Love often reminds me that I'm not afraid of hights
or falling -
but I'm afraid of what will happen
the moment
*my body hits the ground

One.* I planted a poppy seed in my back garden for every time you broke the sky. They bloomed as softly as the lies you rooted in my chest, conecting the exposed wires to my brain stem. I never thought they'd erode a part of me that wanted to die.

Two. I built a bed of thorns for every time you chocked down my trust. I slept in it for three days, like a shallow grave of misguided programming. But at this point you had watered our aviary with blood lust and it must have been awfully convenient that you had the poppies to match. God was off duty that weekend and all I could think about was your camouflaged bug trap.

Three. By now, the coding of my skull had cracked and everything looked much like your eyes did the night you accidently said you loved me. Stems grew from the pit of my throat and I swear I could feel the ground quiver.

Four. My poppy flowers have melted into a sea of unclaimed blood.

Five. I woke up to a locked jaw and a splintered tongue. Right then, I felt like every missing escape key on every abandoned keyboard in all the major cities of America. Despite my best efforts, I am real.

Six. I'm sitting in a bathtub with a little bag full of drugs and hand drawn map to the nearest greenhouse. I've spent the last hour picking thorns from feet, each one a replication of me, a me before I started planting flowers.

your ego cannot afford cremation

my body is not a debt to be paid.

my version of love
is getting robbed eight times
in a row
on the same street corner,
and hoping today will be different

I think of it as coming
back to myself,
like a second cousin
visiting from the states
As if I'm waiting in
the airport terminal,
hands full of sweat
and a note stapled to my chest
I can't remember when
I first became a space to  be filled,
an empty vessel floating
in between the veil
But I'm starting to feel
like more of a splutter
than a storm,
and it's moments like
this that make me think God
is just ******** irresponsible
I find myself digging
for my sense of wonder
at the bottom of my music box,
like the folded ears
of a saxophone player,
sitting across the bar
As if I'll slide my hands
across the slime of my exterior,
slip back into my identity
like an old coat
While I  tumble into the
empty bellyed passion
of a man with small hands
and an inability to say my name,
hoping I'll come across
my purpose for life
while drenched in his ***