fragile earth
tarnish its pulp
in my molars, adult

and a sheen that
lays paper

kites flying inside
gum nerves &

the brass touches
porcelain

you give me
cavities, my love
our life is so sweet

i feel your words
before they
are said

the homeostasis
as you speak

strength.

June–
                  battle

     a market of sores


                       on

        a fourteen year old body


wears a cotton slip
          over head


and form


             sleep in the hospital wall
   cotton and death

all over the place

                 get a lighter sheet



she

    is a girl

        she is the reaper


she will latch herself

             and not let the poison out.

I have searched for a year, who gave you two hearts
and did not bother to
cross-stitch, knit them together to touch –

more and more
you have become the day that my clock broke
and the ticks sounded like my lips
reaching out for yours, and how you never kissed me
so the tocks never happened.

The man I fell in love with is tall and dark.
I want to center jewelry on his neck and fingers,
lace it between edges, pits. He is tall so
my lover has more acreage than I ever will –
I can hide my secrets in his head. I
can wrap my veins around his wrists, I can love
the scars in place of where a child once bit.
I will even show him where I am most
pink to make sure he knows what brightness is.

Your eyes **** me.
I am dead: I put dirt in my hair
now it lives where I do,
in owl bites.
I can retell the memory of
your body crying
to resurrect my dusty corners –
bent over, tangled in candy
floss I am shivering
we are in a war.
Your movements **** me, too.

among them, the lilies
you **** their froglegs and lavender
shades smelling of roses or
pond water

and you are teething again,

a child
sometimes with a pain so swelling
it shoots colored rockets
through your vein

the last that you could have,
snapped & floating

you do not feel anymore
hence the sinking of ships before
the draining of a lake before
killing lilies

that threaten you
more than arrows into your face

Stars are drawn in the exact shape I love you –
to the moon and back, going a distance like Santa’s sleigh
making the rounds every black sequence,
the Earth does not cease rotation, so stars do not blink
or forget to twinkle when God does not shovel dark clouds:
pillows of snow that have been urinated in,
still fresh beyond the membrane of something grey.

I do not mind if you call that ugly.
I understand if my rural nights are frightening to you –
they were to me at first, they did not feel like
a time, rather the absence of
and I do not mind if my poems feel that way sometimes.

I write this because the evening never stops –
five o’clock somewhere and midnights too, which we pale
by blonde stars, the hair color of mine you despised
resurrected. Never stopping as you and I do not.

My ex-girlfriend bought me a star once,
though I did not know you then, it was still our shape
the contour of your hair clogged in my bathtub
the blue moods of mine dyed purple, almost lilac by you –
I think of how her ******* got in the way when
I tried to listen to her heartbeat
but yours is always there, never stopping like stars
never blinking in the exact shape I will always love you.

When you cry,
I see a sailboat on your back,

but float through clouds,
their evaporate:
morph substance-less.

Taking us back to when you
thought we would be dead,
by tomorrow

and the rain let up,
though we still could sail

in its thundering paint,
like leather beads. I rolled in
the canvas, laid our name

on the vessel’s curtains.
Every glitter sparks,

this weather under our feet,
shaking and sand-greens
better than last sea.

I breathe salt when you can’t
sleep, my angel’s peach.

Oh daffodil, you are not what I had hoped for
but you are alright now. Do not weep,
and please, do not wilt on me,
this fertilizer is a necessary evil, to devour
your bad things

in a basin, or howling at the moon –
dogs you left empty-bowelled,
sunken as a level cloth in the rain, still fat
but darker than smoke haze at dusk
not better of what mothers feed the precious

stuck, and stinking sons. I love men, I do,
just not the boys I have been handed
in their snotty noses, copepod backpacks &
bandanas for the laboratory. Promise, though
to make chloroform for your head

as if the sun could slap your eardrums,
what wonder would it be! A yellow plague,
bit the toenails of your baby’s feet,
said to injure petals among tall, lusting slopes,
hope you will die as a blonde woman,
and dye, daffodil, goodbye.

I built a home for you, out of me,
when the bricks break
it is because I have been raided. The blue sky's
not even immune to cloudbursts
the humid air lifts
to resemble some form of heartbreak.
Call it
a mushroom cloud, I go off almost nuclear.

The truth loves me enough to reveal itself
the truth loves me
even when you do not.

