i’m just like my father

  attraction
compels &
   rip s   me   a
  part

destroyed by
what made me
into him

you call me a
self fulfilling prophecy

i read your cards
after telling you to close
your eyes: shy divination
trembles and wrestles itself
into the dirt as
i collect each one

my intuition or
my ego    (maybe both)
rush beneath stretched skin,
an ache that unfurls into
the division between each  
of my fingers, breathing with
the tension of a starved mutt:  
                                         i whine
   at the bottom of
      your front door
                       step:

                                  i mirror you do
                                           not let me
                                         in

that
rot
ten
***
ger in
my
    g  ut
         .

we don’t hold hands
but it’s okay
i build back my
own heart to not
burden you with
expectations

i rear-end an old man
on the way to your house
my heart keeps beating
even when the car turns
off and when i look at you
it doesn’t stop stuttering

i’m so wound tight
but the hours grow softly
into one another until i have
to remind myself to wind up again:
i need to leave, so i shroud
myself in a satin second skin
perfect for saying good
bye

i drive away
we didn’t kiss
that’s okay
there are no
expectations

my gut twists
painfully as i’ve
always wished i
could be more
bold

i sleep fast
caught between
two mountainsides
and there’s no time
to ask myself when
it’ll all end

i lay down
at your feet
and roll
over
like a
cowed
dog

anything you
want to take
from me is
already gone

when it hurts
it stings all
over

and i cry
because
i wish it
could start
hurting again

i can’t tell when
i’m being kicked
down

i can’t tell
anyone
how i feel

there is no magic
in waiting

there is no magic
in leaving

i sit at the door
in hopes that
someone will
walk through
and save
me.

i let mint fester
in the front of my mouth as
a sleeping
beauty,
while hunger slips in t
                                    -he back of my
throat and i try to forget
            her

softer kind of tea;
flower beds roll
over scars in the road.
winter is my home but
i'm always so
cold.

the weight of
my own thoughts...

...all i feel is everything:
self-sabotage is
art.

there are no main characters.
so i exist out in the misty blanket
that lingers after midsummer storms:
stuck in that apathetic draft
that betrays humidity and
its ethos.

chasing an ego in the snow:
appalachia turns it all to ice
and watches me scramble
to an unsteady stance.

i've never caught frostbite,
though i reckon she was
trying.