i am actually quite a raging hurricane.
i have things slew precariously on the cluttered floorboards
of my mind,
and i trip on things with throbbing toes
thrown into the caverns
of my hollowed bones
constantly.

i mistake "ie" for "ei" in
words i should know the meaning of,
and find myself gagging on the
knowledge of which way is left and which is right.
i lose myself in the dawn,
and then i have to find my way back home during the mornings
stumbling through the wet grass
and acrid manure
soft, strained yellow rusting on wilted daffodils
left cut on cement after a night of rain.
i have no sense of direction,

and maybe this is why i can't determine
right from wrong.

i have no built in moral,
just an empty piece of new-skinned, unworn brain
where my patience and good deeds lie sleeping.

the only thing i have to soften my
naked sin and lustful greed is love,
coursing inside my arteries
like a raging river of fire,
burning skin where
people touch.
i cook callouses with it,
give the sun something
to envy.

burnt ashes were houses,
and now they lay smothered and leaking
with dripping,
coal
remains.

i'm not a mess,
i'm just a storm.