I've decorated the staircase with it
and discovered rope-burn,
calluses like children wanting you to just watch
what they can do
watch a ceremony. What fathers create.  

I've padded its feet
with snow, the whole summer leaks with December
and my kneecaps are rotting wood.

Creaking
using garland as a noose
you know when I walk and when I sit, the truth
cannot stand for not knowing.

I've not let it lay down either,
this ****** affair. My
walls stay white and unheard of, untouched
yours are only
the cream of glue, I should have kept the doorway
shut and tied to you with a string.
Not even the truth can dissolve over a lie
(but I can, I can, I).

But
when God smells fear, he makes it happen
and God can be
a man, a woman, a lover.

A pair of identical twins, a pair of ******* –
I wonder if we shall stay as similar when I become an adult
or if December 29th, 2013, I am to be a sleepyhead
no more. I wake up early and go to work and come back home
without needing you, broad man, to prop up my bones.

I wonder if adolescence is merely acting as a canvas
perhaps off-white, but not intricate,
expecting, waiting for an artist to sculpt from the material:
mine mine mine a man of twenty-five, small feet
big fingers soft toes a heart that bleeds paint clumsily.

I became him somehow, and the opposite of him, too.
The body language, stepping chest-first,
it appears so similar as if we were ghosts of each other but it
nevertheless feels that he and I are never in a same room
watching separate films on TV with the same words.

To be careless, I wonder if that is adult
because if the contrary is true I have been there forever
and the train I made him venture did not have that destination.
I wonder if being a lady is different than being
a man. I wonder if we can be identical when I turn 18.

this skin? it is rosy, not bloodied
when you spiral it between your fingers
the pores become *****
though they are not gunshot holes  

this mouth? has more to say than
just whimpers and whines
more than just wounded cries
I am a woman not just someone’s wife

these limbs? their shift without strings
what controls my legs is not seen
there is not a trigger to mash
when you feel entitled to **** me

my body is not a battlefield
my body is my shell, my body is alive

my body is mine.

He plays on me like I were a fairground,
I am sun-stained
he is hard.

To me,
there is being dead
and there is being alive twice --
give me your pulse, give me your alive --

I am either empty
or full as a ferris wheel at night.

I don't say that sometimes I cannot fit in
the carousel rides
or that sometimes the carousel rides

won't fit in me. He
takes my heart and puts it on the swings.

Become medieval when the rain starts –
put coins in my corset, they are pure gold & evil
and show the men using my Thanatos drive:

I could not care if they want me,
I could not care if they hated me alive.

Rather the leaf upon dress-******* much as
a muzzle, came from a box of cardboard slits
opening like lady-legs. I bribe the thrash with my

whispers & wheels, promise to soak up sky’s tears
but she certainly prefers the black ash haul.

I bring myself to the top of a volcano, its arc,
convinced that it cannot soot me,
not in the rain: such scorch is unreachable.

There is this protruding spiral in the center,
going dark, a pupil. It eats my hair-ribbon and I

sweat, but I am upon all terrains of the Earth
prepared to fall into a clutch, the gold stain my skin
before peeling by storms, how plague-like I seem.

Could be on my back when it implodes –
though my skirt would not appreciate the mess,
I think the idea fine. I am already pink, red’s better.

Wires and flushed cheeks will be what they find,
the men, knowing that I could not care.

And I did not; it was not less than a shot of
lightning stuck under a petticoat, frilled for nobody
but the volcano who turns ******* to embers.
the rain that beasts eyelashes to amputees.

Her figure, a fruit salad: little corks and knobs
jellyroll thighs and a smooth muffin top
unripe blueberries decorated here and there –
I would wrap my arms around her like a basket
protected from bruising or peaches robbed:
the perfect sphere unpeeled, pink honey bared.

I met you, and you kissed me
with your words but not your body

you said I made your pulse speed
up and your heart explode
but I never could feel it

so we simmered down
slow until

we met again and you kissed me
with your words
but also your kinetic lips.

Men grow on my fingers
and I assault them when I write
until each becomes impotent,
I will never let anyone hurt me.

Their pulses stutter and echo
as if I keep them in a barn
but they’re hard under my skin,
their erections like callouses.

Some get restless and none cry
because they know I watch:
I am not here to be present, I
am not here to let people inside.

