Movement One—The Death of the Day

I brought you to my quiet place,
where love and weeds bloom
on the hillside, a steep, steep place;
much better for rolling down
than looking up.

We closed our eyes,
those sweet, subtle sounds
whispering in our ears
while my fingertips scream,
aching to connect with yours.

And I wait
for you to be brave
and reach out to me
in this moment of openness
and fear of regret.
But you stay
still.

I yearn for you to feel the way I feel;
to say what I want you to say,
but you say     .
(nothing)
You leave my hands cold,
my hopes futile.

Movement Two—The Arson

But what you do,
you do with no apprehension:
you leap onto me,
a lion onto a waiting gazelle,
your hands ravenous for my flesh.

My lips have no chance to speak
as the spark they once held is extinguished
by your own cruel, white flames.

I can hear the smothering of my bones,
the last gasps of my heartbeat
as you pin me to the grass and burrs,
my hair entangled in my mistake.
My skin is the only thing that can speak,
as bruises begin to whisper
the evidence of my demise.

And I cannot lock the gates
as you stampede over my body,
tearing buttons, stretching fabrics,
and I hurt so much
but am stuck in the quicksand of silence.

Movement Three—The Rebellion

Why were you so kind?
Why did you convince me you were different?
That I was interesting,
that you don’t treat girls
THIS WAY.

I throw your impudence in your face
with my words,
without silence.
With my dignity,
without hate.

Movement Four—Like Air

Number 12, you were so fair.
Number 12, you did not break me.
Number 12, I am no ashes.
Number 12, I swallow you whole.