It should be the most desired sight of all
the person whom you hope to live and die
so, this fire feels like love against our skin
we ramble on, in stasis,
caught ablaze and smoke
fills our lungs. There are sirens too loud
and too few to do any rescuing.

Kiss me you, fool.

Before the sky envelops us,
there's a mammoth of an alien
peaking through the sky's cracks,
tentacles grabbing.

No mercy.

There are no words,
for stars littering the sky
at daylight, and there's no use
in semantics for what unravels
in front of us.

But mathematics and optics,
equations letting sight pierce
through time. We are gorgeous as
we gasp for air, our life forces divided,
and allotted to some place distant.

What would our ancestors say?
Too proud to hike up death's skirt
and steal a look. Isn't this what we are?

Hungry.

Would they be proud
or would we be considered fools
to think we are untouchable?
Why not let our lips spark like
the bolts igniting the sky,
why not resort ourselves to ghosts
and haunt each other's great relatives

Shouldn't we give in
and behave as if
we're the last of our kind?

I never liked people who call trauma "interesting"
especially in reference to those white raised lines
cascading skin, or young worship of praying
for the hurt to stop in my sleep.

Devoting years to stupid diets,
melting away the jiggle of my thighs,
sometimes when I indulge, my brain receives texts
but I don't reply.

You certainly don't, so why
should we give energy to the notion,
I am only as interesting as my suffering. Saving
ourselves isn't a definitive moment,
though I strive to find purpose within myself,
slivers who I'm meant to be
come through
in conversations with you.

All those years,
living life like an obituary. I want
to show you I'm more than a picture
that told herself shallow things like,
ugly people are a statistic and pretty
people are a portrait-
these things bore me.

But your head resting between my thighs
as I hold you

doesn't

knowing our imperfections
keep us young

doesn't

a meaningful life in love

doesn't.

It is not your fault.
You only know that,
it is in your nature to
know pain
like the back of your hand
as you administer it

To know,
children, little girls
are to be docile dolls
in which resentment can be  
hidden under the dress
that's the perfect color
in the tulle, we twirl
and do this dance
it is but, fate's job
for the strings to be cut

The puppeteer, songstress must go down. Her children
to be reborn as the next soprano.

You have ached and
your agony was ignored
so you demonstrated it
you sang with the voice
of the unheard

and somewhere, perhaps,
like the phantom you are
when we both sing, it is the same song
and our throats warble at the same time
in unison
our voices are capable of more love
then we were for each other

The lavender surrounds me
that my head will lull into
and my eyes will open
aware it disappeared
and so you fade like
the aged oak that once carried me in its' arms
that lived on 409
and the desire to cross that
street one more time

Ed and his wife are likely
no longer with us
but I wonder what it's like
to not have to make the effort
to have a home
seek you out
and want you
to still be in its' life
but I wonder if I stand here,
next to that stop sign
where I caught up to it
in size

find a piece of you that remains in this world
I can feel the softness of your palm
that never was
I almost know what it feels like to belong
someone's love to pour over me
and not feel greedy or ashamed for needing it so badly

I ache
to be held
to be touched
A moment of tenderness,
touch of my shoulder blade.
dad's warmth for me died
when you did
I wonder if it is selfish
to inquire, that you come home
your spirit can live in my heart
possess me like you want me
as if being my mother
was a privilege

Dad told everyone at my graduation party,
I was unplanned and that lavender where
he and I felt it in our hands,
he put a bushel in my hair
pushes me away
in the home of my own mind.

It whispers, it tries to tickle my arm
but it tricks me and admits
what my own parents, alive and dead
refuse to do.

Resentment has always made its home
in my arms, like warm candlelight caressing
my face as I give life to the wick
It always stings, as your palms did
or not knowing ******* the things
inside of you that made you want to die

I wonder
if it was
the same
when you were
a child