Crepe myrtle blooms, pink like the blush of fever
roots growing from the broken bones and spirit
but drinks from the lingering passion of past lovers.

Your footsteps are the creeping of violets throughout
the garden, yet I can feel your touch on the air as it rains,
your memory like the wood smoke from across the street.

I lick my lips, apology and sin, at the tip of my tongue.

Lavender and sage drift in waves of smoke
soft and subtle like your ebony hair flowing
through my fingers as my lips brushed yours.

Blood rushes to my cheeks and I gasp still-
fever overcoming shock as you touch me,
siren on land waiting for the tide to come in.

Once a hesitant explorer, meekly tracing your
beckoning curves and scars I now salivate-
wet with hunger to devour you inch by inch.

But we are little more than bleached bones,
memories grinding into dust with one foul move
blown away in the wind to feed new life.

I cant stand silence anymore.

All it does is amphlify
all the worse thoughts in my mind
bounce along the walls and echo
such a cacophony of metaphysical sound
that my body cringes.

Alone, that inner dialogue of infection
steps away from the recess and whispers.
And alone, the sound carries.

Sleep is impossible without a fan
and the AC is loud enough downstairs
that sitting alone is only miserable.
I stretch out and my eyes find my phone,
distraction a short term remedy but no...

I remember the sound of your fan
sitting in the door of your room,
our bodies intertwined, skin on skin
the warmth forming sweat that ran
like your cat across the room, the maniac.

I remember the sound of your AC,
you so proud that your new place had it,
sweet symphony to your ears, a pleasure
that spread like my legs and the cold rush
drowned out by the heat of you inside me.

I recline back in darkness, AC clicking on
images rushing past, hunger churning.
Too sad to eat, too tired to sleep - nonsense

Nonsense that something so small, normal
meant so much and could cause all this.

Bumps raise across my skin -
summer left with haste.

I shrug and cringe but dont
reach for the blanket at my side.

I stare and remember the heat
radiating from your bare skin.

The holidays are coming -
what joy.

If I were never to gain your heart,
Id have liked your warmth through winter.

A little green dot means so much more
than the fact that you are online.

It brings back our first conversations,
hours of struggling to type each word
but I fought my broken phone anyway
and you waited patiently.

We would sit at work and talk
send gifs of **** and ache,
yearn to see each other again
and we couldn't wait.

You stripped me of every defense,
and most of my clothes, so quickly
I didn't have time to think not to
and I'm glad I didn't.

I never sat and talked to someone,
touched someone in simple ways,
become so familiar with them
and I got afraid.

I see that green dot and I want,
want to send you ***** pics,
want to apologize, want to cry,
want to just talk again.

I see that green dot by your name,
and yes, I think of that short period
of something never meant to be,
but only because a fresh wound stings.

I see that green dot and I want,
I want to feel that way again.
But it won't be with you.
And I'm okay with that.

Mostly

Eyes stare out
but they don't see
a cat crossing the street.
Bass drums thunder
inside headphones
but she doesn't hear.
Her heart static
as a message appears
sweet words and thoughts.
A fly hovers near
swat, swat, swat
it won't go away.

Like the tears.

A constant reminder
that she is dying on the inside.

Her red dress frayed at the edges
like her nerves
her fingers tapped a lost beat
don't sweat it
but her fingers touched glistening drops of
liquid courage
borrowed like the lipstick staining the rim
keep a lid on it
heels loud against cement, echoing a rhythm
like rehearsed lines
the memories of which followed her coffee
and spilled
words eloquently falling in place, settling
like sugar on the bottom
hands stilled by their sweet murmurs
of her acceptance.

Like an OCD psychologist,
I analyzed my behavior
breaking everything down
digging to the roots
the core emotions that I felt:
insecurity, fear of being hurt.

I laid out the physical and verbal
dialogue of my body and words,
highlighting those that reflected
that pain and turmoil inside.

If insecurity was blue and fear
of being hurt purple, well...
that hidden dialogue was striped
much like the Cheshire cat
invisible behind a nodding head,
wide grin and endless laughter.

If you studied your own actions
studying every move like a
hunter on the prowl, patient
what would be your true colors?

Two inches of snow, untrodden
boots digging in, holding on
but when they hit traveled roads
slip

Paths dotted with the footprints
one set, two sets, three sets
four, with all the more to
slide

When the snow is so shallow,
the path less traveled is safer.
And so it reminds me too of
life

The wooden pulpit split
cracked like thunder
and from its splinters
came life, green and flowing
vines that slithered and twined
their bodies from pulpit to pew
and from it burst roses
every color of a sunset
except those holding together
the pulpit she stood behind
those were white as the moon.

