divine serpent twisting her lungs
burning the sheets because she likes the taste of ash on her tongue
an angel would shred his wings
just to get the chance to dive into her lake
all repenting is done on the knees,
i breathe, i break

shatter
and mend
hazy pools evaporate
when the curve is just over the bend
writhing, like cyaninde does in my veins
savagery and bliss do consummate
in this battle of a lover's only cellmate

the night's estranged urges
alabaster flesh, a collage of need
darkest hour brings an unexpected liability
for i am in need of breaking
to remember how it feels to be whole.

now my thighs are shaking
as if my inhibitions are obsolete
it's not just the moonlight
that makes my skin luminous
it's the effort of my strife that makes me complete

even after i lose my voice,
i will miss you in my bones.
even after my bones are ground to dust,
i will miss you in my flesh.
and when that flesh rots to feed the flowers
that grow above my skeleton,
and the child that will inhale the perfume
of my longing
will know that you are missed.

Angel of anguish, take this from me.

your feathers brush away my sins,

but your talons carve my guilt into my chest.

sweet Angel, carry me to oblivion,

rest your head in the lake of inaction,

tasting wordless pleas.

eyes, eyes, they say they never lie.

but you have none, only an empty promise lay in your skull.

spongey bones
ten little toes
not a single cry is heard.
i did not sing when
brought into this world.

bright blue eyes
grandfather in a tie
silent doctors grim and telling lies.
"we have no reason to believe
that she is in any pain"

twisted tendons
agony, unending
reshaping, like im made of clay
sterile tubes and lights
was all I knew, for so many nights

a macabre expanse
of leather and metal in a cruel dance
the clicking like the knell at my guillotine
fear strangling with cold hands
while the sheets witness suppressed sobs

she is not yet one
but her torture is not close to done.

notches on the bedpost
i'd rather count the freckles on your skin
i do not have a bedframe, an empty plaque
but i have my little scrawls of whim
and the tumbling scars on my back,
a rather pallid mosaic
of the sheer audacity of living
but please, count them until daybreak?

i am afraid that
if i were to perish in a car accident
and they see that
i am an ***** donor
and a doctor examines
the vessel i call a body,
he might say;
"none of this is any good"

i would be too dead
to be devastated