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With moonlight between the earth and her feet
she wanders, shining soul,
the dark of the night
no match for her eyes.

The moon wonders down
at the bright creature,
melds her beams to stairs,
ascend, ascend,
Oh, brightest star.
Ascend to night's embrace.
If we could be

I'd hope that
One day

We would become
Like a pane of glass
held between

The waves of the ocean
And the clouds of the sky

You could taste the salt
And I could
Drown in the rain

We could be
As indefinable
As our translucency
As the sun set

And be as proud
As the night sky
Being able to say goodbye
To the blue
And spilling
Dark watercolors

Between the patches
Of green
With the underside of brown

There are two sides
To everyone
Every story
Every us
That makes us one

Let me see
The tide and the moon's reflection
Across the roaring ink
And I swear
To let you
Caress the lightning
Behind you
Nostalgia: It sounds like a disease
And it has infected me.
Worming its way through veins and valves.
I caught it
from robbing the graves of memories.
Trying to gather
the silver linings from long dead moments
dusty laughs
that crumbled in my fingers,
moulding smiles that left spots on my hands
that burned.
out, out **** spot*
I lay down in the fresh earth,
cold, how cold it is.
Daisy Buchanan
Once said
That there was nothing better
A girl could be in this world
Than a beautiful

When I smile
With flowers in my hair
And innocence
Pooled with naivety
In my eyes

I hate myself
there are two paths
to take

when society
begins to destroy itself

I. stay and make it slightly better


II. run away.
we keep
searching for words
that sound
like flowers

in autumn
before they fall

but all we ever find
with tired
hopeless eyes
are the words
that sound

like crumbling
I know about the necklace.
How you re-gifted a leftover reject present
from a buddy who mentioned it the day before,
and I know about Lyndsey and the book of YOUR
favorite poems you bought for ME. I know you call me baby,
but I also know that I’m not the only one.
You demanded a certain elegance
that I always thought I carried, but really
I was just a bag of apologies
for simply existing in the same space that you were.
You know the night that I got drunk on cranberry and *****,
called you twice, and cried into a box of homemade
chocolate chip cookies? That wasn't the first time
I sat at your chair in your sweatpants
waiting for you to return from wherever
you said you weren't. I know about what you've done.
But, of course, as you so eagerly expected,
you’ll come in with a sigh and sleek smile,
and I’ll unclothe myself as I talk about
every detail of my day even though I know
you never bother to listen. I’ll lay naked
in your bed as you cradle what you believe
is your biggest mistake, while I silently hope
that faked ignorance can mask the reality
of how beautiful I should be and how ugly
I never wanted to admit you were.
Sometimes it was as if she sipped chlorine
from little bottle caps with yellow nails,
tilting her skeletal neck back,
balancing it on a vertebrae that popped
through the top of her pastel blouse.
Really though, she ate media on sandwich bread;
believed anything in bold with twin quotations.
She was a hint of a woman, blue eyes. Translucent,
fair, a suggestion haunted by her own demons
that she dreampt about after I stayed up, waiting
for the sleeping pills to kick
in. After the baby came she obsessed
over her thickness, was confused and destroyed
as she called it by the miracle I laid in the crib
every night. Old photographs weren’t memories,
just reminders of how she used to look.
She would scream, explode with frustration,
when the baby wouldn’t stop crying, begged
Why doesn’t she like me? But it’s hard to hold
onto a ghost, sweetie. So she swore,
and she swore that tomorrow would be better,
she would get better. But I know
that once again I’ll make her a breakfast she’ll never eat,
rock the baby back to sleep,
and loop myself around another sunrise
just to feel warm again.
 Jul 2014 Steven Martin
I am
It is my task
To sample the fruit,
To romance the serpent,
It is my task
To corrupt.

I am
It is my duty to be pure.
My burden
Is skin
Is shame
It is my charge
To be a symbol,
To be a statue--
Smooth, perfect marble
Cold and unmoldable.

My flesh
Under fingers.
My smoothness
Has heat.
Has breath.

I am
It is my calling
To be a paradigm.
Still and quiet as a
Painting or mural
Which can be pointed to
And admired.
It is my role.
I am something
To aspire to.
Something to acquire.
Something to

I am
It is my destiny
To disappoint.
It is my fate
To fail.
It is my study
To ******.

I have been to trial
By power.
It is my crime
To burn the garden.
It is my obligation
To be

I am Eve.
And I am
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