Blue flowered in the warm sun of winter
pungent fragrance wafts splendorous
smallish leaves, grow deeply green
with a sun-ward slant they lean
hum and sing with bees
reaching ever upward
wild, their fingers untamed
vigorous, they flourish
lushly in the lane
our hands grow green stained
here in a dream field
handfuls of rosemary
we steal

If my friends knew
of the pain inside
and the technique I created
for my scars to show up
perfectly aligned
I do not believe
they would remain my friends much longer.

If my friends knew
how I cry at night
and try to choke myself with my own dark hair
and finally,
lay broken and sobbing
in the midnight air
I would not blame he or she
if they stopped being friends with me.

If my friends knew
how I turned to *** to numb the pain
or jumped out the window
to feel again
I wouldn't blame my friends
for saying Im insane.

Lastly and surely,
if my friends knew
how many times I have bled
or burned
or weeped
or screamed
or tore away my lover's clothes
to distract my brain from
burning eyes
my friends might figure out
my disguise.

You were a silhouette
in red from the taillights.
We were lost on the side
of the highway.
It was cold and we were smoking,
exhaling gingerly into the winter night.
There's something gorgeous
about you there,
underneath the lamp of the
streetlight and tinted red.
You smoked with the cigarette
high between your fingers,
almost to the nail,
holding it tight and kissing it
to your lips with a grace
I haven't been witness to since.
Your hands got cold
and you grabbed mine,
pushing them into the
pockets of my winter coat.
It has never again been more
ok to be cold, there against
the car.
It has never again been more
ok to be lost.