Even in a small town, would you know
what is normal, what a stranger looks like
2 blocks away from your daily routine?

Last night
I spoke and spat my sentiments.
Words and memories spilling out
like wet tissues from my trash can.

Last night
anger and outrage floated through the air,
infection heard in their agreement.
We were sick of it.

Last night
as the lights went out, mine stayed on.
My stomach wrenched, my throat roared
each cough as painful as my words were.

Talking daisies,
feeding grass,
and marble monuments
to the past.

Blackbird serenades,
painted bones,
the fox is screaming
a lovers moan.

The moon is rising,
waiting stars impatient,
***** crickets
their song so blatant.

The mud is cooling
as the breeze caresses.
Breath is fleeting
and darkness possesses.

You know your bed is too comfortable
when it's hard to get up in morning.

You know you love your bed too much
when you don't want to wake up at all.

What does it mean when someone's favorite flower is violets?
Little clusters of dainty purple bloom sprinkled about,
forgotten or unseen by most among vast beds of clover.
Hunting fingers search for four-leafed omens while
deer feast on the rest, leaving room for dandelions their
long silvery necks stretch to take the spotlight, left alone
until impatient lips can blow their prayers into the midday breeze.
But, violets? They manage to survive, away from preying eyes.

Love is felt
or is only said.

And as I sit here alone
in the comfort of my bed
I try not to weep.

I know that love can be felt
through the strength of a hug,
the weight of a kiss, the linger
of skin on skin.

I know this in my heart, and so
does everyone because how
can you recognize it then
when it happens
or doesn't.

And it hasn't to me.
That's why I weep.

Anyone who asks you if they're pretty
will not believe your answer
be it in words.

Look them in the eyes and through them
to the other side and reach
out, touch.

Let every movement with and against them
speak every emotion and
let them feel
your
answer.

Routine -- a dastardly habit fed
to control you, and your mind
give your body a boring rhyme
to dance to and not feel tempted

into the lands of chance and reason
letting you decide when to wake
when or how you take your break
because to trust your dedication is treason

and foolhardy, why they must train
you when to go to bed and when to wake
and of course how you should operate.
Oh all the things to teach your brain

but like bleeding out a poison, time
is always on your side, for nature
she likes things the way they were
your natural rhythm, denying it a crime!

That is her insight, as you sit awake alone
the clock ticking faster than before
the coming day a dreaded chore
your days spent sick now like a precious stone.

How is one supposed to go to sleep at night
when they know what comes with day
the hum drum, daily toil and you left to fray?
This is the story of man's modern plight.

She dyed her hair purple,
though not all of it.
She wanted to keep some of herself.
She didn’t want to erase everything.

She dyed her hair purple,
leaving some of that mousy color.
The purple was violets
like her favorite flower.
She was shy,
but now she would look bold.

She would stand out amongst the clover.

She dyed her hair purple
and bought all new clothes.
She donated much of those
childhood remnants
and took a trip to the thrift store.
She searched through the past,
through the castaways
and found her new image.

She chose how she wanted to look.

She dyed her hair purple
and tried new things.
She went on walks through the woods,
laid in the hammock at night
to watch the stars,
to catch lightning bugs
in the summer,
to draw in the sunlight,
to read in the grass,
write down the stories in her head,
and dare to be herself.

She dyed her hair purple
and kids at school thought she was weird.
But she didn’t care.

She dyed her hair purple
and her parents didn’t like it.
They thought she was going to do bad things.
But she didn’t.

She was a flower child,
a child of the night,
and true to herself.

Sweet juice dripping down your chin
tasting real tomatoes for the first time
Food will never be the same
much less momma's garden.

Butterflies flutter in chaotic, wonderous traffic
and bees make plants vibrate
sweet and bitter scents tantalize the senses
hands eager to get *****.

Momma will show you the ropes
you won't understand much of her words
but you watch her between adventures
chasing faeries between the rows.

