You left your honey mouth in the cupboard, so
today your words are fogged glass
Don't you ever ponder upon the bruises you leave?
stained glass is considered art,
but it's not until you put it somewhere
to be admired that people know.
I saw you from a mile away-
like a kitchen fire
and someone's (dead) body.
But you were humming that melody
that made me seasick with its radio waves, and
made me burn bright with shame.
I always thought that maybe you'd see your
reflection in the puddles at your feet,
and that you'd try to change it
with your rain boots, dip them in the unwelcome depictions.
But I know that you'd continue on with your life,
saying that the reflected you was nothing
that you were something. You, in flesh, in spirit
You claimed you emptied your bones and filled
them with pebbles so you'd be grounded, when really,
you were just stuck in a rut,
smelling of sea water,
trying to get some sleep.
I tell myself that you were not wicked,
but why else couldn't you rest?
You sip your lemon tea
out of a little ceramic bowl,
telling me it tastes better that way,
but you weren't always all sour mouth
and sharp tongue.
You used to be fragile like a storm,
and wild as a starlit night,
diving, with the bruises painting you a melody
you couldn't hear, but saw