you borrowed a golden flower
and i weaved it in my hair
and quietly tucked it in my love
all the others are still there.

Chapter 1:
Today I read our electronic history
a dusty living-room tome
wistful for reminiscence
and a late afternoon happy-end.
In Chapter Two I meet the villain
in wanted posters on every page
and read a folkloric anguish
revealed between every line
in heartache and metaphor.
(I was illiterate to your language)

Chapter 2:
And now she is accountable for
the permanent etchings of
betrayal and cruelty.
History be not fickle as I.
History be not proud.

Chapter 3:
Atonement? Stay tuned.
The co author may have just broken the contract.
Writer dynamics are begging forgiveness.

To be continued.

I write my identity in gluestick and markers
I am a lamb raised by wolves
swaddled pulsing cosmos girl-child
My limbs are rebuilt like a 7 year old birdhouse
with garish colours and bubbling pride
I am pouring glitter onto my future
the kaleidoscope cannot exist inside

In the end I think there would be
no nobler cause than to
have a life worthy of taping on
the refrigerator that I can
swell with ever-young joy to know I
have created with
trial and forgiveness.

sheetsnangled
heavy comfort paralysis
colours pixelating
rush breath in
seismicmmmm out
vibrating blurryheart noise
eyes shut tightest
conversations end
eyes open
white
eyes shut
stream of consciousness
eyes open
warmth diffusing
blink
blink
awake.

one diamond winter evening
for want of a human heart
i scaled an ancient mountain
only to find there was no air
and died quiet beneath aurora
and the glacier's doleful stare.