses my hair
falling away in the air
that just isn't enough for me
to breathe

how do i tell him that
my sadness will keep growing
until i am dead and that
there is no 'point' at which it will
be 'bad enough' for me to say
'i give up- take me home'
there will be no point because
father, i will tell him,
father, you raised me as a fighter,
and i do not know how to give up
not when it is the smart option
not when it is the only option
i am not one who gives up and that
is both stupid and deadly but
i know myself to know that i will
stay and stay and stay till it was
far past time to leave
that is why i loved the boy
who wrote poetry on me with a blade
and that is why when he told me he'd **** me
i still stayed
i don't know how to let go
of places or people or things
i don't know how to give up
on ideas or love
that is why
when the nurse asks me
how bad the pain is
on a scale of 1-10
i will always say
something along the lines
of 5
even with a broken spine
and a dislocated skull
i will tell her the pain is 5
because i do not know
what my 10 is
where do i stop to say
this
this is
enough

father, when you tell me to come home
when i've had enough
know that i do not know what 'enough' is
i have always been trying to be 'enough'
i always want to give more than 'enough'
but this strange place called 'enough'
has never been home to me

i'll fight till my
anxiety ties around my neck
and i am blue in the face
purple fingertips
and yellow eyeballs
i'll fight until my
depression creeps into the
veins of my bloodless body
and soars through them
mercilessly
i'll fight until
you put the last of the dirt
upon my fractured grave
because death always came easier
than ever saying
i give up

when Whitman wrote, "I sing the body electric"

I know what he
meant
I know what he
wanted:

to be completely alive every moment
in spite of the inevitable.

we can't cheat death but we can make it
work so hard
that when it does take
us

it will have known a victory just as
perfect as
ours.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.