Water runs in the same way she does.
Knowing they brought her gentle lies via guns
Barrels of bullets like music,
But they still wonder why she grew sick.

Salt dances on her cheeks and it is
Faulted for not one, but for all of the
Flowers that grew from her ears
In a matter of hours.

For the love of god,
Just skip the pleasantries.
Walk through the park,
Assign the guilt trip to your patriarch.
Pass the statues whispering ugly
Remedies in the form of an excuse.

I am not a novelist, I am a poet.
Stories run through me, from me,
Not sunny.
I stutter and I stumble
My dialogue is bad
And with prose, I teem.

Time buries me with
A million lines,
Too many commas,
Too many rhymes.

“So write a collection!” exclaim the encouragers,
But the worn backspace of my keyboard groans,
“Oh, don’t you encourage her!”

And so I am a poet, a novelist I am not.
Wishing for more words, until Time lets me rot.

The lovers,
They melt.
Flowing and naked.
Their colors,
They blend

As I slowly awaken.
I was so young the first time that I saw them
Taken aback by the honesty of desire
So blatantly plastered on my grandmother’s wall.

Sometimes I think she put them in the bathroom
Just so I could stare behind doors.
Admire the truth
Instead of shying from it.

And with them, I grew—
To know, to love
To own and to hang

In my own ****** apartment,
They watch as I cry,
As I nap,
As I break my cheap couch.

They’ll watch as I move—
Up, up,
And out.