it isn‘t until you tear up again
that you remember the nights
where you have slept
shattered on the cold wooden floor

these moments where you
have begged the moon for
forgiveness and sleep

desperately trying not to
fall through the roof of the
room under yours

you try shutting down but
the memories flush against you
knocking you down like a tsunami
and you know that you will
never, never feel whole again

your lips tasted
like bittersweet hell

and now I’m burning
like a glorious fire
as if I couldn‘t feel pain

I spilled some blood on the bathroom floor, mama,
But I swear it was an accident.
See, my hand slipped across porcelain, mama;
My skin tore like satin.

The paint flowed like a river then, mama,
And colored me a crimson sunset.
Oh, but it made such a mess, mama,
And I know messes make you upset.

So close your eyes, mama,
'Cause you're weeping red and the tears might stain.
Red for your lost love and red for scarlet fire,
and red for the young rose cut from the briar.

Maybe now I could be poetry, mama
The type you wrote about in your younger days.
Golden sun swallowed in carmine, mama
With its last rays dying in a blaze.

the bones of a poem
ride on the storm
that bellows through
wood-fired red skies
and they rattle all night
but with dawn's light
i release them
as butterflies