There is a face at the very bottom of this sea
coral, shells cupping her cheeks
loved the beach
so much she wanted to put waves in her hair, wanted
to be part of the universe that
                                   requires no legs.

For all we know, the oceanfloor
could be the sky
of some other universe
and swimming fish make up the cosmos.

                                                   Saltwater burns


                       the sea
                               so you can see.

I imagine I must talk to my dead seventh grade teacher
who told me to be better, who
told off the children when they brought me a butcher knife
because I cannot learn algebra if I am dead.

The deceased are more than likely with the sun
wherever it is right now. Tomorrow’s twilight, I will find
my dead seventh grade math teacher
stand on my tippy-toes,
try to be as tall as him and ask if he still thinks I should be
alive. Five years later and I cannot understand
why a person with his same name could
ruin my life when he, in turn, saved mine. I am a bad
person for wishing she were the one that the flu took then.

Unlike the others,
Mr. Kats did not mention the SATs or growing up. He
would not be there to see either happen
and I bet he believed God knew.

Then again, I knew the side of him that did not
know God well enough to remind me of a Mormon church
until I saw his youngest daughter alone on her knees
whilst the eldest sang about how
her father would never need to move with
a walker. I held my best friend’s hand
when we met his corpse, because he had saved her too.

I imagine we must talk, but not for me to tell him
that I do not care about algebra, I guess he already realizes.
We were never really special to each other
when I think about it,
he was too strict and I was too sad and now it’s too quiet:

I haven’t entered a classroom since, died some as well
but my only punishment
was a broken heart by his reincarnate. There was no lesson.

His hands were as long as legs,
god, the kicks
could bruise my skin
but I learned them like planets. I can’t hate eyes on me
so much if they are like a telescope,
stargazing. Some
have purple freckles, are healing, and I can
think of those who hurt me
as children who
think they want to be astronauts
but are scared of the dark. So, the blue
sky walks
slowly down the aisle to night when I mention
maybe my constellations are too much like veins to
be seen yet. Who do I
save by making
him
not want to rip me open and **** out my
gravity again?
Sometimes he reminds me that
dark matter is not
the space between two people, but the color of their
skin when they touch. So, I
wish he would not touch me and
slide planets inside that hurt to stay in orbit.

he is pulling snails from my petticoat
making sure their antennae do not grow
and left feeling such as candlewax,

flesh walls seep from under their
pulsing bottoms, the apex of one head

and I am the girl it is given to, a gift
******* at my breast –

how uncomfortable to be the center of
such longing, being touched and
fingered with when something does
not belong into your body’s crevices

pressing, oh, like candlewax –
I know he removes them because he

loves, but I want them to stay
because they love me just as much,
dyed pink against my body, snail hugs.

I could not imagine
not knowing who you are until I realized
I never did
anyway,
it felt so much like being a lonely child
in a small house. I swear
I can touch the walls of your heart
but there is no foundation, blood anywhere.
Who did I break my skin for
if not
a man who has eyes like new stars. Who
walked into me
then made the fireplace curdle.

Somewhere there is
a boat made of sunstone crystals. Watch the
river flatten
its tongue underneath your sails and color
night. The world around you
always shimmers, the sky’s full of gemstones.

I was a touch-me-not before you broke my heart
living in a child’s playhouse

now I say, “touch me please”
it is the demons that make angels exist

some girls say that sadness makes you feel dead
you made me become alive

you cried when my hair covered my eyes
so my sadness carried it away, it

uncoiled
a heartbeat per ounce I love your ****

but still we have conversations about where you
want to be buried

                              when you die.

Mother Earth has birthed billions of nymphets
knees that flirted with their socks so much it left prints
coquettes gyrating Bubble Yum
         on digits, her sunglasses’ stems,  a split end.

Mother Earth gave us nymphs so
bodies would not be loamless either, so we can be as
fertile as gorges far from any lofted stone wall.

Mother Earth, that she was never nubile
labored faunlets with pink gumwads upon their genitals

and frothed when one creation alit inside another.

I want to fall asleep with you
inside a flower or a peach, with pits and seeds
cushioning our necks
they shall love us through their organs
like man

the difference is
that nature asks, may I love you
before they begin to.

I kissed a man and he called me a *****
the name floated like a swan upon glass waves
but I tucked it into my nightgown,
I saved it away. Then one morning he said
it again and I wore it just like pearl feathers –
oh, such a shine that brightened my face!
I am a *****, I told him, but at least I get laid.

