There’s something about keeping
wounds open that feels better
than letting them heal.

To have fallen so
unexpectedly
into the company of an alluring
stranger.

The all-consuming infatuation
with those azure irises
and their blinking
benevolence.

To yearn to hear
his voice
as he unravels words unto everyone
but me.

The kisses that
have fallen at the feet
of the pedestal
he stands upon.

To hear him speak of
her
with the same desire
that I
think of him.

To watch those azure irises
stray their attention
to her golden braids.

The silence
as it becomes a knife
that--
slowly--
kills me.

Poetry is
what poets write
to make words
disappear.

Songs,
that plunge
far and dark,
an imperfect
human voice,
wasting
breath.

An incorruptible
being
shadowing
lies

All the while,
sipping wine
overflowed
with error.

Years of
staring at yourself
in the mirror
have flawed your mind.

You've never been
smart enough
pretty enough
good enough.

You yearn for
true love's attention
but find that every man is
Prince Charming
at first glance.

You ignore the
sour words
that burn his mouth
when they roll of his tongue.

True love is a load of ****.

You are
so
entranced
by the arms of a man
as they hug you
jokingly.

You subject yourself
to fools gold and
mockery.

You fall in love
with every man
who looks at you
without turning away.

Too in love
with the thought of love.

Stupid girl.

True love is fiction
we cannot turn to fact.

I gave myself to you,
surrendered to desire.

What I thought was toasty warm
turned out to be a fire.

You built me up
with words of how
lovely I could be.

All I had to do was
promise to never leave.

You ripped apart my confidence,
stripped me to the bare.

Pulled at my fringing seams
until nothing was left there.

You fed me lies of love,
kissed me with your
sugar coated lips.

You made me unhealthy,
your sugar made me sick.

By the time I tasted love,
you had fled away.

I should have known
you would never last.

Sugar has a habit
of making things
decay.

Dear,
    Fingertips that
    braided hair,
    lips that kissed my tears.

    Hands that
    warmed my own
    throughout my
    growing years.

    Smile that
    woke me up,
    memories you
    had me keep.

    Wordless humming
    to somber tunes,
    at night
    to help me sleep.

    Wrinkles that
    speak of leaving,
    breath that
    fades in song.

    Eyes that
    grasp at fleeing dreams
    I love you,

Dear Mom.

Every sunset
is a day
stealing hours.

A fleeting canvas
pink and orange
resting on the horizon.

Waiting
to purge
the mishaps
of morning
behind your
closed eyelids.

Go to sleep,
little baby.

Every sunset
is the wisps
of Calla Lilly pollen
dancing on
evening breeze

while crickets strum
their violins
in the freshly cut
grass
of rural Minnesota.

Heaven rays
pull our breath
from sighing lips,
shimmering through
nightly dew and
rising moonlight.

Go to sleep,
little baby.

At 6 am you drank
black coffee before
heading out the door,

a simple sign of leaving
I never noticed before.

At night you’d watch the game
a cold beer in your grip,

always wasting time
before you left on a trip.

On Sunday’s you made eggs
but never ate them all,

always rushing for the door,
scurrying about the hall.

Big brother
I always watched you
when you came
when you left

I’d leave the kitchen light on
so you’d know where to step.

I watch as you partied
as you drank
as you drove.

I’d pray for your safe
journey back to home.

I watched you drink your coffee
get in your car and go

the morning that you left
but never came home.

I remember
a time before.

War was just
an action movie,
blood just
a color

grass was green
sky was blue,
people were
tye dye.

I remember you.

Curly hair
and chrysanthemums,
plucking dreams
off the petals

singing euphoria
through brisk autumn wind,
demanding the world
hear you

pondering
your plights,
when a draft
carried you to battle

and me
peering down the gravel road,
searching for a car
that only cabs bad news.

Remember?
I do.

I claim that I am
Beautiful
Within as well as without
Otherwise tell me-people
That I cannot be beautiful
In any way
But beauty defined
Is sacred
A treasure to
Measure your worth
Until
Along comes miss spider
To sit down beside her
And whisper you’re ugly
Inside and out
Just a worm in the dirt
In the earth
But beautiful may I
Believe to be
Whether it true or not
To be sought after is humbling
But if only for beauty
Would I
Rather not

Their whispers
seep through
the wall vents,
the crackle in the phone,
the inch space underneath their bedroom door.

They fake normalcy.

A pair of
spies
devising plans
to deal with
their children,
their belongings,
their money.

I silently holler
the flaw
in their plan.

Fake.

My siblings remain
oblivious, but
I wonder:

Maybe they were always
faking.