i want to tie you to a chair with lots of spools of string
then put a kettle on to boil and listen to it sing
i wouldn't take it off to cool instead what i would do
is take it right off of the stove and pour it on to you
and then just like the kettle you would probably start to scream
but i would only sweat as i'd be bothered by the steam

i dreamt you were a snake
and bit me
and as the venom hit me
you held my hand
and told me i would die
before you kissed me

An ugly man with crooked teeth and eyes as sharp as knives
Goes forth with axe to chop the trees, and end all of their lives
The plants they scream and raise their voice, then calm as he begins
His blade is sharp, they have no choice; their cries are drowned by wind

The air is chilled and so is he, corrupt old crazy loon
He chops them down so eagerly, and night is coming soon
With wood in hand, he leaves this land of life put to its end
And homeward bound, and through a field, the land is wide open

Day almost done, the setting sun is quickly getting gone
And kneeling down, he picks a crown of daises, one by one
And standing up, he gently cups the jewelry in his hand
With tender care that you would not expect of such a man

Into a house with crooked roof, and spaces in the walls
The man sets down his wood and with a sweet accent he calls
And little girl, with golden hair and eyes as sharp as knives
Comes running then, and reaches up, with joy and happy cries

And so the man, the ugly man, with eyes as sharp as knives
Places the crown on his daughter’s head, and kisses her golden eyes.

you don't like cake
              I like cake, but besides that we agree on things
              I like to think
you wore a red sweater today
my name means Red, berries.
I wanted to hug you but you
                                                                ­      seemed too far away

I drank your cold coffee, when I woke up
You left it to sit there, in a styrofoam cup
How lovely and pleasant, can one person be
Than to leave cold coffee, for little cold me

When I was
Probably five years old
I bit into a sandwich
It tasted good
It tasted like biting into something guilty
That was when my mom said
"Rowan, that's ham. That's pig, Rowan."
I spat the piece of pig into my hand
My throat dry and crowded

That was when I knew

tea steeping
leaves bleeding
into hot water
steaming
lips parting
lungs breathing
sipping, steadily
air freezing
and now my head is full of steam