Dried pods rattled in the breeze,
such a hollow sound,
echoing deep emotions
and driving a sigh from my lips
as I stretch in the dim glow
of early morning.
I pull on my old white shirt,
a dingy color
much like the lightening sky.
Stained and torn jeans follow,
the jagged edge of a rip
rubbing against my callused fingers
reminding me of work ahead.
I frown at the sight of my boots,
crusted with mud,
a chore that lies ahead
and a longing for a day without shoes.
I feel the flakes of dirt
when they stick to my feet
as I take to the kitchen
grabbing coffee and biscuits.
Breakfast in the field,
lungs soaking in the cool air,
watching the moon as it tried to hold on.
A losing fight
much like my own.
The moon peeked between skeletons
of plants past.
The song of death sang once again
as the breeze cut it’s path.
I swallowed coffee
letting the bitter taste
and hot water
replace bitter
and burning memories.
The sun was soon to rise though
and I had life to live.
Like a switch,
my hat slipping on my head
tucked away any distraction,
and I was whole again.
I gave a last glance to the moon,
tipped my hat
to the light that fought the dark.

By the parking lot you sit
just behind the village stores
tall, white fence box
flaking paint.

Sun streams in between slats
casting lines across the dirt floor
stopping a few inches in
dark mystery.

Bending down to peer inside
slipping fingers and hands to reach
searching by touch, EW
crawling bug

Once I climbed up the side of one
but there was just a big metal box
I dropped down inside
locked doors.

Some I could climb, and some not
what was being hidden inside the shed?
Eager and curious for adventure, knowledge.
Never enough.

A glass jar lay in the refrigerator
a shallow pool of dark juice inside
dated last summer
last legs.

Rewind a little and its filled to the brim
white blobs are packed tight
white but purple
color revealed.

Rewind even farther and it's 'new'
I say we should make it last
dad's excited too
pickled beets!

Rewind more and two friends are picking
***** hands, sweaty brow, farm day fun
thanks for company
kind charity.

Rewind more and friend is picking beets
family trip to the farm for groceries
preserving the extra
time shares.

Roots like community spirit,
purple juice infectious like kindness.

One hundred and fifty two posts in 2 weeks
a small camera surrounded by a sea of pink
is to blame
and be praised

Crisper, clearer, views of how I see the world,
easier than ever to see through my lens
my POV
picture it

Foot prints in the snow, beer pong, Dustin Lynch
retro diners, favorite TV shows, and hiking trips
this is me
easy to see

Words can be hard to find, ideas to describe
Hard to share your life with no one around
here's Instagram
post away.

Fat, tall, and poor, well a young girl
couldn't be anymore different or
shouldn’t.
Hard headed with no tears, I
so wanted to be made
in that single moment of creation, of
fire.

There they stood in black
huddled by the books on
‘craft
in the aisle for young fantasy
we stood glaring, laughing, judging
not glass, but a shiny mirror
reflecting.

Slipping out of school early,
brandishing new bags and clothes,
lies  
feet treading along the linoleum tiles,
of halls and malls, sitting in cafés
the pressure changing what showed on the
surface.

Needle pierced skin over
and over again, so much
fire
the pain throbbing, spreading
as ink sunk into my skin
crafting little by little a symbol
pagan.

Just down by the lights
at brokenland
there is a small patch of wilderness and a park,
where three cats roam.

The first is white with big splotches of grey
as if it built its camouflage
betting last winter would never end
now an easy spot amongst the hill of green.

The second was a dark grey
the color of the shade under a pine tree
on a partly sunny day
or a storm cloud ready to light up the sky.

The third was black head to toe,
body slim like that of a dancer,
and eyes of bright amber that shined like searchlights
even with a sky full of clouds.

The first I saw on high alert
nose up high, ears pointed, standing tall
a dog down the hill of unkempt grass
it’s owner leashed and in tow.

The second I saw on the hunt,
weaving in and out of wildflowers
leaping and pouncing gracefully,
steadily and quickly traversing the hillside.

The third I saw leisurely sitting by the road,
legs folded underneath it on a rotting log
watching traffic like a king on its throne
yet in seeming awe of its steady flow.

I have seen each cat only once
always when I am moving boxes to the new house
and I wonder if they have an owner
among the white row houses off Little Patuxent.

-- of an era,
the tip of the stage
of my life here and now.

Today I saw the end of my job
and it was in the shape of a tall gay black man.
I helped name him my successor.

Today I saw the end of youth
and it came in the form of a compliment
a young guy asking if I was a teacher.

Today I saw the end of college
in the awkward rejections of plans
new friends I wish I had met earlier.

Today I saw the end of waiting
for the moment I would meet Taylor Mali
and he didn’t disappoint.

Today I saw the end of peaceful nights
tears and heartache relentless
and not a true friend around to hear.

Today I saw the end
and boy if it’s not just the beginning

I see trees on cars
but they are made black
and the sky silver.
Their shape curves,
hugging the metal frame
yet they
slip
away
at a single movement.