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jackonary Jun 2013
My heart was not murdered by a bullet,

it drank itself to sleep

in the hollows of a bathroom stall

with shiny things and silent demons.

It wrestled and strangled itself

behind glass windows,

watching each automobile pass

with such yearning

to stand and be smashed.
jackonary Jun 2013
He is my sand dollar
My shady tree in Arizona sun
My never-ending novel
The last peak of light before the sun sets
and the coolness of nightfall
He is my swimming pool on the first day of summer
The silence of fishing
My favorite pair of boots
He is my warmth in all the right places
He is my pen
and my paper
and my ink
jackonary Jun 2013
I was not born into a broken family.
My father did not drink excessively
and my mother had kind words to say.
I did not learn to yell from hearing them yell,
and I never saw him lay a finger on her.

Instead,
I sat in trees turned church pews
with a passive being just out of reach.
Desire to be not me,
fiending a response
from a man mother and father spoke so highly of.

Instead,
I sat in blue bathroom stalls
with stained tiles and permanent explicits for company.
Passing lunch period for it was something to pass,
eating because although you stole my tongue and taste-
you left my stomach to waste.

Instead,
I sat beneath holy hands reaching-
that painting on sunflower walls haunting.
Each thought,
sin,
mistake
would be admitted to guilty air.

— The End —