When they ask you to identify
my body, it is okay
if you reveal our secret –

how you move the hair from my eyes
with paper clips
and melt them into my skin
to try to make me indestructible.

as you slept in peace,
i washed out to sea
and dreamt that your body
climbed a city building

the water stings my eyes
as floodlit light

pursed lips
or consuming fireflies

do you think they can swim,
i wonder –
do you think you have wings,
i wonder, too

now while i drink salt
i envision an angel
formed from you

I imagine my friends as walking holidays, days that roll off souvenirs like sweat
and become keepsakes in a suitcase that breathes sunscreen
onto my white, hopeless skin.

Green grass is Rachel. When I want to invent
cloud animals, I think of her old backyard, five miles down the road
because it was good for such things
the kind of things that open your pores and your mind and your chest all at once.

She would draw on my eyes
while we sat knee to knee, or knee to something else soft.

I would try to become a model for the world as she understood it, wanted it
and hoped she saw the sky on my eyes,
tinged with magma when I got sad and could no longer take sleep.

Then, there was a day in the alley. A murky place
with brown weeds between concrete, and she was there, too, but she was not a
part of the memory I have somehow –
she only fits against the sunshine and clear air. I remember her most

when I want to lay down
on a blanket without needing to rest and grow a garden without using my tears as
a fertilizer for the only beautiful things I have ever created.

there is a small thing, a paper cut
in my window screen
and for days now I have used it to ask every bird
every bumblebee every animal with wings
if they have met
my dead best friend in the sky
because I see her hopping from cloud to cloud
on my way
home from school all the time
and want to know when she's learned how to fly.

What man would buy me a ticket,
and into a cocoon where moss bites?

I would sting like bees on buds,
or ***** rushing to fertilize, create
an angel no other gentlemen touches
with white hair, eyes like sesame seeds:
she seems more attractive than the
woman he made love with, for certain.

Looks unnatural to swim in a pool
when a waterfall can pour ice onto his
head: just as viney-things drape me.

I am but a fair girl, have no color.
He could not love me beneath green,
there is no comparison, me and trees,
but he does, and I feel April will return
sooner and ruddier than anticipated.

May will bark like a dog: on my knees,
cradling children who hold vanities up to
my forehead, I boast a bellyful of bugs,
brick-hued and even with red stripes;
I think they must wear sweaters to bed.

How noble in our thirty-six months!
We cuddle baby slugs, not counting sap,
then burp their brothers, spout-mouths.

He is, in fact, the man that would do
the unthinkable grey-lipped love,
authors gather inspiration from and
snakes slip, spiders webbing shapes of:
cocoon with our metamorphosis in mind.

to love you
is to rid my body of all calcium

and fall limp under the
crescent of your
chin. I see how long your eyelashes
are when I look upwards

and they are so
pretty, you could not possibly
hurt me.

I hang my
bones on them, for you to water.

how odd, to be a woman and a girl
to wear the dresses but concern about cleavage
more than meets the eye: because.

and so we waddle for the men –
twisting straps, my petticoat drawbridge

i am over-aware of myself: know the pulse and
when to tug draperies from ‘part thighs
they only see what i am okay with,
which does not include exhaling.

i am like a drum, drumbeat
i punch my body until the purple softens
and it sounds beautiful, but incomprehensible:

me, this woman-girl and child cheeks
placed upon petals that flap
with attention, not the old storm breezes –
every april shower molded me into a flower
i rise above each season, gay spectacle

the men that believe hurricanes so enigmatic
must lust me for such a reason –
i have been through many in girlhood
that i bleed one as a woman.

because of word infidelities, the muse
april said that i am only as big as my body

and i grew, grew, grew
until my stem became caught
to where it grew no longer, a woman-child
who took the wind like salad dressing.

It is August
but I have your shirt pulled up to my nose
like your scent will
protect me from another bad night.

I wear it as a turtleneck
and tuck my arms inward, making a blanket.
I am so sick of
              not feeling safe.

I remember asking you to use the tip
of your fingers on my
shoulderblade
caress the flesh into small waves
(You live too close to the sea to not taste
of salt)
then fabric wrinkled in a bundle.

Make me guess what the skinstrokes mean.
I am learning braille
or just how not to be alone.

