You're a wolf in sheep's clothing
That I saw break itself apart just so it could join the flock.
You lived with the sheep long enough that your stench faded,
Inhaled their lifestyle until it became yours.
Then the real wolves came, wearing their own skin,
Entered the flock and began to feast upon the sheep.
You sat, injured and deformed, wearing fluffy, white wool
Over your grey fur.
They came for you, and you pounced.
Your self-blunted teeth split their skulls open,
And your claws tore flesh like the sheep tore blades of grass.
They came for you, but now they are yours.
You ate the wolves' flesh and licked clean their blood;
Your sheep's clothing stained red with wolf.

i'm everything i already knew that i was. a strong woman, with convictions that wilt like flowers that aren't meant for the 90 degree weeks we've been getting here in april. we sit around and fan ourselves with half thoughts, and you pretend that my sweat is the sweetest elixir to ever pass your lips. you make me sick with the way you look at me, but for a long time i can't stop trying to memorize the exact color of the water or the sky your eyes are. when i finally realize why, i'm taking myself in, dizzied by the likeness between her and i, and my mind, it keeps glitching as you and he run together. i'm confused at first, uncertain, but then i realize this is my subconscious speaking, the universe cross firing my faulty wiring to wake me up. you've given enough to everyone else, and i know you won't stop, but in this way it must end now. find a way to love yourself through the one you choose to love.

i have taught myself
to ignore the tiny bells
that constantly ring
inside of my head,
the first warnings of
my wrong-doings,
the perpetual chiming
of my intuition telling
me that i should stop
the car and turn around

this year has been
nothing but me pretending
things are fine, when
my heart, mind, and soul
are in agreement that
they are anything but fine

my new years resolution
will be to stop smashing
the ******* bells

The poet's manuscripts
are preserved for posterity
with odd bits of his personal things
historical than literary
immortalized with passage of time
as his timeless work
perfumed in air conditioned staleness
letters sent and received
the mortal mind sending poems
desiring to be published
and outside on a falling winter day
in a dog's head
the crumbling desire
for a crumb of bread.