everything is breaking
not melting
            as the frozen pond
is relinquished by Winter
slowly the ice
            recedes
                        peacefully
no
I am
breaking
            not even like the shattering of a china doll
I wish it was
            that easy
I am breaking
            slowly
eyes melting into
            pitiful milky puddles
fragments forming and fissures widening

everything is lost
but you can't tell
only I can because
            I am the one who
                                                had to
            surgically remove
souls from bodies
            to protect them
you see a snapshot of their lifeless husks
            and you don't know
            you see me posing with them
                        boasting them
            painting myself
                                    a
                    ­                            w
                                   ­                         a
                                      ­                                  y
you don't realize
            that you can't take a picture
            of something so pure
so
I had to
break
everything

nothing is mine anymore
but still
nothing
            will ever
be
yours

I agree that
you are the epitome
            of perfect
everything you do is
            impeccable, flawless
your life is free of paint splatters–
                        unless they are symmetrical–
            wild, unbridled adventures–
                        unless they are in your schedule–
            loops of messy cursive–
                        unless they are precisely designed
                        to embody a particular style–

and nothing you do
            is ever wrong
ever disorderly
ever imperfect

but
what are you
            now that you can produce
            perfection?
            can you say
                        with the pure honesty you are so proud of
                        that you are
                                    free?
                      ­  that you are not a slave to what you make?

did you ever stop cleaning
                        wiping
                        e­rasing
                        redoing
                        re­writing
to notice that
you have eradicated with
            blind disdain and vehement prejudice
            what might be considered
                        art?

that the joy of flawlessness is not real–
            just
                        the temporary absence of fear?

that true, natural, unplanned beauty has become
            not only your enemy but a lethal weapon?

that maybe
in your relentless process of perfecting
            you have generated imperfection?

nothing works
nothing moves
            and everything does

time lurches and jolts
            sprints across desert
                        kicking up the dust of today
and it wades in old rubber boots
            through the sticky muddy swamp of tomorrow

grey and lonely
            tissue paper mornings
crumple
and then let pressure
            compress
them into smooth river rocks
            skip across the lake
            until the water's weight
                        drags them down
                                    fractures –
                                    breaks the glassy mirrored plane
            deep
                        they don't
resist the grasp
or try to open their eyes
in the murky water

as they sink below
the realm
where time

reigns

cool night air doesn't soothe
            it stings
stars twinkle but they
            burn

and clouds are
trillions of pounds

heavy

girl
with sun-kissed cheekbones
and golden-red hair
fingertips brushing daisies
in the warm summer air

girl
with freckles like stars
tears like silver prayers
don't stray too far
in the warm summer air

the sun's hugs feels like home
the daisies like angel hair
but when the sun sleeps
you can't stay
in the warm summer air

you've fled too far
in the warm summer air
shadows stain
your golden-red hair
raging hot stars
outshine your freckles
and I cannot answer
your helpless silver prayers

the night swallowed
your daisies without care
ashes cover
your golden-red hair
but promise me
you'll learn
to see through despair
to keep reaching
to keep dreaming
of your

warm
summer air

some vow to serve their god
                        rosary beads imprinted in red
                                    on trembling fingers
            to love their partner
            to be silent
            to live in poverty
                        hoping that the filth and dirt they sleep on
                        will nurture mythical seeds of enlightenment

I
do not grovel on my knees at night
            wishing that one glittering silver prayer ribbon
                                    from ten thousand
                                    all crumpling against the walls of my mind
                        would please reach something somewhere
                        or someone

I
pray standing
I pray alone
            firmly in front of the mirror
feet planted
            on top of dirt
                        filthy but barren
I pray to Truth
            yes it is cold when it is
                        raw
            its sharp teeth hurt when it
                        bites
but may Truth freeze and shatter
            my defeated heart
            when I forget

I
make a vow to myself
            that I will never
                        wrap up my cracks and fissures
                        with bandages made of someone else's skin
            I will never
                        set a torch to my Power and burn it
                        to ashes small enough
                                    for you to eat it
            I will never pay you
                        for the Soul you
                        do not own
            you cannot
                        wring me out
                        and mold me
                                    into one of you
                        I am stone

yes
I
am cold when I am raw
my real thoughts
            fears
            feelings
            dream­s
are sharp
and you
            will feel them bite

some vow to serve their god
            to love their partner
            to be silent
            to live in poverty

I
pray standing
I pray alone
            that when my knees are weak
            Truth will grant me the strength to fall
            into the godforsaken depths of hell
                        before I kneel

there are four blues
in every Crayola crayon set:
            Cornflower
            Wild Blue Yonder
            Periwinkle
                        and
Midnigh­t Blue –
            the deepest
            and the darkest

but still
not deep enough
            never dark enough

Midnight Blue
cannot engulf
            Cornflower Cinderella in bone-chilling dread
                        as she performs her mythical meltdown
                        bent over the Wild Blue Yonder fountain
            no Periwinkle constellations are reflected
                                    in her existential tears
                        and the Night is not saturated enough
                        with black depth
                                    to seep like molasses into the cracks of her pupils

because I’ve been awake at midnight–
            through the screen of my own foggy tears
I’ve gazed deep into the bitter, bloodthirsty
                        eyes of the Night
            swallowing my window

real Midnight Blue
            glows eerily at the touch of a Cotton White moon
            coats trespassers in crisp cold loneliness
                        but the wanderlust in a penetrative warmth
            boils in the throats of the lost
                        the wistful
                        and the guilty
            ebbs and flows
                        through the fissures
                        of the broken
            and gouges out the sweet innocent hearts

of the lifelong

dreamers