I am so tired of
              waiting to know what you drew

when the sun is so high
shadows can only be cast on the oceanfloor
and everything above my clothes
breathes (I love you
too much to not taste of salt).

When summer ends
maybe I will get a good night's sleep, held
by seaweed and
reading your messages out of a bottle.

things that rhyme with you --
***, coma, three meters of ribbon that are your veins
the emerald sea
any other gemstone-like thing, girls
boys, angels with wings,
pasta noodles with big gaping holes, curls, frizz
buckets of saltwater,
honey, fingertips, promises in two different languages

The last time
all 206 bones of yours were
against me, I memorized your pupils

(the size of a dot on an
i, coffee and cream
doughnut holes
letters I write you at breakfast)

so I would not forget
the next time
you had to leave my side. I just did

not think the memory
would have to last my whole life.

Patchwork, these lightning strike scars
thundering and unkissed
as though in some sort of burlesque swing –
attractive enough to be fondled, still throbbing.
I do not have bandages,
I do have a gun, I do have a tongue
to slick each wound like an envelope I close
shipped cross-country and not to my postal code:
gave foreigners the tornado –
now, we have the flood. Their lungs must
be strong enough or I’ll need to patch them too.

There are loves that can create a new universe, there are
loves that would fill outer space
where stars are just drops of mango juice
and every person you wish wrote poems about you, does.

A macrocosm so vast that
tragedy is only powder and cold coffee does not break
my heart anymore, sadness does not fit in

an oven but float, phantom-esque, in black air
no longer pollution
that slowly asphyxiates, hardly discernible in our palms of
tangible love. You will not have to tell anyone that you
love me because the whole world is our bedroom.

I felt I was dangerous the first time
you tried to **** me, like I would be too tight
and shatter every last porcelain bone under your skin.

Like my body was a vacuum ******* you in
unable to escape, inland something other than a stranger.
Instead, we became the cosmos
pouring fruit-juice-stars on the unlucky and the unloved.

Tuesdays remind me of third grade
and so does astrology.

Our tables formed a pentagon, it was me and the beautifuls:
come the good-looking maid called Destinee
with two e’s, not one and not even a y, she had two e’s.

I modeled myself after her cerulean lenses
eye sockets that were pulled back by dinosaur bones
and gave wrinkles to her forehead prematurely, six speckles
like ostrich eggs gathering under a stratum of mud.

She was dark-headed, she wasn’t fair.  
She had sorcery in her collar, fairies in her pulse.

Her mother had the name of a Chihuahua or evil witch:
I secretly cursed her for having a daughter so lovely
who I could not peck on Tuesday field-trips to a menagerie
just because she was as feminine as me.

That is how I learned about destiny
and Destinee, so pretty pretty.

Nobody knows how to say goodbye to anything, even the
sea has ruined edges
leaves its will to a muddy bayou. Our
phonecalls hang onto me after there rings a dial tone, a curly tail
of wires ribboned around my most important parts
thigh, artery, genital. The bed
is the whole bedroom, now. I am handcuffed from the ceiling
waiting for your voice box to quiver again
and am kicking and screaming –
I am heartbroken at nothing, not for no reason but for
nothing. Lovers are not versed in goodbyes
or else we would not be lovers. But I prefer the sensation of
suffocation to cold blankets,
rather heat them up with blood and guts than have a
mattress that has never smelled my ***. You do not know how to
ring my neck or drown me in sheets that’ll
just hide hide hide the word
goodbye. If this is your worst trait, not wanting to go,
I am happy to let you love and hurt me until I can float, too.

Ugh, you boys. You marry,
you take the wife that is given to you –
she gets married and is your gift.

Well, I think your breath tastes like brass
and was embalmed by a penny.
I think you like your greed.

You think the woman, like coins,
should be aplenty.

Perhaps you could tie me
in a big old rubber band but in any case,
I will not happily give you my hand.

Ugh, you boys.
Why couldn’t you be granted to me?

I deserve an object, too.

I knew a man who was born under the Sun,
a Leo, and his image is posted at a bus stop saturated
by rain. I do not know if this
man I once knew is just missing or dead, I do not
know if his lion curls will ever need cut again.

The body does not have to be stiff
for the Sun to forget its place, be doused by rain –
the Leo man is missing all but his breath.

