I am not a wreck
I am the wreckage
of cigarette butts and stardust
I'm betting you're not in love
And I'm hoping that I'm right
Why love a girl who denies her own flight

I am not a tragedy
I am the unconfined breeze
That destroys the home of ideas

I am the smoke you release from your lungs
You said once, it was beautiful as it evaporates

Am I beautiful as I evaporate?

You always carry that golden baseball bat every day,
(and my glass chest will always be unsecured.)
And every day, you would swing that bat gracefully
into a velocity crashing against the invisible wall
of the wind—
                       —crashing against my glass chest
                          (and the shards just drop like rain drops).

All of this—
     just so you can steal my gemstone heart…

(and my mouth will flutter like a butterfly’s wings
to my everyday response:

                                         again?)

He stands in the corners of all his thoughts to elude visibility
pacing, carefully tracing his steps along the lines that connect them
and make him coherent
He likes to make this trip and no one ever expects him -
he just shows up and collects
His mind stores things
he keeps people there then walks about, spits them out,
leaves them everywhere

He spends his days expelling  curses, claims it helps him focus
And he reasons like an insane man does -
with too much passion and not enough pain (the good kind)
But you can't tell him that, you can speak but he won't listen
He'll write you in while you write him off,
then appear on the outskirts of some dream you're having
or conjure up your next nightmare
This drifter will  be there

He'll seek out the holes in your brain and live there,
spend the time to make you his mime
Then through your veins he'll live divine,
feed you words that he's disguised
And while you choke on bitter rind,
he'll string you up, a wooden chime

He'll take the song that you contrived
and pen his name upon the lines

I only wanted you to sing to me in the voice of your sweetest destruction, burning my cities to the ground that we may waltz across the ashes of places we’ve never been.

I wanted to sip from your words like a poisonous wine, poured into my mouth from your gilded chalice’s venomous kiss.

For you have become the rose whose thorns rend my palms and the crimson that seeps forth is the seed from which we have cultivated the cruel garden of our pure intentions.

Be wary of the serpents that tarry hence, for the wounds they inflict are grievous.

Meanwhile, I, enshrouded in my self-inflicted intoxication have seen you hide your eyes among the stars of the night sky.

Veiled by the outstretched wings of passerine birds whose songs do bear witness to the echo of our temperate patience.

Was it a dream?

In truth, did you flee from this brittle stage of glass, where our actors spoke the lines in time to our subtle rebellions?

Nay, it must not be so, for you were always there.

As close to the light of day as the night sky, the lovers that never touched, yet you were always there.

My mind is the body
of a dead raccoon
in a road ****—
the cadaver dragged by wheels
to the nearest street—
fast paced cars will spread its blood
along the pavements—
making tracks of Death
we’ll never see—
(for the land it stood upon one minute ago will eat what remains.)