You don't want to be in my photos.
That’s fine, a thumbtack will stay in your place
You don't want to be in my videos.
That’s fine, I can trim, cut, edit
Until your shadow is completely erased
You don't want to be in my life.
Click
Drag
Delete
That’s fine with me.

You forget my name
I’ll say it, spell it out, write it down
Repeat that same two-syllable word
You’re quick to forget
Flowers are pretty little things
And all their names must blur together
For you, who cannot speak their language

Cello cords snap, slice, fresh
Wounds bloom next to old scabs
Rosy slits puncture through cotton gloves
With thread and time, they say
We’ll mend.
Intertwining blows face a silent war
Unwinded by a cannon salute.
Across the battlefield
Conductors pick up their batons
Holding ready
Waiting
For you to throw
The opening note
Waiting
For me to throw
The first Molotov
Shatters.
The trumpet hook screeches
A familiar overture blares
Confetti glass garnishes our drinks
Gasoline reek, whiskey aftertaste
A night of dancing dares.
We fall back
Into a bed of thorns
Composed by sleepless fights
We have not learned to knit or sew
Our petals dangle from the receptacle
Swaying to the chorus.

I clung on to the feeling
You and I were molded the same way
By our foundations and roots
Nestled deep in the same place of belonging
Quiet and withdrawn, in the shadows
We grew slow, dipping our leaves into a shy beam of sun
But only I dared to branch out
Come out of the shadows and search for the light
To stand in the glory and to expand.

I heard the alarm burst last night
Put me in the driveway, the smoke in the sky
Veiled the moon and flames ripped the roof
House down, house down

I sat on the sidewalk, barefoot with crisp hair
Heard sirens scream and babies scared
Crying for holy water and the dormant gods
Heaven down, heaven down

They told me I would be safe
If I stayed put where I was laid
I scorned these streets and scorched the people
Who marched through puddles unafraid

I am the candle who’s met its match
Stripped down to the wick and molten wax
Smell the charred roses and barbequed grass
Woman down, woman down

I see red and feel the sting
Sparks dancing on my fingertips
Pinching them shut, they turn to ash
I refuse to burn this city down.

Hi! My name is --
       Armpit fat hanging out from the strangulation of my push up bra,
       Unlovely love handles poorly clothed by leggings waistband,
       A zebra-striped, stretch-marked ***,
       Shoulder-length, untamed mane resting on weightlifter traps,
       Snub nose on a face as circular and flat as a waiter’s tray,
       Except for the hilly scar on the tip of my snout,
       Eye bags of a zombie risen from the bed,
       Juicy, voluminous, red Skittle zits,
       Accompanied by a mole like Marilyn’s
       (But this one ain’t so ****),
       Four foot eleven and a half plus high heel calluses,
-- Katie for short.
But despite what I’m called,
Maybe we can get to know each other
A little better?