I recite your scent to my every acquaintance
as if I have spent a lifetime living in fields of it, canopies of
you atop a jungle. Truly, it has only been a mass of airplane rides –
maybe two or three or four or five with one stop – that I
have sifted you through my candy-and-smoke air
and that makes my stomach turn over like soil and earth.

There is no distance and stretch in time that’ll give
me a stuffy nose: we have had bike-baskets filled to the brim with
tropical rainstorm waters, and we have never caught a cold.
Nothing’s bitten me hard enough
to uncurl my toes, swinging above you on monkey bars.

I smell your scalp although it is not visible, I have your shampoo
memorized by ingredient and chemical property
to play scientist when the park closes.
All I need are cinnamon roots long as asparagus. The
morning dew climbs the tree I am in, this is a room I can never
escape. This is you materialized – buds still in growth.

So many girls have that waterslide nose
the one you had, the shape that tethers on the end
a curly-cue your teardrops pool in sometimes:

so many girls could look just like you
and I might actually acknowledge their blue eyes
not assume they are as brunette as the wool
below their clothes

but none of those girls would know my secrets or
obsession with Build-a-Bear bunnies
because they were never open on our birthday.

I am thinking that maybe there is no such thing
as outer space,
there are even planets inside our
bodies
made of minerals and
water. I want to believe that nothing can be empty –
that inner space exists instead,
gravity exhales
so that the sun and stars will sag above us.

Windsor, and kite seats –
I see that we are snowed in to the sky
clouds have come half-removing themselves
to be just oxygen orbs, little pods
of white. So much like an eye
without a pupil, or a tulip budding wide.

She is beautiful but sad, salty sad
inhaling it as a fume
the smoke that does not disintegrate
giving her cancer of the brain.

These sails flap like torn skin,
pale and cleaned of the internal things.
Clouds feel that champagne-bottle way –
fizz hopping from their stomachs
and spread her melancholy east, then west.

We give it to you, gentleman,
with these outstretched ***** for hugs
infect you and cough on the ones we love.

But you are not yet stuck –
barren, frozen, these skypanes in ivory
unlock their mouths for weather to swallow
and only get the sad, salty sadness,
white winters infected by dirt.
Clouds told they can fly, but it still hurts.

Girls have beautiful legs and men have beautiful hearts,
both I love to squeeze, both I love to open
hide my gold locket inside like a ticking bomb:
I use the chain to lasso arteries and muscles for me to chew on
but the necklace unbolts for a souvenir collected inside.

It could be the curly hair of his shin, one wisp from her neck
I previously tugged on with my teeth. I performed
open-heart surgery on a man and open-leg surgery on a woman
both called me back to say a second goodbye
and I wonder, I wonder which farewell will be the final.

When will the mementos be massacred
glued to a comatose form, deceased into an emotionless resin?
I could amputate their limbs and turn off the pacemaker.

We have touched so much since December,
steeping teas torrid and arctic ice cubes
a thousand fibers, prince bee his princess
generous blankets papering flu
the drizzle on wedding dawns or departure’s eve
pieces of candy for holiday celebrations
even the ending of a movie –

these are wild fingers that we have
rebellious, juveniles in mind
singing summer stories through knuckles  
bodies long slenderized
and they are more than myself

to them, I have no name
but my brain and I are their mother
a well-mannered woman in command

I feed them lotion,
then play in the sand apathetic
whistles papercuts that sting with
mouths as lions tigers bears sharks leaves
asking which hurts most significantly of all we
have loved –

and then again, what enduring does not belong?

The adolescents scoff at each of their
five circadian baths, and I hear cries
for showers because soap makes them crack

but it is in your best interest, I say;
you touch everything that gets in your way

to move is beauty and transitioning more so:
my hands are dancers, pirouetting
on stage to fall harmoniously with
bashes, revelations, words I care to mean
yes, these are what causes the bleed of
my aging hands, and throughout their years,
rings dying them green.

I once wished
that we first met as friends, rather than
lovers,
that I knew your tongue

rolling against your teeth to
speak something honest before I felt it curling
around my skin.

Ever since,
I have tried to stay separate – I wanted

to paint portraits of the
earth, of luminaries and geodes,
but every picture looks like my body after ***
with you,
little crystals of you

cornering the emptiest parts of me.
I part as a flower blooms,
two years

and I realize I must believe in falling stars

now.