your heart unmasks
to a dagger, already deep into my atriums,
until my muse is replaced
with the bleeding, and each stanza
is your shadow

in shackles. a poem is just a poem
until you perceive it
out of paper—in the silence,
scratching against your skull—until

it begins to burn, your body
bright-blue beneath, your secrets
streaming out like incense—until
it is a grave, with you
more alive in it.

a poem is just a poem until it bites,
until it howls, until it makes
our memory its metaphor
for midnight.

Eagles of stone stood valiantly outside
The rickety aged home of wood planks.
Though, were unsuccessful in their duty of protection,
As the roaring conflagration reduced the estate
To mere smoke amidst the icy air.

Decorate me as you please.
Eyes lit up like candles,
bright flames casting shadows over your face,
over my form.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Wax twists down slowly,
tortuously,
melting toward me as I can merely watch,
waiting for you to burn through me.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
I force myself to smile,
sweet like frosting,
a pretty picture for you as I watch,
waiting for you to burn through me.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Before I am ashes, you blow out the candles.
Make a wish.
I wish I could leave, but I can only watch,
waiting for you to burn through me.

I am sure
That in this lifetime
Our bodies will unite
And we will bring this world to ash
It will be beautiful and destructive
As if the stars have fallen to the earth
And until then
I won't stop burning for you

in one of my dreams,
I was a witch.
burning .
at the stakes.
prodded by pitchforks.
stabbed with daggers
behind my back.
the talking was loud.
their hateful eyes were louder.
then i woke up
realizing the thin line
between dreams
and consciousness.
it almost made no difference.
ive seen those eyes somewhere.
of those who want to
burn me at the stakes ;
stab me with daggers
behind my back.
always been wanting to
watch
me
fall.
darling, I am a witch
you could not burn.